Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(158)
His path brought him to a shadowed figure awaiting him. He pulled up short, raised his gaze.
The skeletal figure punched its stone longsword through his chest. Coughing anew, the Sharr of Sharrs smiled and dragged himself even closer. He cupped his hand against the discoloured naked bone of the skull as if caressing it and peered into the darkness of the empty sockets. ‘We will take you with us, you know,’ he promised. ‘We neither can outlive the other.’
‘Just so long as you go,’ the creature’s answer came, breathless and faint.
Hand and skull exploded into shards of bone. Both bodies fell.
*
Lanas Tog and Ut’el Anag silently watched the thick sooty smoke gush from the shattered entrance of the inner stone structure. Through the pall emerged the remnants of the warband they had sent within. They waited until no more appeared, then Lanas Tog said, ‘This deviation has cost us dear.’
‘The nest had to be extirpated.’
‘We cannot delay.’
Ut’el swung his nearly fleshless face to the south. ‘True. They are close.’ The head tilted, as if in thought. ‘Yet numbers are still with us. Perhaps we should turn upon them. This structure could provide a trap …’
Lanas Tog reached out as if she would grasp the Bonecaster’s shoulder but pulled her hand of sinew and bare bone back at the last moment. ‘Remember our task. Once it is completed, there will be no more argument between us. All shall be moot.’
The battered skull turned to her. ‘True. Why blunt our weapons upon each other when our quarry lies so near …’ He motioned the gathered T’lan onward, stepped close upon Lanas. ‘However, remember that I will allow nothing to come between me and the completion of our sworn task. I have waited far too long for this.’
‘We, you mean,’ Lanas observed, her voice even fainter than usual. ‘We have all waited far too long.’ In answer, Ut’el merely held his carious face close for a time as he stepped around her, then walked off.
After a lingering glance to the south, Lanas followed.
* * *
Reuth was not impressed by what he saw of the gold-seekers’ tent town of Wrongway. It stank, and appeared disorganized even to his inexperienced eye. Tents and huts lay all about with no clear avenues or paths, as if everyone had simply set up camp wherever they wished. And with a heavy spring rain last night, it was now a cesspool of mud tracks and overflowing latrines.
Storval went ashore, accompanied by Riggin, the nominal leader of the ten Stormguard. The rest of the Stormguard, plus the new captain’s closest supporters among the hireswords, were under orders to remain on board. It did not take him long to realize why: so that the rest of the Mare crew did not simply slip the mooring ropes and sail off.
With the evening coming, he decided that this was to be his chance. At the stern, he’d hidden a bundle of what few spare clothes he possessed. He collected a meal of old bread and dried fish and sat there close to the stern plate to wait long into the night.
Yet he was not alone. Two of Storval’s closest supporters hung about as the hours slipped by and the twilight deepened. Then he realized: Storval had set a watch upon him. He, their prisoner pilot, a valuable asset, would not be allowed to slip away.
He wanted to cry then, and he damned his lack of worldly experience. He’d never fought or trained for such things. He was a scholar! When other children were scuffling and drubbing one another he was kept indoors and forced to learn his letters.
Wiping his sleeve across his face, he leaned against the ship’s side, set his chin on his arm and watched the shore. Fires were rising all about the sprawling camp. He could hear loud voices, snatches of laughter and songs from the many informal tent-taverns.
He wondered what Whiteblade would do in this situation. The answer was clear enough: he’d swim to shore. Only, like most, Reuth couldn’t swim. It was a rare talent indeed. Yet, thinking of it, there were other ways. Wood floated, and sailors’ lives had been saved by grasping hold of such things as oars and timbers. He dropped his gaze to the mooring pole lying at his feet. That would do.
He would have to be quick. Toss it over then jump after.
But what if he missed? When then? Like any sailor, he had a terror of drowning.
Yet who said this would be easy? Of course he’d have to take a risk. No gain without it.
Very well. This would be it.
He lifted his bundle of clothes from where he’d stuffed it from sight and set it next to his feet. Then, fighting to steady his breathing, he reached down and lifted the pole from its housing and threw it overboard.
‘Hey? What’s that?’ his minder demanded across the stern deck.
Taking a deep breath, Reuth grabbed hold of his sack and vaulted over the side. The water was shockingly cold and his head sank beneath the surface. He immediately abandoned his bundle to flail blindly for the pole. His searching, grasping hands found nothing. In his panic, he inhaled a mouthful of water and then complete frenzied terror took over. He lashed the water, opened his mouth to scream, but only more water rushed in. He inhaled further, sucking the fluid deeper into his lungs.
Something jabbed his side and scraped a flaming tear across his ribs.
Sudden noise, shouts, splashing, even laughter. He was hanging gaffed: a boathook had him by his clothes. He was yanked up the side of the hull, gagging, vomiting, to thump down on the deck like some sort of hooked fish. Someone kicked him in the side. He pushed his hair back and peered blearily up at Jands, the new first mate.