Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(171)

That night they gorged themselves on a full sheep carcass Stalker had roasted over the hearth. The weather had remained cold and rainy through the days and Kyle sat close the fire, attempting to dry himself. He imagined he must have looked as dispirited as a wet dog, for Badlands cuffed his shoulder and said, laughingly, ‘Don’t worry yourself! You’ll probably kill so many of them they’ll run away!’ Then he called loudly: ‘Hey! Songster! Let’s have us a tune!’

Fisher, off in the darkness, stirred at that, nodding. ‘An appropriate request.’ He lifted up his box-like instrument and strummed, adjusting it and humming to himself. And then he sang as he slowly drew his fingertips across the strings.

‘And when our blood mixes and drains in the grey earth



When the faces blur before our eyes in these last of last days



We shall turn about to see the path of years we have made



And wail at the absence of answers and the things left unseen



For this is life’s legion of truth so strange so unknown



So unredeemed and we cannot know what we will live



Until the journey is done



My beautiful legion, leave me to rest on the wayside



As onward you march to the circling sun



Where spin shadows tracing the eternal day



Raise stones to signal my passing



Unmarked and mysterious



Saying nothing of me



Saying nothing at all



The legion is faceless and must ever remain so



As faceless as the sky’





A long silence followed the last muted tones from the instrument as they faded into the emptiness of the hall. The song was far too grim for Kyle – though certainly appropriate. He noted, blinking as he came out of its spell, that Fisher’s gaze, glittering in the flames, had held the face of Jethiss throughout, while the Andii had kept his night-black features as immobile as stone.

At length, Badlands stirred, clearing his throat. ‘Can’t you play any happy songs on that old kantele, bard?’ he complained. ‘There’s that one about the innkeeper’s wife and the dwarf …’

Fisher lovingly ran a hand across the face of the oddly angled box. ‘A magnificent instrument. My compliments to your ancestor.’ He set it aside. ‘Not tonight. Tomorrow night, perhaps.’

Meaning, Kyle translated, most likely never.

‘That’s enough anyway,’ Stalker announced from where he lay near the hearth. ‘Get some sleep. You’ll need it for tomorrow.’

Kyle agreed most earnestly with that. He found a clear spot within reach of the hearth’s warmth and tossed down a sheep’s hide to lie upon. Badlands grumbled nearby about how unreasonable it was that they didn’t get thoroughly soused this, their last night on earth. Kyle tucked his arm under his head and stared up at the soot-darkened log rafters far above. The question nagged him how he could calmly lie here in this hall while an army marched upon it. The answer was obvious and easy: because his friends defended it. And if Greymane were here, he’d do just the same.

That settled, he curled up and tried to get some sleep.

*

He awoke to a frosty unseasonable cold. His breath steamed in the hall’s still air. Hoar frost covered the sheepskin where it lay across his face. He straightened, groaning and shivering. Stalker was up feeding the fire, blowing and stirring the embers. ‘It’s damned cold,’ Kyle complained.

The Iceblood offered a savage grin. ‘Is it now? Must be our cousins preparing a reception committee for our invaders. Perhaps the Sayers, or the Heels.’ He poured a steaming cup of tea and offered it. Kyle took the stoneware cup, wrapped himself in the sheepskin, and shuffled to the entrance.

Thick turgid fogs obscured the valley and the distant woods. They coursed and twined like rivers of frozen breath. All the wood gleamed with ice crystals. The surrounding fields of tall grasses stood stiff and frozen, as white as sword-blades. In the outhouse, Kyle eased his bladder as quickly as he could then shuffled back inside.

Fisher was up, and Kyle asked, ‘What is this weather?’

The bard nodded. ‘Omtose Phellack awoken. We are far north. It clings here still.’

Yet the man did not seem pleased about it; in fact, he appeared deeply troubled. Enough so for Kyle to press: ‘Shouldn’t you … that is, we … welcome this?’

Fisher looked to the south and shook his head. ‘These invaders – people from distant lands – none of them should trouble Omtose. Only – well …’ The man regarded Kyle in silence for a time, as if studying him. Then he laughed and cuffed him on the shoulder. ‘Pay no attention to an old worrier. We have more than enough to handle this day, yes?’ He drew on thick leather gloves backed with interlocking iron rings, raised them admiringly. ‘Look at these. Another gift of Stalker’s ancestors. Have a look around – need a spear?’

Jethiss joined them; the Andii had found a set of thick leather armour consisting of overlapping layers set with studs and bronze rings. Fisher nodded approvingly. The man rested his hands on the long handle of a twin-headed broad-axe. Badlands passed them on his way out, caught sight of the axe, and swore. ‘Gods, man, that monstrosity has rested on the wall since I was a babe! No one wields those clumsy things any more.’