Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(153)

Other hands grabbed at him and these he severed as well. The crowd – those not clenching stumps of wrists and forearms – now scrambled to give him room. He fled north.

But yells and alarm preceded him. Armed soldiers exited a large tent right in front of him. A few quick cuts crippled these and he pushed inside. He sliced the main centre pole, and as the heavy sailcloth tent billowed down around him he cut his way out at the rear. Now he ran.

Calls for archers sounded all about. He tried to keep to the darker patches of the tent encampment, but more and more torches were being lit as troops crowded the ways. Ahead, across trampled fields and a creek, lay woods. He pounded for the creek. Troops from tents nearby attempted to slow him by blocking his way. The white blade severed shields, vambraces, spear hafts, and two crossbows before their handlers had finished cocking them.

Several arrows hissed past him. One plucked his cloak, then he was tumbling down a muddy slope into a shockingly chill rushing creek. He slogged on. A tossed burning torch crashed into his back, sending him off his feet into the creek. Arrows nipped the waves about him.

‘Get him!’ someone yelled from the shore.

A new voice bellowed, commandingly, ‘Stay out of his reach! Archers, form up!’

Kyle lurched to his feet and stumbled on. He was surprised, then, to see a thick night fog now rolling out of the forest. He couldn’t understand it, but it was a blessing and he made for it.

‘Damned northern giants!’ someone yelled.

‘Fire now!’ the commander ordered.

Kyle dived under the swift waist-high waters. The current buffeted him and the water seemed to suck all warmth from his body. He simply attempted to stay under for as long as he could; he gripped at boulders his questing hands found in the bed, tried to bring his legs down.

Holding his breath, he reflected that never in all his years did he imagine how much he would owe old one-handed Stoop of the Crimson Guard for all those enforced near-drownings in swimming lessons. Finally, his lungs burning, he had to come up and he pushed his face to the surface to suck in a fresh breath of air. He blinked, finding that he’d entered a world of dense swirling banners of fog. Voices shouted, sounding very far off for some reason, as if the fog muted or distorted them. He slogged onward. Gaining the far shore, he heaved his frozen stiff body up the mud and bracken to lie panting, thankful just to be out of that numbing water.

A wide hand gathered up the cloth at his back and yanked him to his feet. ‘What are you doing here?’ a deep voice demanded. Kyle wiped water from his face and peered up at a bearded giant of a fellow in cured leather armour, a spear in his other hand.

‘I’m looking for the Losts.’

The hand released him and urged him along with a push at the back. He nearly fell as his legs wobbled, numb and tingling. ‘They’re coming. We must move.’ Through the curling vapours behind, Kyle glimpsed blurred orange flames bobbing. ‘The fog and creek should delay them, but we’d best give them some room.’

On a hunch, Kyle guessed through numb lips: ‘Are you Baran? Baran Heel?’

‘Yes. And you are the one my mother escorted off our Holding.’ At Kyle’s start, the fellow chuckled. ‘I saw you in the distance.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Hunting.’

Baran pushed him on. In the fog it was hard to tell their direction, but Kyle thought it north. The haze thinned as they jogged through the forest. As the night sky cleared and the land rose, he knew they were indeed headed north.

‘This is Bain Holding, isn’t it?’

‘Bain Holding is no more. It has gone the way of my mother’s, and so many others before it.’

‘Oh – I’m sorry.’

‘What is it to you? An outlander.’

He’d never considered himself proud of where he’d come from – quite the opposite, in fact – but the accusation irritated him deeply. ‘I’m no outlander. I’m from the southern plains.’

Baran peered back, grunted. ‘Ah. That explains much, then.’

Kyle waited, but the fellow offered no further explanation. Much later in the night, when they reached the wooded crest of the valley, Baran turned and peered back once more. He grunted again, sounding impressed, or mystified. ‘What did you do to rile them up so?’

Kyle struggled up the crest and squinted down and behind. Far off, torches bobbed and wove through the woods. ‘Killed a few,’ he said.

‘Hunh. Well, they’ve never shown much offence at murder before.’ He motioned to one side. ‘This way.’

As they jogged, Kyle remembered Yullveig’s words. ‘Is your sister here?’ he asked. ‘Erta?’

‘She has returned north. I believe she came to see more sense in my father’s words.’

‘But you do not.’

Baran’s large teeth flashed bright in the dark. ‘I prefer to fight to the end. I do not care if there is no grace in my leave-taking.’

‘Your father refuses to sink to their level. I respect him for that.’

‘Yet all your respect will not save his life.’

Kyle bit his lip. That barb struck hard and true. Also, it was this man’s people and way of life being swept from the face of the earth – best not to argue the finer points of it with him.

Baran was now leading him due east across a wide shallow valley. With dawn, he halted, pointed onward. ‘Lost Holding beyond.’