Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(181)

The crackling swelled to a constant roar. A growing heat punished his back. Smoke billowed, blinding him and tearing at his throat. A wind rose with the flames. He heard nothing but the ravening fire and the explosive popping of resin.

Dear ancestors, this was it. Oddly enough, he felt utterly resigned. Just as Jass went, so too would he. It was an … elemental way to go.

Squinting through the smoke he saw, rather than heard, the ranks retreat a step. To a man they now stared above him, wonder and a touch of dread on their faces. Orman dared a glance behind.

The fire appeared to be diminishing. He might be mistaken, but here and there the blackened beams of the room showed through, smoking, yet free of flames.

And from the Greathall entrance, descending the log steps like a river, came a steady course of dense fog. It curled outwards past Bernal’s sandalled feet, spreading as it went.

Something frigid kissed Orman’s own feet and he leapt, flinching. More fog now ran out from beneath the hall. It appeared to be spreading to all sides. It coursed through and over the barricade, swelled onward.

Many of the soldiers retreated as it came.

‘Stand firm!’ the commander bellowed. ‘Mere barbarian witchery. I—’ He stopped himself, staring upwards in disbelief. Orman followed his gaze: the roof fire was now completely out. Exposed blackened beams smoked, but no flames could be seen. The commander once more pressed a hand to his brow. He sounded an aggrieved sigh. ‘Oh – just kill them.’

Sergeants among the ranks bellowed, ‘Charge!’

The front rank surged forward to the barricade. They chopped and yanked at the heaped logs, barrels and equipment. One screamed as Bernal’s spear found him. Orman shook off his hesitation and thrust as well, jabbing at every soldier within reach.

He fully expected the soldiers to climb or push their way through the barricade in moments; it was undefended for almost all its length. Yet this did not happen. The men he fended off with thrusts of Svalthbrul retreated, nursing wounds, but so too did nearly all the others. These gasped and flinched, hunching, their breaths steaming. Many fell amid the dense fog. Over these humped shapes he glimpsed a fine glittering armour of hoar frost grow and thicken.

He stood back in wonder. True, it was damned cold; he felt the air biting at him and his own breath plumed, but somehow the frigid streamers were not so deadly to him. He ran to find Bernal.

The disembodied voice of the enemy commander shouted from somewhere behind the wall of churning vapours: ‘What are you waiting for? It is just a fog! Advance, damn you!’

Bernal stood on the log stairs together with one of the Reddin brothers, Kasson, Orman was fairly certain. ‘Now is the time,’ he said as he arrived.

Bernal curtly nodded his agreement. ‘You and the brothers must go.’

Orman cast a quick glance into the hall: mist choked it, but he could see that thick layers of icy hoar frost covered the walls and floor, while at the far end sat two figures, immobile, streaming with vapours – no doubt the very source of them. Iceblood magics, obviously. He turned back to Bernal. ‘What? No. All of us. Now.’

Bernal smiled behind his beard as he shook his head. ‘No. I will stay and hold the door. Now go.’

‘Leal and Ham, then.’

The commander’s voice sounded again: ‘I order you to advance!’

Bernal urged him onward with a push of his shoulder. ‘They sit now with the master and mistress. As I shall – so go, quickly. The spell is fading.’ He pushed Kasson off also.

Orman edged back down the stairs; he had his one last duty to perform. ‘Very well. Kasson, let’s find your brother.’ Backing away, he saluted Bernal with Svalthbrul. The fellow raised his great spear in answer and waved them off. Orman and Kasson jogged away round the Greathall.

They found Keth at the rear, the bodies of fallen soldiers all about him. ‘Jaochim has tasked us to bring word of this to Buri,’ Orman said.

Kasson nodded. ‘Bernal told me.’

Characteristically, Keth said nothing. He merely started climbing the thin barrier of logs. Orman joined him.

Vapours slid about the fields, sinking now into pools and depressions, like water. They jogged past fallen soldiers who lay shuddering, their arms clenched to their chests as if against a terrifying cold. Orman headed for the nearest patch of woods and they crashed through. The tree limbs and brush snapped like icicles; Orman reflected that he might be inured to the magics because of his shared blood, but the air was so appallingly frigid it still hurt his nose and lungs with every breath.

They jogged onward, heading north and upland; Orman heard no sounds of pursuit.

* * *

The night watch woke Jute, reporting of strange sights and sounds to the west. Still groggy, but happy to have his cabin back now that the Mare youth had recovered and moved to sleeping in the hammocks with the crew, he pulled on his boots, wrapped himself in a thick fur cloak, and headed out.

The night air shocked him with its bracing cold. His fingers tingled. This didn’t feel like spring at all. Had more of the smell of autumn to it. The sailor motioned to the far shore where it lay barely discernible in the dark overcast night – only the diffuse glow of the moon and stars behind the clouds allowed any visibility. Torches and lanterns swung and bobbed there: movement. A great number of people on the move in the dead of night.

Jute scratched his chin, wondering. Those would have to be the people from Wrongway up the coast. Given up on the goldfields, perhaps. But what would drive them onward through the night?