Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(168)

Badlands continued nodding as he climbed the slope ahead. ‘Yeah. We talked about that. Cal says they’ll come. He says, eventually, they’ll have to come.’ He gave an eloquent shrug. ‘What he means by that I have no idea. Anyway, the Eithjar sure don’t like them hanging around. They hate them. Told Stalk to get rid of them! Funny that. Competition, maybe, hey?’ and he laughed again, darkly, without humour.

Kyle offered a weak answering laugh then was quiet. He now almost regretted finding his old friend. Compared to the old Badlands, this new one only made him sad.

Two days of climbing through intermittent rains, fording swollen run-off streams, and crossing high mountain vales brought them to a temperate mist-forest in a narrow valley. Kyle reflected that they must now be at enough of an elevation to have entered the clouds that hugged the highest slopes of the Salt range. That, or the weather was one of persistent low cloud cover. He’d heard of wet springs, of course, but this felt extreme.

They exited the tall mature forest of ash and hemlock to enter a series of what appeared to be overgrown fields: younger deciduous trees dominated here, birch and poplar, and the ground cover was thicker, high brush and bramble. Kyle judged these particular fields uncultivated for decades. Past these once-cleared tracts they came to a tall grass pasture where a number of cattle grazed, apparently unsupervised. Beyond, up the gentle rise of the vale, rose the grass-covered pitched roof of the Lost Greathall. Badlands led the way.

Fog and a light misty rain that draped down like folds of cloth hugged the colossal structure. Broad, rough-hewn log steps led up to the main entrance, which gaped wide. Kyle noted how wet green moss grew like a carpet over the steps.

Rainwater pattered down across the doorway. Just within stood two guards, bearded, in much-battered layered leather armour that appeared to have once been stained a deep red. Two Avowed, Kyle assumed. They greeted Badlands. Kyle gave them a nodded hello and almost told them he was of the Guard as well, but he stopped himself as he considered how asinine that would sound coming from someone who obviously was not currently of the Guard. Badlands pushed on, the rain pattering from his shoulders.

Within, it was dark, and Kyle paused to allow his vision to adjust. The hall was huge, cavernous, almost all one long main room. Light streamed down from a smoke-hole near the middle of its length over a broad hearth ringed in stones, dark now, hardly smoking at all. Badlands trudged in past long tables cluttered with a litter of old hides and cloaks, bowls and knives. Spears stood leaning against the tables. Kyle noted the dust coating their broad iron heads. From the darkness beyond the reach of the light streaming down from the smoke-hole came the murmur of music – the slow strumming of some sort of stringed instrument.

At the far end, a man sat at a long table covered in bowls and platters. He glanced up, revealing long straight sandy hair, a drooping blond moustache, and bright hazel eyes: Stalker Lost.

‘Another guest,’ Badlands called out.

Stalker growled, ‘Another? We’re gettin’ overrun here.’ Then he frowned beneath his moustache and half rose. ‘You look familiar.’

Kyle nodded, grinning. ‘Yes.’

‘Kyle, lad? That you?’

‘Yes, Stalker.’

The head of the Lost clan came round the table. ‘By all the false gods! It is you! Look at you!’ He set his hands on Kyle’s shoulders. ‘You’ve filled out.’

The strumming stopped. A figure emerged from the dark, tall and lean with long straight dark hair. He moved with the grace of a courtier and carried what looked like a wooden box set with strings across its face. Stalker motioned to him. ‘Fisher. Fisher Kel Tath.’

‘Fisher? The bard?’

The man bowed. ‘Indeed. And you are Kyle … not the Kyle once of the Crimson Guard, companion to Greymane, the Stonewielder?’

Kyle was embarrassed, but nodded. ‘Yes.’

The bard’s brows rose high. ‘I have sung songs of you. There is a name for you now, you know.’

Kyle glanced away, unable to disguise his discomfort. ‘Yes.’

Another figure emerged from the dark, and despite himself Kyle stared. He had never met a Tiste Andii, but this one was obviously such: skin like night, with black midnight hair that bore streaks of white. Tall and muscular. Not at all lean. The bard’s gaze, Kyle noted, was moving swiftly between them, back and forth, as if expecting something.

‘This is … Jethiss,’ the bard said, introducing his companion. ‘Kyle.’

Jethiss nodded a greeting which Kyle answered. For some obscure reason the bard appeared disappointed and he stroked his chin thoughtfully.

Stalker motioned to the table. ‘Have a seat, lad! What in the Seven Mysteries brings you here?’

Kyle laughed. ‘I gather it’s not the best of timing, but I came to look up old friends.’

Stalker shared the laugh then looked up, surprised, as Badlands appeared from the depths of the hall carrying two tall earthenware tankards. One he set down in front of Kyle and the other before the bard, then he disappeared once more. Stalker glowered at the empty table before him.

The drink was a homebrew, warm and weak, but Kyle thought it delicious, as it had been a long time since he’d had anything resembling beer. Badlands returned with two tankards; one he set before Jethiss and the other he kept as he sat.

Stalker gestured to the table. ‘What about me?’