Kilava. Last living Bonecaster of the Imass.
Silverfox inclined her head in greeting. The baby writhed in its wrap of a coarse blanket. It squalled anew. Silverfox found she had to swallow hard to wet her throat to speak. ‘Just…’
‘… her,’ Kilava finished. ‘Yes.’
Silverfox peered anew round the silent village. ‘Who were they?’
‘They called themselves the Children of the Wind.’
Silverfox regarded the babe. ‘It is hungry.’
‘I have no milk to give,’ Kilava said. She arched a brow to Silverfox. ‘We neither have any milk left, do we?’
Silverfox shared the knowing look. ‘We are neither the nurturing sort.’
Kilava gestured to her hair. ‘You have come into your name.’
Reflexively, Silverfox lifted and examined a twist of her long ash-grey streaked hair. ‘So I have.’
They regarded one another for a time in heavy silence; the ancient Bonecaster’s gaze shifted to peer behind Silverfox. She turned to see both Pran and Tolb standing at a respectful distance. ‘They would remain out of my reach,’ Kilava muttered to Silverfox.
‘They have tasted your temper.’
‘I have not changed my mind!’ Kilava shouted.
‘I would not have thought so,’ Pran answered.
The Bonecaster snorted at that. She lowered her attention to the babe. ‘I will take this one south. Find willing arms for her. Then I will return to warning the tribes.’
Silverfox’s breath caught. ‘Then some have escaped…’
‘Those who have heeded my warnings. I’ve been sending them to the west. The Kerluhm are headed to the mountains – I do not believe they will divert for refugees.’
‘Thank you, Kilava.’
‘I did not do it for your benefit, Silverfox. Your task remains and I wish you’d taken hold of it.’
Silverfox felt her cheeks heating. She snapped, ‘We’ve been through this already.’
Kilava did not answer. She adjusted the babe in her arms then brushed past to walk on to the south. Once she was gone, Pran and Tolb came to Silverfox’s side.
‘A powerful ally,’ Pran observed.
‘We cannot count on her aid,’ she warned them.
Behind her, Pran and Tolb shared a silent glance. Silverfox examined them. ‘Where’s my horse?’
‘We have found another,’ Tolb said.
She turned to peer among the silent empty huts, rubbed her eyes. ‘I can’t stay here. I’ll keep going – have it brought to me.’
The two Bonecasters bowed. Silverfox walked on. The two stood motionless for a time, then Tolb spoke, ‘Should we reach the very north it will be good to have her with us.’
Pran’s dry sinews creaked as he nodded his agreement. ‘Even she would not stand aside … then.’
* * *
Atop the heights of a rocky cordillera, a file of skeletal figures came to the lip of a tall hillock of mixed gravel and sands. Here, ages ago, a continent-spanning mountain of ice ground to a halt, piling up this near mountain of debris. Wordlessly, they spread out to line the edge. The bones of their feet clattered and grated across the stones. The rag-ends of hides and furs snapped and lashed in the cold dry wind. Here they stood still as statues of bone and ligament. The wind whistled through dry chest cavities and gaping fleshless jaws. Several times the sun rose, traced its path across the sky, and set. They waited, as patient as the stones themselves.
Beneath the cold light of the moon, the shifting and grinding of stones announced movement within the slope. Rocks came sliding down, banging and clattering. The talus heap shifted, slipping. A fist punched free of the gravel and a forearm of bare aged bone emerged. A skeletal shape straightened. Dust and sand plumed in the wind from a long tattered bearhide cloak that glowed dirty white beneath the moon. It lifted a ravaged head half scoured of flesh.
Another figure, nearly identical but for the cloak, advanced to greet this newcomer. They clasped hands to bony forearms. ‘Ut’el Anag,’ the cloakless one said. ‘Long have we been parted.’
The newcomer nodded its battered skull. ‘Lanas. It warms my spirit to see you once again.’
Further Imass now came dragging themselves free of the heaped moraine. Ut’el raised his head as if to sample the chill night air through his naked nostril slits. ‘Omtose retreats before us.’
‘As it ever has.’
