Assail

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Colourful,’ the old woman commented dryly. ‘Any other hazards we should be mindful of?’

  Fisher opened his arms. ‘Well, there are always bandits, thieves, and mountain tribes.’

  ‘I doubt that any ragged bandits would attack a party of some hundred armed men and women,’ the girl sneered. ‘Hard knocks for poor rewards.’

  Fisher shifted his gaze to her. ‘Some might fight to defend their territory.’ The girl just snorted, looking sour.

  ‘Anything else?’ Malle enquired.

  Fisher nodded. ‘Then there are the supernatural dangers.’

  Holden chuckled and winked. ‘Ah yes. The legendary ghoulies, ghosties and giants of Assail.’

  Fisher did not share the man’s amusement. ‘The ghosts are real, my friend. The further north you go the worse they get. That and the cold.’

  Alca leaned forward. She slid her forearms along her thighs to her knees. ‘These stories of cold and ice interest me. Since we landed I have sensed it. It is Elder. Omtose Phellack. This land was once held by the Jaghut – is that not so?’

  Fisher studied the girl more closely; not so young as he had thought. And a scholar. Perhaps a researcher into the Warrens. He crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands over his knee. ‘Some say all lands were once held by the Jaghut. But yes. It is thought that their mark lingers.’

  ‘And beyond the Jaghut there lies the threat of the namesake of this region,’ said Malle.

  Fisher simply blinked at her. ‘Those are just stories, m’lady.’

  ‘Indeed? Let us hope so.’

  Her tone told Fisher that his audience was at an end. He bowed his head and rose.

  ‘You had wished to speak of some matter?’ she enquired.

  Fisher’s brows shot up – ah yes. He’d quite forgotten. ‘Our guest is awake and I wish to request equipment for him. Warm sturdy clothes and a weapon.’

  ‘And does our guest possess a name?’

  Fisher shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, he remembers nothing. The shock of nearly drowning, perhaps.’

  The old woman’s smile of sympathy was cold. ‘Perhaps.’ She gestured curtly to Holden. ‘See to it.’

  ‘Aye, ma’am.’

  Bowing to all, Fisher ducked from the tent. As he crossed the camp it occurred to him that he’d entered to make a request only to find himself the object of an intense cross-examination regarding the peninsula and the lands beyond. Understandable, he supposed, given that they intended to penetrate within. Yet among the rolled charts and pressed fibre sheets he’d glimpsed a flat wooden box, closed and clasped. And he knew such boxes. They held draughting instruments: compasses, tools for measuring angles and scales. These people were not only consulting maps – they were assembling their own.

  The party might in truth be after gold, but he considered it a good bet that these Malazans were after something else as well.

  * * *

  Once Jute Hernan, late of Delanss, was certain the Silver Dawn had passed beyond of the maze of rocks that choked the entrance to the aptly named Fear Narrows, he loosed the terror that squeezed his own chest like bound cordage and inhaled fully. He allowed his gaze to rise inland, up the calm channel of the long twisting narrows itself.

  What he saw waiting ahead did not give him much cheer. Tall sheer cliffs on both sides offered little or no anchorage. And the Dawn was in desperate need of refit and repairs after threading through the Guardian Rocks; she was leaking at the seams, stores were water-spoiled, and she was desperately short of sweet water. Once more, he did his best to dredge up the tales of this region that he’d soaked up with his warm milk and bread when a boy. They told of how those vessels with enough luck, or piloted with enough skill, to navigate the Guardian Rocks could look forward to shelter within a protected port called Old Ruse, itself one of the many wonders of the region.

  Scanning the rearing cliff walls, he saw no hint of any such tranquil or welcoming harbourage. Perhaps it was all sailors’ fancies and flights of tale-telling round the alehouses. Yet so far the stories had proved accurate to some degree: yes, the lands could be found more or less south of Genabackis; yes, the north-east coast was warded and ringed by hidden rocks and shoals; and, yes, an even worse hazard along this stretch of shore was its inhabitants, who, having no interest in trade or relations with the outside world, treated any vessels within their reach as sheep to be slaughtered, thus supporting the mariners’ universal wariness of the Wrecker’s Coast. And if one did pass beyond all this, one did come to a narrow inlet warded by series after series of jagged rocks. A formation any vessel would only dare attempt during the hours of highest tides. The Guardian Rocks.

