He turned. A man had emerged from the tall green grasses. He was burly, in a torn hide shirt, wide leather wrist-guards, moccasins, and leather leggings up over buckskin trousers. ‘Should’ve run when you saw the bodies, lowlander,’ the fellow growled.
Kyle stared. That voice. The wild mane of kinky black hair – the hair all over, actually.
The man charged, long-knives flashing. Kyle rapidly backed off while trying to get the name out. He swung and Kyle fell into the water to avoid the blade.
‘Badlands!’ he managed, half stuttering in his amazement.
But the Lost brother splashed after him as if in a bloodlust fury – this was not the laughing, easy-going Badlands he knew! He lunged in, thrusting. Kyle drew to cut across his front, hacking off Badlands’ blade in a loud screech of tempered iron.
Badlands flinched away, blinking his disbelief. Kyle rose to a crouch, the frigid water dripping from him. ‘It’s me, Kyle,’ he said.
Badlands retreated another step; frowned as if half-comprehending. ‘Kyle, lad?’
‘Yes, it’s me. I’ve come to find you and Coots and Stalker!’
Now real confusion wrinkled his hairy brow and he waved the shorn weapon in his hand. ‘But you was in Korel!’
Kyle sheathed the white sword back under his arm, eased out a long breath. ‘I was. Greymane died.’
Badlands dropped his gaze. ‘Yeah. I heard the stories.’ He let out a hiss, dropped the ruined weapon and squeezed his thumb. ‘You cut off the end of my blasted thumb, dammit!’
‘Sorry.’ Kyle fumbled to find a rag or a piece of cloth to tear.
‘Never mind!’ The Lost brother surged forward and clasped Kyle’s shoulders. ‘Look at you now! All growed up. No more the scrawny steppe wolf-pup old Stoop bought from the slave-pen! You look like a damned brigand! Didn’t even recognize you with the moustache ’n’all.’
He squeezed Badland’s forearm. ‘Glad to have found you. How’s Coots and Stalker?’
The Lost brother dropped his grin. He half turned away. ‘Coots didn’t make it.’
Coots? How could Coots not make it? He’d always seemed so … indestructible. All Kyle could manage was an unbelieving, ‘I’m sorry.’ Badlands gave a shake of his shoulders as if to brush the topic aside. ‘And Stalker?’
‘Stalk’s his same grim old self. Only more so.’
Kyle didn’t comment that Badlands struck him as very different from his old self. The old Badlands he knew would never have murdered a gang of dirt-poor barely armed prospectors. But then, his brother was dead and his land was being stolen from him; and his culture – his people – were being swept from the face of the world. Understandable, one might say.
The Lost’s thoughts must have run along lines similar to Kyle’s as he clapped him on the shoulder and urged him along. ‘Still – great to see you, lad. Just like old times, hey?’ And he laughed, but rather crazily – or so it sounded to Kyle. ‘Remember ol’ Greymane’s face when we showed up after that big Malazan fracas? He sure wasn’t expecting us.’
Kyle laughed as well, thought not nearly so wildly. ‘Yes. He probably thought we were Claws come for him at last.’
Badlands led him north. He sucked on his wounded thumb and glanced back, looking him up and down. An amused, speculative light came into his eyes. ‘So,’ he announced. ‘You are the White-blade, then.’
Kyle dropped his gaze, shrugging. ‘Yeah.’
‘Well, well. Ain’t that somethin’?’ He chuckled. ‘We can probably hold off all these damned invaders now.’
The remark annoyed Kyle, as if Badlands had somehow enlisted him into something he might not agree with. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean not only are you Whiteblade, but we all was Crimson Guard together. And damn the old Oddsmaker if that ain’t the oddest thing …’
Now Kyle was thoroughly perplexed. In fact, he wondered about the man’s state of mind. ‘Just what are you getting at?’
‘I mean remember that talk we heard of the missing Fourth Company?’
Kyle remembered hearing how the Guard, after barely repulsing a Malazan expeditionary army sent to Stratem to destroy them, had divided itself into four companies to pursue contracts around the world. Eventually, those contracts brought the First Company, under Shimmer, to southern Assail where he, along with the Lost cousins, had joined. Long before then, though, the Guard had lost contact with the Fourth and none knew of its whereabouts, or fate. ‘What of it?’ he asked.