The Kerluhm Bonecaster turned his head to the east. Lanas shared his gaze. Across a shimmering plateau rose slopes limned in silver, deepest blue and iron-grey. ‘The stain has spread,’ Ut’el observed, ‘and the source remains.’
‘We arrive to wash it away – as ever. Though we are opposed.’
The head snapped round. ‘Who?’
‘Remnants of the Ifayle … and now the Kron.’
Ut’el nodded. ‘They will come round and will thank us before the end.’
‘As it always has been.’
Without further word Ut’el stalked off to the east. Lanas remained. ‘There are survivors here,’ she called.
Ut’el turned. ‘Forget these lesser ones. The source lies to the east.’
‘The source?’
‘The Matriarch. The mother of their kind.’ He raised an arm of ligament and bone sheathed in tattered leathers, pointed to the distant peaks. ‘She awaits us, Lanas. She’s known we would come. Like the thawing of the spring, we come. Eventually.’
‘It will be a long walk,’ Lanas answered.
‘As it has ever been, Lanas.’
She inclined her head in assent and came abreast of Ut’el. Together, the two struck a path to the north-east over the rocky slope. The rest of the Imass followed in a rattling and clack of bone over stones. Behind, more of their brethren dragged themselves free of the eroding moraine, sloughing off a rain of dirt and mud.
* * *
Orman jogged downhill from one high mountain valley to the next, ever angling to the east. For two days ghosts, Sayer ancestors, pointed the way. On the third day he came to a ridge separating the Sayer Holding from the Bain. Here, an immense half-dead white pine stood taller than all its kind. Pinned to the trunk by a hunting knife hung Jass’s cloak.
He understood the message, for he recognized the knife. He’d last seen it pushed through the belt of Lotji Bain. He ran on, leaving the challenge hanging for others to find. Should any others be following. He descended the ridge, crossed a forest towards a stream rushing over a wide bed of naked broken rock. Here, a shout sounded over the pounding waters.
Lotji stepped forth from the cover of the wide bole of a pine. He held Jass before him, a knife to his throat, the lad’s hands tied. He bellowed up: ‘I’m glad you came, hiresword! You’ve saved me a lot of time. You know what I want. You and me! Now!’
Orman squeezed the haft of Svalthbrul so tight it seemed to squirm in his hands. He picked his way across the tumbled rocks. He so wanted to meet this man – to cut him to pieces with Svalthbrul – but what if he lost? What of Jass then? Jass, as he’d known all along, was far more important to him than any weapon. No matter how storied. He raised the spear. ‘I have something you want, Lotji … and you have something I want. Let’s exchange.’
The offer brought the man up short. His face wrinkled in distaste. ‘An exchange?’ he shouted, almost in disbelief. ‘An exchange? You would part with Svalthbrul for this useless pup?’
‘I would.’
‘Why?’
Something in Orman resisted revealing his true reason and it took him a moment to identify it – the man was not worthy of such an intimacy. It was a family matter, not for outsiders. ‘Honour!’ he shouted over the pounding stream. ‘I swore to serve the Sayers!’
Lotji shook his head, his gaze scornful. ‘Hearthguard,’ he snorted. ‘Hearthguard you are and hearthguard you will ever remain – nothing more!’
They closed further and Jass choked out, ‘Leave me to die! I deserve no better.’
Lotji shook him by the neck like a
disobedient dog. ‘Quiet!’ He motioned to the rocks between him and Orman. ‘Far enough. Set the spear there and back away.’
‘Release the lad!’
‘Back away first!’
Orman jammed the butt of the spear amid the rocks so that it stood tall and straight. He backed away one step. ‘Release him!’
Lotji waved him off. ‘Further!’ He pressed a knife blade to Jass’s throat.
Orman snarled a curse but backed away more steps until clear of the spear. Lotji edged up almost within arm’s reach of it.
‘Now the boy!’
Lotji just shook his head. ‘You stupid fool!’ He snatched up the spear. ‘Now I have both and you have nothing!’
Orman felt his shoulders fall. Damn. Should’ve fought him.
