Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(100)

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 then and Orman felt strength flow into him. His breathing eased. The man 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 an eye out.’ 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 his eyes 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 the paralysis of self-loathing, 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. Farwell.’

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 them 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.