Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(174)

The Avowed on his left was a broad giant of a fellow who crashed his wide infantryman’s shield down on top of the smaller, lighter shields, bearing them low for thrusts over the metal rims or down on to heads and shoulders.

Leena, on his right, had her hands full taking on a mass of pressing infantry; he half lunged, meaning to lend her his aid, only to catch himself, realizing that he dared not leave this section open and undefended. In any case, he couldn’t have gotten close enough – he knew well enough not to crowd a swordsman who fought the two-swords style: she swung both full round for smashing, sweeping blows, never quite halting their blades’ figure-eight weaving over and under in an mesmerizing dance. Attackers who could have pressed round her flinched away when their paths took them too close to Kyle.

When the wave eased the Letherii infantrymen backed away, dragging their wounded with them. The Avowed swordswoman came to him. She was heaving in great panting breaths, almost dragging her weapons behind her. She thrust one blade into the soft earth to dab at a cut across her mouth, then leaned over to spit out a red bloody stream.

‘Looks like we’ll have to move you to a new spot,’ she croaked, her voice sand-hoarse.

Kyle offered his waterskin, which she took gratefully. ‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’

After a long pull at the waterskin, she swallowed and said, ‘From my father. He was a veteran of the Iron Legion.’

He’d heard the name once or twice. ‘The Iron Legion?’

She looked annoyed. ‘You’ve not heard of it? The elites of the Talian Iron Crown?’

Kyle blew out a breath. ‘Well, of course I’ve heard—’

She waved the matter aside. ‘Never mind. Why should you have? The old emperor crushed them long ago.’ She pressed a fold of cloth to her cut mouth once more. ‘Hard for me to remember it’s all ancient history.’ She urged him off. ‘Find Cal before they come again. Tell him you should move.’

The Avowed’s words had startled him for an instant, until he recalled that of course this woman may be older than his grandmother. He dipped his head in assent and jogged off.

He passed the Andii, Jethiss, now gripping two short-hafted hatchets; Kyle supposed the great broad-axe’s ash haft hadn’t held up after all. The man’s scavenged armour was notched and battered, but he appeared otherwise whole. He inclined his head as Kyle passed, his long back hair hanging loose, and greeted him with a murmured: ‘Whiteblade.’

Kyle found that to be addressed in such a fashion, by such a man, made his breath catch and he nearly tripped, at an utter loss for words. Finally, he bobbed his head, muttering, ‘Jethiss,’ and hurried off. He found Cal-Brinn standing on the front entrance’s log steps. All about him arrows studded the logs like tossed quills while before him the air wavered and shimmered in ribbons of night. He saluted the Crimson Guard captain. ‘Rashan?’ he queried. Cal-Brinn nodded. ‘I’ve seen little of the Warrens here in Assail.’

‘The Elder Omtose is dominant here. It suppresses any other conjurings.’

The roar of another charge arose from beyond the earthworks and Kyle spun. Arrows nipped the air only to whirr away from the wavering ribbons before Cal-Brinn. The captain motioned to them, murmuring, ‘The best I could do.’

Kyle watched while the Avowed within sight, together with Fisher and Stalker, answered the charge. They resembled bobbing corks in a choppy sea, tossed and battered, about to be submerged. ‘We cannot hold,’ he told Cal-Brinn.

‘Perhaps,’ he granted. ‘Yet in battle every exchange is a potential surprise. No one can say what turn will come. Who knows?’ He descended the steps to stand close to him, and, leaning down to bring his face close, he murmured: ‘Have you not considered that it is they who might lose heart?’

Kyle ducked his head, thoroughly chastened. But the captain softened his comment with a wink, and, bellowing a war-cry, drew his longsword and charged into the line next to Stalker. Kyle felt his blood rise and nearly sing in his ears at such a sight, and he took a fresh grip on the white blade and ran to join the fray.

It was late after the noon when Kyle next roused himself, blinking. He was only standing because he was leaning against the rough logs of the Greathall. His throat gagged him as if scraped raw, while his limbs hung numb yet screaming in the stinging, twitching pins of exhaustion. His shield was a battered wreck on his left forearm. He forced his fingers open upon the leather strap and let it slip to the ground.

Badlands came jogging round the defences and joined him. The Lost brother was a mass of cuts and scrapes, a bloodied cloth was wrapped round his left upper arm and a severe gash across the side of his head had peeled back a portion of his shaggy hair leaving that ear a mass of drying gore.

‘Well – we ain’t dead yet!’ the Lost greeted him with an elated grin.

Kyle roused himself further, wet his throat to answer: ‘But it’s still a good day.’

Badlands laughed uproariously and clapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending him to the ground. ‘Now you’re getting into the spirit of it!’

Kyle didn’t say that it was the Lost brother who appeared to have reclaimed his old spirit. He spat and croaked, ‘How many?’

Grinning, Badlands raised a hand as if to hold him back. ‘Enough! Don’t you fear – more than enough. They’ve decided to grind us down.’