Lotji examined Svalthbrul’s knapped stone spearhead, then cast an arched glance to him. ‘You do have one thing left, though. And now I’ll take that…’
Orman moved to draw his hatchets.
Lotji lunged, Svalthbrul lashed out and crashed against Orman’s skull. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
* * *
He snapped to wakefulness in a panic, fighting for breath. Something was choking him; he strained to raise his hands to pull at whatever it was, but his arms were secured behind his back. He saw that he hung from a branch. Lotji was tying off the rope round the trunk even as he watched. Jass lay to one side, weeping, his hands tied behind his back.
Lotji appeared before him, peering up. ‘I was looking forward to killing you in a duel, hearthguard. But you stole the pleasure from me. Therefore, I demand a blood-price.’ He extended the nut-brown faceted stone head of Svalthbrul to Orman’s face. He tried to squirm aside but the spear licked forward. Fire engulfed his head. He screamed, or tried to, lurching and spinning as he struggled. The rope squeezed tighter about his throat.
‘Farewell, fool,’ Lotji called, now yanking Jass to his feet. ‘Perhaps this will teach you wisdom.’
Orman fought to scream, to curse, to beg, but nothing could escape the twisting noose strangling his throat. His vision, oddly restricted now, darkened. He felt nothing, sensed nothing – only a swelling balm that seemed to soothe all pain and tension from his body.
He felt as if he were floating.
Pain roused him; some sort of sharp blow. Cold air scraped his throat and he gagged, coughing. He lay for a time possessing only the strength required to draw a breath into his straining body. After this, he managed to open his eyes – or one eye, at least. The other remained stubbornly closed.
Someone was leaning over him. A dark man, skin almost black, his face deeply weathered and lined. He wore a plain leather hood. Orman tried to speak but no words would come.
‘Quiet now,’ the man urged, his accent strange. ‘No talking yet. Hard to access anything here but I think I can stop the bleeding.’
He was bleeding? He pursed his lips, managed to croak in an exhalation: ‘Who…’
A smile touched the man’s lips. ‘Same as you. A hiresword working for these Icebloods. The Losts. We have to stick together, hey? You’re with the Sayers, yes?’
Orman nodded his head weakly.
The man grunted. ‘Good. I fix you up and you go back to the Sayers and let them know the Bains are broken. They’ve retreated halfway up their Holding. Soon us and you Sayers will be flanked. Understand?’ Orman nodded. ‘Good. Now, let’s see what I can do.’
The man bent over him. He slithered his warm hands up under Orman’s shirt to press against his chest. Something happened and Orman felt strength flow into him. His breathing eased. The man then pressed a hand to his face and the searing yammering pain there dulled to an aching throb.
‘There,’ the fellow said. ‘Best I can do. I’m no expert at Denul.’
‘Thank you,’ Orman managed in a hoarse whisper.
‘No trouble. I’ve seen worse.’ He helped Orman stand. He tottered on his feet, but remained upright. He touched a hand to his neck and hissed, snatching it away. ‘Nasty that,’ the man said. ‘But it will heal. Sorry about the eye, though.’ Orman blinked at him. His eye? He raised a hand to investigate but the man caught it. ‘Don’t touch. Not yet. Let it get a scab.’
Lotji had taken his eye. He might as well have killed him. How could he fight now?’
‘Name?’ he croaked.
The man just shrugged. ‘Call me Cal. Listen, sorry I can’t take you with me, but any lowlander army comes advancing up here maybe we can pinch it between us, hey? Put it to the Sayers. We’ll keep watch.’ And the fellow saluted him: a hand to the brow swept down and out.
Orman just nodded, still a touch confused and bewildered. The fellow jogged off to the east. As he watched him go Orman realized that everything he wore, his hooded cloak, his leather armour, was stained a deep dark blood red. He found that he could not move. Perhaps he should simply remain here upon these rocks until his very flesh rotted away and his bones fell between the cracks and gaps of the stones.
For a brief time he thought he’d found something. Something worth fighting for. Now he’d thrown it away. Lotji had taken his eye, but he hadn’t taken his honour … that he’d thrown away himself. He should’ve died this day. Should’ve died fighting the man. Only that could have redeemed him.