  Now, according to all the tales, what lay before his crew of the pick of all the mariners and pirates of Falar was Fear Narrows: a hostile inhospitable chute which allowed access to the broad calm Sea of Dread. Deceptively calm. Or so the stories always went.

  Jute headed for the Dawn’s quarterdeck, nodding encouragement to the men and women of the crew as he went. Not that he felt it – it was simply his role as he saw it: reassuring these volunteers, each of them daring and intrepid enough to answer his call to join a voyage like none before. A voyage to the ends of the world in search of riches, though for most, including himself, such a voyage was a reward in itself.

  He thought of what might lie in wait for them beyond the Sea of Dread: fortresses constructed from the bones of earlier travellers foolish enough to trespass there; strangling mists; limitless fields of ice taller than any city tower; forests guarded by giants of ice and rime. And beyond all these, mountains harbouring a race said to be willing to offer any gift a traveller daring and tenacious enough to reach them might think to request, yet no gift worth the harrowing price demanded by these legendary Assail.

  Jute mentally cast all such unknowns overboard. One threat at a time! Right now his job was to see to finding safe anchorage for the Dawn, and such harbourage looked to be scarce indeed.

  At the stern stood their master steersman, Lurjen, a short and broad stump of a fellow, gripping the side-mounted steering arm. His leathers were darkened with sweat and more ran in rivulets down his bald, sun-burnished pate. His massive arms still appeared to quiver from the exertion of heaving the ponderous oar to the directions of their navigator, who sat on a short stool behind him, leaning forward, chin almost resting on her walking stick. Ieleen of Walk, Jute’s navigator and his wife. A legend she was among the mariners of Falar, and some whispered witch or sorceress of Ruse, for her seeming miraculous intimacy with wave and channel. All the more fantastic as she was completely blind.

  ‘Sorceress you are, my dear!’ Jute called. ‘Your reputation is unshakable now.’ Sorceress indeed, dearest, he added silently. How else did you steal my heart away?

  ‘I just listen to the waves, luv,’ she answered, and she winked one staring wintery-white eye. ‘Our friends are still with us,’ she added, motioning to the rear with a tilt of her head.

  Jute cast a glance behind where the last of the rocks now disappeared from sight. Indeed, some three or four vessels were still treading their wake. When they’d arrived out beyond the mouth of the narrows they’d found a great mass of foreign vessels at anchor awaiting the right tide. Or just waiting and watching to see who would be the next fools to dare attempt the jumbled currents and hidden tearing teeth of the Guardian Rocks.

  For a time they had waited and watched as well. Six different vessels they saw make the attempt: each went down in a mass of shattered timber. Jute thought he could almost hear the screams of the crews as they were sucked down into the curling, tumbling currents and dashed against the rocks. And after each attempt a wash of corpses and litter of rope and broken wood rode the waves out on to the equally aptly named Sea of Hate.

  Then, one day just before dawn, Ieleen gave him the nod and he ordered all the crew to the oars – no sails for this narrow passage – and they’d set out, following her directions. Their navigation through the shoals down the W
reckers’ Coast must have impressed the masters of other ships, for five other vessels quickly followed their route.

  Of his part in that turning twisting run Jute was not proud. Ieleen barked her commands while Lurjen grunted and huffed, heaving the steering arm back and forth. The Dawn yawed and pitched so steeply that half the time one or the other side’s oars waved uselessly to the sky. Yet his love seemed to have taken all this into her calculations as she sat staring sightlessly, her head tilted ever so slightly, as if listening to someone whispering in her ear. All he could do was hang on tight to the mainmast, shouting to keep order among the crew as oars struck rocks to throw men bodily from the benches, or knock them senseless. Timber groaned as hidden rocks scoured the sides and keel. Many times the crew were not so much rowing as using the oars as poles to fend off looming black pillars that jutted from the foaming waters like saw-teeth.

  Then, of a sudden, like the passing of a thunderstorm, it was over. The waters streamed beneath the bow as smooth as glass. The crew slumped where they sat, breathless, utterly spent, though with enough energy to weakly laugh and cuff one another. And he’d planted a kiss on Ieleen’s cheek and called her a wonder.