Badlands laughed. His mirth did not reassure Kyle. Before, the man’s laughter had been of the most innocent, teasing sort. Now, it sounded as dark as a hangman’s welcome. ‘Well … who do you think Stalk found camped on the mountainside, every sword against them? None other than Cal-Brinn and his Fourth!’
Kyle was amazed. The Fourth found? Here of all places? Yet why not? The First, under Shimmer, was in the south. Plenty of warfare and potential patrons up here. ‘How many?’
Badlands nodded at the question. ‘Ah! Just the sole survivors of years of fighting. Sixteen of their Avowed.’
Sixteen Avowed! No wonder the Lost Greathall still stood! Then the thought came: what of the rest in Stratem? ‘We should get word of this to K’azz.’
Badlands continued nodding as he climbed the slope ahead. ‘Yeah. We talked about that. Cal says they’ll come. He says, eventually, they’ll have to come.’ He gave an eloquent shrug. ‘What he means by that I have no idea. Anyway, the Eithjar sure don’t like them hanging around. They hate them. Told Stalk to get rid of them! Funny that. Competition, maybe, hey?’ and he laughed again, darkly, without humour.
Kyle offered a weak answering laugh then was quiet. He now almost regretted finding his old friend. Compared to the old Badlands, this new one only made him sad.
Two days of climbing through intermittent rains, fording swollen run-off streams, and crossing high mountain vales brought them to a temperate mist-forest in a narrow valley. Kyle reflected that they must now be at enough of an elevation to have entered the clouds that hugged the highest slopes of the Salt range. That, or the weather was one of persistent low cloud cover. He’d heard of wet springs, of course, but this felt extreme.
They exited the tall mature forest of ash and hemlock to enter a series of what appeared to be overgrown fields: younger deciduous trees dominated here, birch and poplar, and the ground cover was thicker, high brush and bramble. Kyle judged these particular fields uncultivated for decades. Past these once-cleared tracts they came to a tall grass pasture where a number of cattle grazed, apparently unsupervised. Beyond, up the gentle rise of the vale, rose the grass-covered pitched roof of the Lost Greathall. Badlands led the way.
Fog and a light misty rain that draped down like folds of cloth hugged the colossal structure. Broad, rough-hewn log steps led up to the main entrance, which gaped wide. Kyle noted how wet green moss grew like a carpet over the steps.
Rainwater pattered down across the doorway. Just within stood two guards, bearded, in much-battered layered leather armour that appeared to have once been stained a deep red. Two Avowed, Kyle assumed. They greeted Badlands. Kyle gave them a nodded hello and almost told them he was of the Guard as well, but he stopped himself as he considered how asinine that would sound coming from someone who obviously was not currently of the Guard. Badlands pushed on, the rain pattering from his shoulders.
Within, it was dark, and Kyle paused to allow his vision to adjust. The hall was huge, cavernous, almost all one long main room. Light streamed down from a smoke-hole near the middle of its length over a broad hearth ringed in stones, dark now, hardly smoking at all. Badlands trudged in past long tables cluttered with a litter of old hides and cloaks, bowls and knives. Spears stood leaning against the tables. Kyle noted the dust coating their broad iron heads. From the darkness beyond the reach of the light streaming down from the smoke-hole came the murmur of music – the slow strumming of some sort of stringed instrument.
At the far end, a man sat at a long table covered
in bowls and platters. He glanced up, revealing long straight sandy hair, a drooping blond moustache, and bright hazel eyes: Stalker Lost.
‘Another guest,’ Badlands called out.
Stalker growled, ‘Another? We’re gettin’ overrun here.’ Then he frowned beneath his moustache and half rose. ‘You look familiar.’
Kyle nodded, grinning. ‘Yes.’
‘Kyle, lad? That you?’
‘Yes, Stalker.’
The head of the Lost clan came round the table. ‘By all the false gods! It is you! Look at you!’ He set his hands on Kyle’s shoulders. ‘You’ve filled out.’
The strumming stopped. A figure emerged from the dark, tall and lean with long straight dark hair. He moved with the grace of a courtier and carried what looked like a wooden box set with strings across its face. Stalker motioned to him. ‘Fisher. Fisher Kel Tath.’
‘Fisher? The bard?’
The man bowed. ‘Indeed. And you are Kyle … not the Kyle once of the Crimson Guard, companion to Greymane, the Stonewielder?’
