Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(172)

Jethiss shrugged modestly. ‘I’ll do my best. The haft is a hard wood, is it not?’

‘Aye. Ash. Why?’

‘I had simply hoped so.’

Shaking his head, the Lost brother walked off.

Three figures obscured the light from the entrance then marched within. Cal-Brinn led, followed by a man and a woman, nearly identical in battered coats of mail that carried the remnants of once having been enamelled or lacquered a deep dark red. Cal-Brinn saluted Stalker. ‘Our scouts report the enemy entering the valley. Their own scouts are already watching the hall from the woods.’

Stalker nodded. ‘Very well. Everyone – take a skin of water and extra weapons and spread out.’

Kyle had pulled on a hauberk of boiled leather, its leather sleeves sheathed in mail, and belted on a set of heavy fighting knives. Into the belt he now gingerly tucked the sheathed Whiteblade.

When he looked up he saw everyone eyeing him, and he glanced down to see that the grip and pommel, carved from whatever unknown material, glowed now like ivory in the darkness of the hall. Feeling acutely ill at ease, he snatched up a spear and headed out, saying, ‘Yes … let’s go.’

When they had been readying the defences, Stalker had explained how he wanted everyone to spread out around the circumference of the building. They would hold the earthworks for as long as possible before falling back to the hall. The invaders would no-doubt set it alight; once that happened, they were to make a break to the north out the rear.

That at least was the plan. It appeared more and more flimsy as Kyle gripped the cold wood of the spear-haft and watched the three columns of the enemy, accompanied by many skirmishers, smoothly spread out to encircle them many layers deep.

The last stamp of marching feet resounded from the forest. Hundreds of breaths plumed the air. The front rank knelt a good spear-throw’s distance from the earthworks. All was silent until a nicker and a ringing of jesses announced a horse being urged forward.

The mounted figure gently eased his way through the ranks until he was directly opposite the entrance. Kyle stood off to the right, just within ear-range, with a Crimson Guard swordsman on either side.

‘Let us talk,’ the man called.

Stalker set one booted foot up on the earthworks and leaned forward on his sheathed longsword. ‘About what? The weather?’

The enemy commander had a narrow, puckered look to him. He rode stiffly, was bean-pole lean and straight, and wore a mail coat that fitted him poorly: too loose about the chest and yet too short. His breath steamed as one edge of his lips drew up. ‘About your future – of which little remains.’

Stalker pulled a set of heavy gloves from his belt and drew them on. ‘What is your offer, then?’ he asked, as if bored.

‘Drop your weapons and move on. Where you go, I care not.

‘And who are you to make such demands?’

‘Marshal Teal. In the name of—’

‘Remember me, Marshal?’ Fisher’s voice shouted out, cutting the man off. Startled, Kyle glanced over to see the bard approach, a longsword at his side. The marshal’s eyes, already half hidden in their nests of wrinkles, slit even more. ‘You?’ he breathed. ‘How is it … what happened at the bridge?’

‘We escaped.’

‘Escaped …’ the marshal breathed, wonderingly. ‘We? Ah – I understand. Well, congratulations. I am pleased you emerged unhurt.’

The bard bowed at the waist. ‘And now I would offer you advice, Marshal. Turn away this day if you wish to escape as well.’

The marshal shook his head as if entertaining a fool. ‘I am sorry to see you in the enemy camp, Fisher. But do not think that because you are a songster it will save your life when all here are put to the sword.’

‘Even though my companion’s sacrifice purchased your life at the bridge?’

‘He did not save my life – he saved the lives of a third of my party. And it wasn’t a sacrifice. It was a request.’

Now Fisher shook his head, but sadly. He crossed his arms. ‘That night, Marshal, I saw revealed the man behind the Letherii calculation of exchange and advantage. It is to that man I give warning: sail away and live. The risks here far outweigh any potential gain.’

Stalker muttered half under his breath: ‘You’re wasting your time.’

‘Is this the extent of your negotiation?’ the marshal demanded.

Fisher gave a nod. ‘That is so.’

Teal’s answering nod was curt. ‘Then in the name of King Luthal Canar of Goldland, I—’

Stalker burst out laughing: ‘King who of what?’

The marshal looked to the sky and tapped his fingers against his saddle. ‘King Luthal Canar – the new king of these lands. Which he has decided to name Goldland.’ He tilted his long thin hound’s head. ‘You don’t like it? We think it should attract settlers.’

Stalker thoughtfully rubbed a finger over his lean jaw as he regarded the mounted marshal. At last he opined, ‘I’d name it Pompous Ass Land, myself.’

The mocking smile fell from the marshal’s lips as his face paled. He gathered his reins. ‘Very well. None of you will see the dusk.’ He wheeled his mount about, bellowed, ‘Archers!’

Kyle ducked as a fusillade of arrows came whistling straight over the earthwork mound to slam into the Greathall log walls. Crouching, Stalker laughed. ‘That got his shirt in a twist!’ Kyle glimpsed Fisher dodging his way back to his place in the ring of defenders.