  Now, glancing back, he saw only three of the five vessels that had set out following their lead. They also coursed along, oars idle for the nonce. Obviously just as relieved, or disbelieving, as they. ‘Yes,’ he told Ieleen. ‘They’re still with us. Two are of a strange cut to me, though one’s a Malazan galley or I’m a Kartoolian eunuch.’

  ‘You’re no eunuch, luv. I’ll attest to that.’

  Pained, he lowered his voice. ‘Not in front of the crew, dearest.’

  She waved a hand. ‘Oh, they’re happy when we’re happy. They just don’t like it when we fight.’

  Jute cleared his throat. ‘Well. Where we go from here is a mystery to me.’

  ‘Something’s ahead,’ she answered and lifted her chin. ‘The wind sounds different.’

  He grunted his acknowledgement. ‘A touch of sail, Buen,’ he called to his first mate.

  ‘Aye, aye.’

  ‘Dulat, get up top and get an eye out.’

  The youngest and slightest of the crew jumped up from a bench and exclaimed, ‘Thank the gods for that!’

  ‘No use anyway,’ Sarsen, a giant of a fellow out of Gano, grumbled. ‘It was like having a flea on my elbow.’

  ‘Someone has to show the ox where to go,’ Dulat retorted.

  Sarsen peered up at him, squinting. ‘Better run up to your perch, little flea.’

  Dulat set his feet on the mast and started up. ‘Now I have to show everyone where to go!’

  Jute grinned; the crew was in good spirits. And they should be, given what they’d just accomplished. He waited until Dulat had had a good look then called, ‘Anything?’

  ‘Might be a cove or a channel ahead on the starboard cliffs.’

  ‘Very good.’ He turned to Ieleen. ‘Anything more?’

  She sniffed the air. ‘There’s a settlement close.’

  ‘Old Ruse, then.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He returned to Dulat. ‘Direct us over!’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘We’re seeping, Buen. What’s the rate?’

  ‘Too fast for comfort. We have to make repairs.’

  After a time Dulat shouted down: ‘Our shadows are following.’

  Jute mentally shrugged. Nothing they could do about it. Moreover, since this journey promised to be a long one, they’d no doubt be seeing a lot more of each other in any case. And there’s strength in numbers, a more cautious voice whispered in his mind.

  The crew rowed at a slow easy pace; in the slim cut of the narrows the sail did little to help. Jute kept his eyes trained on the gap in the cliff wall ahead. Steadily it became clear to any who cared to look that it held some sort of channel. When they came abreast of the opening, everyone saw at once that it opened on to a broad cove that was a natural harbour. Wharves, slips and docks lined its shore, while above rose the stone buildings of a town. Old Ruse, apparently.

  ‘Make for port!’ Jute bellowed, relieved. Thank hoary old Mael himself! He’d feared savages populated the entire land and they’d not be able to put in anywhere.

  Lurjen grunted and grumbled anew as he swung the steering arm over. Ieleen sat still, hands atop her walking stick, humming a tuneless song to herself. As usual she was content to let him handle the mundane tasks. He knew she’d step in should she sense anything awry.

  The channel was a narrow one. There was hardly room for the oars. Before entering the wide cove they passed tall towers to either side at the end of the channel – some sort of defensive installation against raiders or pirates, no doubt.

  Within, the crew eased up on the oars to peer about in wonder. It was a town hacked from the very stone of the narrows’ cliffs. Great clouds of sea-birds crowded the ridges of the surrounding cliffs. Their screeching and cawing drowned out all other sounds.

  ‘Make for the nearest berth,’ Jute told Lurjen. The Dawn curved across the smooth waters on its own for a time. Lurjen directed it to the north side of the broad arc of the harbour.

  ‘Our friends are with us,’ Dulat called down.

  Jute glanced to the stern: so they were. Their entourage nosed into the cove one after the other. Closer now, Jute recognized the lines of the first vessel: Genabackan. No doubt some damned pirate out to make a quick fortune. The middle vessel, a tall three-tiered ship, remained a mystery. He’d frankly never seen anything like it on any sea, from Quon to Seven Cities. The Malazan galley brought up the rear. Quite dilapidated Jute thought it. A veteran, that one. Or just damned sloppy.

