Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(149)

Stalker watched his brother for a time, then turned to Fisher. He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, you missed all the action. Had us a regular old-fashioned dust-up over on Bain lands. Broke and scattered the lowlanders’ army. Jaochim Sayer thinks that’s them dealt with.’

Fisher thought over the Lost’s words while he chewed on the tough tasteless meat. He swallowed with some difficulty. ‘But not you,’ he offered.

‘No. I’ve been abroad. That was just a first incursion. They’ll be back. And in greater numbers.’

Fisher was much relieved; he’d feared the man believed himself unassailable here in his northern Greathall. He nodded his agreement. ‘You cannot hold out for ever.’

‘No. We can’t.’

‘Then … you will abandon the hall? Head to the coast?’

Stalker shook his lean hound’s head. ‘No.’

‘But you just agreed …’

‘Yeah. That’s true.’

Fisher thrust himself from the table. ‘Don’t be a fool, man!’

Badlands half rose from his seat, glaring. Stalker gently urged him down, then studied Fisher with his pale hazel gaze – the yellow of sun-dried grasses, Fisher thought.

‘You’re a guest in my Holding,’ he said. ‘That’s enough for now.’ Fisher bit his tongue and jerked his head in assent. ‘Anyways …’ and the man went to a barrel and drew a glass of what looked like red wine. ‘There’s news to relate.’ He offered the glass to Fisher, who took it wonderingly. Stalker caught his gaze and motioned to the barrel. ‘That? Ah, raiding them outlanders.’ He drew another and offered it to Jethiss, who accepted it with a bow of his head. He took one for himself. He did not offer one to Badlands and neither did his brother move to collect one; the man just sat, now, elbows on the table, his head lowered.

‘News is,’ Stalker began again, ‘that Svalthbrul has been taken up by Bregin’s son, Orman.’

Fisher sat back in wonder. ‘Bregin? That Sayer hearthguard lad?’

Stalker nodded, his brows raised. ‘And that’s not all. Orman used it to slay Lotji.’

Fisher blew out a long breath. ‘So much bad blood there.’

‘Aye. Blood-feud back generations. But …’ and Stalker raised his chipped glass of wine as if in salute. ‘The outlanders burned Bain Greathall to the ground and the last of the Bains are gone.’

Astonished, Fisher matched the gesture, as did Jethiss. ‘Farewell, honoured foe,’ he murmured, and they all drank, all but Badlands.

His head lowered, Badlands growled into his knotted fists: ‘Sing us a song, bard.’

Fisher was quite taken aback; it had been a long time since he’d been in service to a patron – though his last, Lady Envy, used to test him that way, as if hoping to catch him out. He shook his head. ‘I am not in the mood, truly. I would not wish to do a disservice.’

Badlands slammed a fist to the table, upsetting Stalker’s glass and making the bowls jump. ‘Sing!’

Fisher, luckily, was cradling his glass on his lap, and he tossed the last of it back, sucking his teeth. Jethiss, he noted, was watching him closely now. He nodded a slow thoughtful assent and cast his gaze to the massive log rafters cloaked in the gloom above. Birds flew about them and guano streaked them white. Then he looked to the far entrance and saw how the wind drove the rain within where it pooled on the beaten dirt floor; he noted the rotting straw kicked about the ground, the mere four of them huddled about the dying embers of the broad hearth before them, and he sang.

‘Here, all possessions wrought by our hands are fleeting



Here, we are passing. Our kind is fleeting



Those who come after us shall peer at ruins



And wonder what giants these were from long ago



Only twisted tales shall remain.’





Badlands lurched from the bench and staggered off into the dark. Stalker regarded the bard for some time. The man’s eyes did indeed seem to glow brighter than the embers. He finished the dregs of his wine, stood. ‘Don’t forget to add how stubborn and foolish we were.’ He followed his brother to disappear into the darkness at the rear of the hall.

‘I should,’ Fisher muttered to himself.

‘I understand them,’ Jethiss offered, surprising Fisher.

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ He appeared almost embarrassed. ‘I don’t know why. I just feel the same way.’

‘Perhaps the Andii share something of their – our – way of thinking.’

‘Perhaps so.’ Jethiss rose, refreshed their glasses. ‘So, what shall we do?’

‘What of your … quest?’

The Andii clasped the glass in both hands. ‘I believe I was sent in this direction for a reason. I do not know the reason, but you mentioned someone, or something, in the north that might provide an answer. What is it?’

Fisher shook his head; he considered taking up his glass, but reconsidered and left his hands crossed on the table. ‘I will not speak of them.’

‘Then they are there. Thank you.’

Fisher bit his lip. Gods! He was a bard! The stories he could tell of the Forkrul! But he took up the glass and drank instead. ‘I will not encourage you in this.’