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. A Tiste Andii with skin like midnight and black sable 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 white blade.’
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 concerns 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 from 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.
Jethis
s, 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.’
Badlands’ 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. They 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.’
Kyle stood and extended his arm. The captain took his forearm in a firm grip. His smile was small and tight, but appeared genuinely warm. ‘Welcome. So, you were in the Guard with the Losts here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you helped rescue K’azz?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I am in your debt.’
‘Not at all! I just wanted to do the right thing.’
‘I believe that you did.’
‘What news, Cal?’ Stalker asked, easing back on to his bench.
‘I have a Blade watching the Bain border. They report activity. It looks like they are scouting routes east.’
Stalker nodded grimly. ‘Then they’re coming.’
‘You routed them once,’ Badlands observed.
Kyle spoke up. ‘I don’t think you will this time.’
All eyes turned to him. ‘Oh?’ Cal-Brinn enquired.
He eased back on the bench. ‘I was in Mantle not five days ago. They’re besieging it, and they’re no longer a ragtag mob of fortune-hunters, marauders and thieves. The core of an army has arrived and they’re knocking them into shape.’
‘Soldiery?’ Stalker asked. ‘From where?’
‘Lether, I believe.’
Cal-Brinn grunted. ‘Never faced them. What numbers?’
‘Of regulars? A few hundred, I’d estimate.’
Stalker frowned down into his beer. ‘So they have a spine now. That’s bad for us.’
Fisher faced Stalker directly. ‘Now you must see the foolishness of remaining here in the Greathall. They’ll just surround you, cut you off, and burn you down.’
Stalker’s long face hardened. ‘Been away too long already.’ His tone brooked no objection.
Fisher sent a despairing glance Cal-Brinn’s way.
The battered Dal Hon mercenary pursed his lips. ‘There’s always the chance of a small desperate group breaking free of any encirclement.’
Badlands had been drinking from his tankard and he slammed it down and wiped his mouth. ‘That’s us I’d say. Small and desperate.’
* * *
The hall possessed no outer defences so they started digging a ditch and piling up the earth in a ring all along the inner slope. It wasn’t particularly deep, but it was something to stand behind. They set sharpened sticks, pointing outwards, along its top.
Stalker also set them to filling every vessel and container the hall possessed and scattering these about the inner walls. Of what animals the Losts had collected – a few cattle, sheep, and chickens – they drove off the cattle and slaughtered the rest. No one said it aloud, but the possibility of a lengthy siege wasn’t even considered.
At the end of the second day, Cal-Brinn’s pickets sent word that a large force had crossed the border, marching in column and heading straight for the Lost Greathall. They would arrive on the morrow.
That night they gorged themselves on a full sheep carcass Stalker had roasted over the hearth. The weather had remained cold and rainy through the days and Kyle sat close to the fire, attempting to dry himself. He imagined he must have looked as dispirited as a wet dog, for Badlands cuffed his shoulder and said, laughingly, ‘Don’t worry yourself! You’ll probably kill so many of them they’ll run away!’ Then he called loudly, ‘Hey! Songster! Let’s have us a tune!’
Fisher, off in the darkness, stirred at that, nodding. ‘An appropriate request.’ He lifted up his box-like instrument and strummed, adjusting it and humming to himself. And then he sang as he gently drew his fingertips across the strings:
‘And when our blood mixes and drains in the grey earth
When the faces blur before our eyes in these last of last days
We shall turn about to see the path of years we have made
And wail at the absence of answers and the things left unseen
For this is life’s legion of truth so strange so unknown
So unredeemed and we cannot know what we will live
Until the journey is done
My beautiful legion, leave me to rest on the wayside
As onward you march to the circling sun
Where spin shadows tracing the eternal day
Raise stones to signal my passing
Unmarked and mysterious
Saying nothing of me
Saying nothing at all
The legion is faceless and must ever remain so
As faceless as the sky’
A long silence followed the last muted tones from the instrument as they faded into the emptiness of the hall. The song was far too grim for Kyle – though certainly appropriate. He noted, blinking as he came out of its spell, that Fisher’s gaze, glittering in the flames, had held the face of Jethiss throughout, while the Andii had kept his night-black features as immobile as stone.
At length, Badlands stirred, clearing his throat. ‘Can’t you play any happy songs on that old kantele, bard?’ he complained. ‘There’s that one about the innkeeper’s wife and the dwarf…’
Fisher lovingly ran a hand across the face of the oddly angled box. ‘A magnificent instrument. My compliments to your ancestor.’ He set it aside. ‘Not tonight. Tomorrow
night, perhaps.’
Meaning, Kyle translated, most likely never.
‘That’s enough anyway,’ Stalker announced from where he lay near the hearth. ‘Get some sleep. You’ll need it for tomorrow.’
Kyle agreed most earnestly with that. He found a clear spot within reach of the hearth’s warmth and tossed down a sheep’s hide to lie upon. Badlands grumbled nearby about how unreasonable it was that they didn’t get thoroughly soused this, their last night on earth. Kyle tucked his arm under his head and stared up at the soot-darkened log rafters far above. The question nagged him how he could calmly lie here in this hall while an army marched upon it. The answer was obvious and easy: because his friends defended it. And if Greymane were here, he’d do just the same.
That settled, he curled up and tried to get some sleep.
* * *
He awoke to a frosty unseasonable cold. His breath steamed in the hall’s still air. Hoar frost covered the sheepskin where it lay across his face. He straightened, groaning and shivering. Stalker was up feeding the fire, blowing and stirring the embers. ‘It’s damned cold,’ Kyle complained.
The Iceblood offered a savage grin. ‘Is it now? Must be our cousins preparing a reception committee for our invaders. Perhaps the Sayers, or the Heels.’ He poured a steaming cup of tea and offered it. Kyle took the stoneware cup, wrapped himself in the sheepskin, and shuffled to the entrance.
Thick turgid fogs obscured the valley and the distant woods. They coursed and twined like rivers of frozen breath. All the wood gleamed with ice crystals. The surrounding fields of tall grasses stood stiff and frozen, as white as sword-blades. In the outhouse, Kyle eased his bladder as quickly as he could then shuffled back inside.
Fisher was up, and Kyle asked, ‘What is this weather?’
The bard nodded. ‘Omtose Phellack awoken. We are far north. It clings here still.’
Yet the man did not seem pleased about it; in fact, he appeared deeply troubled. Enough so for Kyle to press, ‘Shouldn’t you … that is, we … welcome this?’
Fisher looked to the south and shook his head. ‘These invaders – people from distant lands – none of them should trouble Omtose. Only – well…’ The man regarded Kyle in silence for a time, as if studying him. Then he laughed and cuffed him on the shoulder. ‘Pay no attention to an old worrier. We have more than enough to handle this day, yes?’ He drew on thick leather gloves backed with interlocking iron rings, raised them admiringly. ‘Look at these. Another gift of Stalker’s ancestors. Have a look around – need a spear?’
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 385