  ‘Movement all about,’ Dulat called, sounding bemused.

  Jute turned to the wide arc of wharves and slips. Indeed, crews were swarming out on to the ships and boats, which, it now occurred to him, were a mishmash of various styles and origins. Oars slapped the water up and down the harbour.

  Behind him Ieleen had stopped humming. ‘Luv …’ she began tentatively.

  A small voice whispered in Jute’s thoughts: oh, dammit to Mael.

  ‘Swing us round!’ he bellowed to Lurjen though the man stood right next to him. The squat fellow savagely heaved the thick wooden steering arm over. ‘Port side back oars!’

  The port side oarsmen raised their arms high to bite deep then pushed with all their might, gasping and grunting. The Dawn lurched into a tight circle. Glancing back, Jute saw their companions reach the same conclusion as all three vessels now struggled to bring themselves about. The Malazan galley was the quickest to respond, obviously crewed by old hands. The Genabackan vessel followed. The foreign ship, however, responded slowly and awkwardly; she was clearly a top-heavy ungainly design. How she could possibly have made it through the rocks was a mystery to him.

  ‘Archers!’ Dulat warned from atop the mainmast.

  Jute cast a quick glance over the arc of ships approaching under oar. Arrows flew here and there, but not a steady volley. Not yet. Just testing the range. No, too distant yet. It appeared to his eye that these Old Ruse pirates had sprung their trap too soon. They might all make the channel before being intercepted and engaged. All except the tall three-tiered vessel that, now that she was circling near, had the look of a strange class of oared galleon about her.

  ‘The entrance!’ Dulat yelled, and real alarm choked his voice. ‘The towers!’

  Something was happening at the channel entrance. The water across the way was foaming and tumbling. Squinting, Jute made out chains rising from the course. They climbed each tower wall, crossing the narrow channel from side to side.

  A gods-damned harbour chain. No wonder they jumped to the attack. We’re trapped within. It occurred to Jute that in a way they were still on the Wreckers’ Coast, after all. And, he supposed, this town must be its damned capital city. They’d avoided every hazard, side-stepped every pit so far, only to walk right into the mouth of the very last trap. He almost hung his head at the injustice of it.
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  ‘I know your moods, luv,’ murmured Ieleen. ‘Don’t you despair.’ She shifted her blind gaze to the starboard. ‘That foreign vessel near?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, his voice heavy. ‘We’re passing her.’ Not that any of it mattered any more.

  ‘Well. You call me a sorceress …’ and she offered another wink.

  Jute frowned his confusion. Sorceress? Even if she was, they were still trapped.

  ‘The Genabackan trader’s circling behind!’ Dulat called.

  Jute looked. The Genabackan vessel was now heading to brush past them as if meaning to intercept the entire fleet. As she stormed abreast, oars flashing, a man hailed them from her side. ‘Wait by the channel!’ Then they were gone.

  That was strange enough, but what was really odd was that the man was armoured like a heavy infantryman. He wore a white tabard over a banded hauberk of iron and iron greaves and vambraces, was bearded with a great mane of black hair, and had a helm in one hand and the tall grip of what must be a great bastardsword at his side in the other.

  But what was strangest of all was that the entire deck was jammed from one side to the other with soldiers all armoured alike. All wearing white tabards. And on the chest of each tabard a triangular shield shape of a pale sky blue.

  ‘There must be over two hundred soldiers on that ship!’ Dulat cried out, and he threw his hands in the air in amazement.

  ‘We’re not out yet,’ Jute growled under his breath. Blue – that struck a cord in his memory somehow. ‘Who in Togg’s name was that?’ he murmured to himself, and he crossed his arms to tap a thumb to his lips.

  ‘The voice of command, dear,’ Ieleen answered. ‘Now do head for the channel.’

  His response was a snort, but he nodded to Lurjen.

  ‘And I may be blind but shouldn’t we ready our own archers?’ she added sweetly.

  Jute let a hard breath escape between his teeth. Not that it would matter. He searched amidships, found their master-at-arms. ‘Letita! Ready archers!’