Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(113)

Then something knocked Fisher over and absolute black night fell upon him. ‘Iceblood magic!’ someone yelled, real terror choking his voice. Fisher climbed to his feet completely blind. He extended his arms to feel into the blackness. He could see nothing, though he could feel the heat and hear the roar and crackle of the huge fire just a stone’s throw from him. A hand took his arm from the dark and he jerked away despite knowing who it must be.

‘This way,’ Jethiss said from the wall of ink.

‘You have him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Badlands?’

‘He ran into the woods howling like a madman.’

Arrows thudded around them as the archers fired blind. They cursed and yelled from atop the palisade. ‘Let’s go from here,’ Fisher said.

‘Yes.’ Something brushed Fisher’s arm: a pair of moccasined feet. Coots’. He took hold of one. Jethiss led him on through the blackness.

They walked for some time. Jethiss coached Fisher through brush and over rocks. The slope climbed; the roar of the burning fort diminished to a distant murmur. It occurred to Fisher that to sustain such a large aura of elemental dark, Kurald Galain, must cost its summoner great effort, yet Jethiss betrayed no strain in his voice or breathing. Perhaps such raisings were natural for the Andii. He wondered, though.

Eventually, their pace slowed. Fisher bumped Jethiss, who had stopped. ‘I can go no further,’ the Andii murmured, his voice husky.

‘You have done a miracle, Jethiss. Saved us for certain. They would have pursued. Tried to take our heads.’

‘There is a tree here,’ he said. ‘There is a view over the lowlands.’

Like a passing deep shadow, the absolute black faded away. The sunshine glare of midday stabbed at Fisher’s eyes. He winced and shaded his gaze, peered around.

They had climbed far into the forested slopes above the Sea of Gold. Below, it glimmered now in the sunlight with an amber-like shine – hence its name, perhaps. Jethiss sat heavily, arms draped over his knees, his head sunk, utterly spent. He’d set Coots in the nook of thick roots at the base of an old knotted spruce. The body faced down-slope; Fisher thought it appropriate. ‘Have you belts or rope?’ he asked.

‘I have my weapon belt.’

‘Keep that.’

‘No. Take it. I have no more use for it.’

Fisher shook his head. ‘You’ll still need to defend yourself.’

The Andii lifted and dropped his broad shoulders. ‘I broke the knives.’

‘You broke them?’ Fisher marvelled; Wickan knives were a finger thick at the hilts. Thinking of weapons, he realized he’d lost his own as well. He pulled off his belt. Jethiss offered his own. Using both, he secured Coots’ body to the tree, tying him under his arms and across his chest. Something told him to leave the multitude of arrows still residing there and so he did so, careful not to snap one shaft.

Jethiss watched. Fisher took Coots’ long-knives and pressed them into his stiffening fingers, then laid his hands in his lap. He stood back to examine the corpse – still so broad and huge, seemingly full of life, as if asleep.

He cleared his throat and raised his head. ‘I name these twinned long-knives the Wolf Fangs. Let it be known they did not betray their bearer. I name any hand that takes them without due respect or honour cursed to see all hands raised against them. Cursed to lose all honour and respect. Cursed to fall as crow-carrion.’

‘This do I so too vow,’ Jethiss added, his voice cracking.

‘Coots of the Lost clan,’ Fisher sang aloud:

‘Loyal brother, mighty in wrath.



Mighty in wrestling, mighty in laughter.



Far-reaver, beloved companion.



You are lost to us, and Lost you shall remain forever.



None shall undo this till these mountains are ground to the sea.’





He lowered his head. ‘So ends my honour song of Coots of the Lost clan.’

After a long silence, Jethiss motioned down the rocky slope. ‘Look there.’

Fisher turned. A figure had emerged from the treeline. Staggering, falling, it made its agonizing way up the rocks, mostly on all fours, crawling over the stones, pulling itself up.

It was Badlands. His leathers were torn. His limbs bled from countless cuts. His face was a glistening mask of mud and blood and tears. He crawled on, weeping, sobbing, right past Fisher’s and Jethiss’s boots till he came upon one of Coots’ moccasined feet and this he grasped as if drowning. He pressed his face to it and gave a heartbreaking moan that drove Fisher to look away. This was not for him to see; this was the private grieving of family.

He touched Jethiss’s arm and together they walked off down the gently falling rock slope. The afternoon light gathered its amber colour. The shadows of the trees lengthened. Fisher turned to Jethiss. ‘You broke those Wickan knives …’ Jethiss nodded. Fisher eyed him speculatively. ‘Mane of Chaos – does this name mean anything to you?’

The Andii tilted his head, considering. He shook it. ‘No. Should it?’

‘It is another name for Anomander Rake. Is that name familiar?’

The man turned his face to regard him directly. There was a wariness in his dark eyes now. ‘There’s something …’ The eyes became alarmed. ‘Are you saying … that I might be …’