Now it was too late. The valley blurred as tears burned and smarted. He felt as if he could no longer breathe – something new was binding his chest from expanding.
Why hadn’t he? Why?
Then he remembered something more important. Something vastly more important than his selfish worries over his honour or his name. The reason why he hadn’t thrown his life away beside this pounding stream of frigid meltwater.
It seemed that he had learned wisdom after all.
Released from paralysis, he turned and limped back the way he’d come.
Once he topped the ridge, he started down the other side, sliding and gouging a trail through the loose rotten rock, stumbling and half falling down to where the slope shallowed to allow brush and trees to take hold. Here he stopped and brought his hands to his mouth. ‘Sayers!’ he called, hoarsely. ‘Come to me! I have news!’
He tottered on then, knowing that any of the ancestors, the Eithjar, could appear before him should they choose to. He walked due north now. He meant to keep going until he could go no further.
Eventually, as the day waned, he pushed through spruce woods to find a shape awaiting him, translucent, wavering, a tall man in leathers, smoky knives at his hips. Orman stopped before him. ‘I have news,’ he gasped. The figure nodded. ‘Lotji Bain has taken Jass, the youngest of your line. He has taken Svalthbrul as well, though to you that should matter far less than what else I have to say. The Bains are broken, retreating. Soon a lowlander army will advance up their Holding. The Losts propose to attack it in concert from both sides. Take this news to Jaochim.’
‘You should speak to Jaochim or Yrain,’ the ancestor spirit answered, its voice hardly more than the brushing of the wind through the trees.
‘No. I go north.’
The figure’s gaze shifted away and rose to the heights. ‘North? To what end?’
‘I go to seek the one who should care the most regarding your line.’
The Eithjar shook its head. ‘He will not listen to you. You will perish in cold and hunger on the great ice.’
‘So be it.’
The ghost nodded grim acceptance. ‘Indeed. Farewell.’
Orman answered the curt nod. He walked on.
He knew it was as the Eithjar said. He would win through or die in the attempt and he was satisfied with either end. Both were better than meekly offering his head to Jaochim in payment for the failure to observe his duty. He would run on, heading north, until those legendary serpents of ice consumed him.
It would be a fitting end. He remembered all the many nights he’d spent watching the sapphire crags. How they glimmered like jewels strung about the neck of the Salt range peaks. Now he would finally have his chance to see t
hem before he died.
* * *
They followed the coast of the Sea of Dread eastward, where legends and sailors’ stories told of a settlement and a fortress: a great stone keep named for its ruler, Mist. Jute thought the coast unpromising, the soil too rocky and thin for decent farming. Pine forest dominated. It swept up broad slopes of foothills that disappeared into fog-shrouded distances. At least the wildlife was rich. Fish were plentiful, eagles soared overhead, and one or two large tawny bears were spotted ambling through the brush.
Word came via the many fishing launches and ship’s boats oaring between the four vessels that Captain Cartheron was recovering and that he’d chosen to remain on board the Supplicant for the while. Ieleen had chuckled throatily at that news and when Jute made a questioning sound she explained, ‘Gettin’ together, those two. Much to talk about, no doubt.’
Jute had frowned at the news, baffled. What could such a potent sorceress see in that battered old veteran? Certainly, he’d had his heyday as a top lieutenant and confidant of the hoary old emperor, but all that had been long ago.
The further east they ventured the thicker and more persistent the ground fog and banks of mist became. Jute could even watch it pouring down the forest slopes and out over the calm waters like some sort of liquid itself. At first he was alarmed, as it reminded him of the enchanted fogs of the Sea of Dread. But Ieleen did not seem concerned, and so he decided it must be a purely natural phenomenon.
Also growing in number were those chunks of floating ice. Some as large as the vessels themselves. Jute kept a number of the crew permanently armed with poles to fend the hazards off. They also occasionally encountered great sheets of ice loose upon the surface. These passed lazily, drifting south. Some appeared no thicker than a skin, others a good arm’s depth of rock-hard ice.
It occurred to Jute that they were witnessing a spring break-up, and that somewhere to the east there must lie a great congestion of ice.
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 364