Kyle was embarrassed, but nodded. ‘Yes.’
The bard’s brows rose high. ‘I have sung songs of you. There is a name for you now, you know.’
Kyle glanced away, unable to disguise his discomfort. ‘Yes.’
Another figure emerged from the dark, and despite himself Kyle stared. He had never met a Tiste Andii, but this one was obviously such: skin like night, with black midnight hair that bore streaks of white. Tall and muscular. Not at all lean. The bard’s gaze, Kyle noted, was moving swiftly between them, back and forth, as if expecting something.
‘This is … Jethiss,’ the bard said, introducing his companion. ‘Kyle.’
Jethiss nodded a greeting which Kyle answered. For some obscure reason the bard appeared disappointed and he stroked his chin thoughtfully.
Stalker motioned to the table. ‘Have a seat, lad! What in the Seven Mysteries brings you here?’
Kyle laughed. ‘I gather it’s not the best of timing, but I came to look up old friends.’
Stalker shared the laugh then looked up, surprised, as Badlands appeared from the depths of the hall carrying two tall earthenware tankards. One he set down in front of Kyle and the other before the bard, then he disappeared once more. Stalker glowered at the empty table before him.
The drink was a homebrew, warm and weak, but Kyle thought it delicious, as it had been a long time since he’d had anything resembling beer. Badlands returned with two tankards; one he set before Jethiss and the other he kept as he sat.
Stalker gestured to the table. ‘What about me?’
‘Get your own.’
The elder Lost cousin rolled his eyes, but rose and stomped off.
‘You are making quite a name for yourself,’ Fisher told Kyle. Again, Kyle felt acutely uncomfortable; here was the composer and singer of so many epic lays about ancient heroes telling him he was making a name? Was he making fun of him? He didn’t know what to say and so he merely shrugged and muttered, ‘Just trying to stay alive.’
Again the bard glanced between him and the Andii. ‘You never met Anomandaris, did you?’
Kyle did not hide his perplexity at the question. ‘No, never. Why?’
The bard was nodding to himself, his hand still at his chin. ‘Just wondering. As a poet, the parallels interest me.’
‘Parallels?’
Stalker re-joined them, sitting at Badlands’ bench.
‘Did you know that Anomandaris carried another title beyond Son of Darkness?’
Kyle had no idea what the man was getting at. He shook his head.
The bard’s gaze flicked to the Andii, Jethiss, who sat solemn and quiet, as if carved of jet. ‘Another name the man carried was Black-sword.’
Some sort of alarm now widened Jethiss’s dark eyes, and the line of his sharp chin writhed as he ground his jaws.
Kyle tilted his head, recalling. ‘I remember hearing that once or twice.’
Fisher nodded. ‘Now he is gone from us. The black sword is broken. And almost immediately what should arise but another blade … a Whitesword.’
Kyle wanted to leap from the table. How could he put these two things together? It wasn’t comparable at all! ‘Now wait a minute … what are you suggesting?’
The bard leaned back, raising his open hands. ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I am merely observing. These facts couldn’t escape the notice of any singer.’
Kyle scowled, irritated by the observation. Gods! As if he didn’t have enough troubles already! ‘Well … I’d really rather not hear any such speculations.’
‘As you will.’
The Andii, Kyle noted, drew breath to speak then, but checked himself and turned his attention to Badlands instead. The Iceblood – for that was what Kyle now knew all these northerners for – had been giving the discussion hardly any attention at all as he sat forward on his elbows, staring down at his tankard. The Andii cleared his throat. ‘Badlands,’ he began, ‘tell me – what lies to the far north of here?’
Fisher actually winced at the question. ‘Nothing that concern us,’ he put in quickly.
The Lost brother slowly raised his head and Kyle flinched inwardly upon seeing his face, for it hardly resembled at all the laughing and joking Badlands he had known before: the mouth was a grim line etched in granite, the eyes hollow and flat and empty. How hard it must be for the man to sit here surrounded at every turn by reminders of what was gone from him. He must feel severed in half.
One corner of those humourless lips edged up. ‘The far north? You mean the heights? The peaks of the Salt range?’
Jethiss nodded.
‘Those are just legends,’ Fisher cut in, giving Badlands a warning glare.
But the Lost brother answered with his own scornful look. ‘Right, bard. Just stories and fanciful songs.’ He turned his attention to Jethiss. ‘Up above the Holdings are the ice-fields of the Salt range. Snake-like rivers of ice that descend from a broad plateau of blue-black ice some thousand feet thick. We rarely venture up there as there’s little hunting to be had. The only one who haunts those heights is old Buri. The Sayers claim him as an ancestor, but really he’s a forefather of us all seein’ as he’s older even than some clans.’ Badlands took a sip of his tankard. ‘Beyond the ice-fields are the peaks – wind-blasted bare rock faces where nothing ever grows. No plants at all. No moss or weed. Just dry, cold and barren.’
‘There’s an old story, though,’ Stalker began, easing into his cousin’s tale. ‘Our uncle, Baynar Lost, travelled to those heights. He told of seeing bizarre things, hallucinations, maybe. He claimed he saw something that resembled a tower of rock. Stones heaped up tall into something like a dwelling.’ Stalker turned his bright golden eyes on Fisher. ‘How’s that tale go, Fish? Our origins?’
Jethiss turned his expectant gaze upon the bard. Fisher let out a long hard breath, shot Stalker an annoyed glance. ‘Our legends say that’s where we were born. We Icebloods. That our ancestor guards the heights. Mother of us all.’
The title ancestor startled Kyle. He remembered the words of the Silent People’s champions and their shamans: ‘Go to the great mountains to stand before our ancestors …’ He’d thought it referred to these people, these so-called Icebloods. But perhaps it had a more literal meaning: a real ancestor to stand before – the one and only true ancestor.
Jethiss, he noted, appeared troubled now, even disappointed. He frowned as if puzzled. ‘And that is all?’ he asked, his gaze searching.
‘Regarding the heights?’ Badlands answered. He shook his head. ‘No … there’s one more legend about the peaks.’ He looked to Fisher. ‘Ain’t you going to tell it?’
But the bard would not raise his eyes. ‘It’s just a child’s night-story,’ he murmured reluctantly. ‘Silly nonsense.’
Badlands snorted. ‘Well, you’ve sung of it often enough in the past.’ He turned to Jethiss, sipped his beer. ‘The legend claims there’s a reason the old name for this whole region is Assail
.’ He raised a hand and pointed to the sky. ‘That they’re there sleeping hidden in caves at the peaks. The Forkrul Assail.’
Stalker grunted his agreement. ‘And it’s said they’ll grant the wish of anyone foolish enough to treat with them.’
‘This is all just fireside entertainment,’ Fisher interrupted. ‘Pure fiction.’
The Losts appeared bemused by the bard’s vehemence. ‘You’ve sung of it yourself,’ Badlands observed.
Jethiss leaned forward. ‘Why do you say foolish – foolish to treat with these Forkrul?’
Stalker answered, ‘Why, everyone knows about their ways. “Forkrulan justice” is a saying for any harsh, but just, judgement.’
‘I am unaware,’ Jethiss said, ‘as I have lost many of my memories.’
Badland’s tangled brows rose in understanding. ‘Ah! Well … there’s one old story from another land far to the south and west. Its name’s forgotten, but the story goes of two champion swordsmen from that land who had met and fought numerous times, to the satisfaction of neither. Finally, to settle the matter of who was the greater swordsman, they decided to request that the Forkrul adjudicate.’
The Losts shared savage grins. ‘And they did,’ they announced together. ‘They killed both of them!’ And the cousins roared with laughter and raised their tankards.
Kyle watched the bard shoot his companion, Jethiss, a sideways glance. The Andii appeared to be holding his features carefully neutral.
‘Then neither of them must have been any good,’ a new voice said from the dark and Kyle half jumped from his seat; but the Losts were not startled and waved the newcomer forward.
It was an old man – no, a middle-aged man who had endured a very hard life, Kyle thought. He was startlingly dark, of Quon Tali Dal Hon descent. His close-cut kinked hair was shot with grey. His features were drawn and thin, a rough landscape of wrinkles and scars; a man who had endured a harrowing time. He wore a suit of light leather armour that from its much-worn appearance probably served as under-padding for a heavier banded or mail coat.
Stalker made introductions: ‘Kyle, this is Cal-Brinn, Captain of the Crimson Guard Fourth Company. Cal-Brinn, Kyle, once one of the Guard with me ’n’ Badlands.’
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