Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(194)
Kyle watched this, amazed. Who could do such things to the T’lan Imass?
Then the newcomers from above closed upon them then, washing round the mêlée, and Kyle was further stunned as these Imass assaulted their attackers. Imass fought Imass in a ruthless terrifying whirl of flint swords and hard dry limbs, and then it was done, seemingly in an instant.
Eight standing T’lan Imass stood motionless, regarding them with their eerie empty sockets. One raised an arm of bone and hanging dry flesh to point upslope. ‘Run, now,’ it breathed in a voice like falling sand.
‘Who are you?’ Kyle called, even as Leena tugged at him.
‘We are of the Ifayle. I am Issen Li’gar. I came seeking my sister Shalt Li’gar, gone so very long ago. Now, run. We shall guard.’
Leena pulled Kyle backwards. He wanted to ask much more of this Ifayle, but of course to delay would defeat their purpose. He turned and kicked up the loose gravel as he went.
They pushed their way across a muddy flat of thick grey-green silt. It clung to his leather shoes and smeared all the way up to his knees. He’d served for a time in the Guard, and had heard the stories that the Imass had never attacked them. At the time he’d dismissed such tales as rather too self-promoting. ‘They wouldn’t kill you,’ he panted to Leena, still amazed.
‘They never have.’
‘Why?’
‘I believe they respect us,’ she answered, short of breath as they tramped through the thick mud. ‘Everyone calls us mercenaries, but the truth is we do not fight for money. We have honour, and this is their way of respecting that.’
Kyle thought of the Crimson Guard swordswoman they had picked up from the mud, groggy, spitting blood from the blow across her jaw. The Imass had an odd way of showing their high regard. As daughter of an Iron Legionnaire, Leena might think it was honour. The Legion had probably been esteemed for its noble values, and she had absorbed that. But he did not think such things would impress the Imass. No. There must be some other reason.
Ahead, across the broad gravel wash, now empty of run-off, the valley-wide dirty expanse of the ice-serpent rose ahead. They picked up their pace. A short hurried dash later and they reached the cliff-like leading edge of the nearest lobe, or tongue, of the ice-river. Great caves of sapphire-blue gaped at its base, where, Kyle imagined, rivers of water once flowed.
Something had halted that natural melting process. A few of the Guard, and Jethiss, clambered on to the dirty-grey leading edge and crunched their way up. They beckoned everyone to follow. A glance back revealed what Kyle thought might be thin motionless shapes through the tatters of scudding clouds. He climbed up on to the ice.
* * *
Orman walked blind through the heaviest snowstorm he had ever known. He, Keth and Kasson had strung themselves together with belts. They took turns leading the way. Whoever was at the fore thrust at the ice with Svalthbrul, searching for crevasses hidden beneath the fresh snow cover.
This snowfall was so thick it came up to their knees. A brutal wind lashed them, numbing Orman’s face and finding any gap in his leathers. He reflected sourly how unfair it was that even though he shared Iceblood, he should still feel the damned cold. He supposed that he simply wasn’t immune to it. Occasional quakes, or massive cracking, shook the broad plain of ice beneath them and they rocked, arms out, steadying themselves.
They were making for a strange azure light that glimmered and sizzled far up upon the ice-field. The black clouds seemed to congregate there, licked by sheet lightning. It appeared to be the focus of this massive storm that smothered the entire north. Through passing gaps in the churning overcast layer he caught brief glimpses of the barren rocky peaks of the Salt range above, grey and forbidding.
They pushed against the wind, fighting their way across the ice-plain. Even as they walked, Orman had the definite sensation that it was moving beneath them – crackling and rumbling profoundly as it shifted down slope.
He was walking onward, pushing at the snow ahead, when the deafening howl of the wind faded away and he found himself standing in relative calm, the dense fat snowflakes drifting down nearly straight. He looked to the brothers in wonder. Here all was quiet, though the massive cloud front churned above as it blazed with lightning and flickering mage-fire. Ahead, a figure sat waist-deep in the snow; pillows of it covered his shoulders. Buri. They approached. The snow crunched beneath their feet. Their breath steamed in the chill air.
‘Buri?’ Orman called, hesitantly.
The figure stirred. The head with its great mane and beard of hair as white as the snow lifted. The long almond-shaped eyes flickered open. He smiled and inhaled a long steady breath. ‘Ah, Orman. You have brought Svalthbrul. Good. It will help immensely.’
‘Is it … yours, then?’ he asked.
The smile became wistful, like Vala’s just before she walked into the flames. ‘No. Not mine. It is a weapon taken from the T’lan Imass long ago – your Army of Bone and Dust.’
Orman and the brothers studied its faceted leaf-shaped stone head of deep brown flint, the colour of earth. ‘The enemy? Then … how can it help?’
The smile turned rather savage. ‘You have heard of those who drink the blood of their enemies? Who hope to claim their strength? Well, there is magic there, Orman. Magic the one who first laid this ice barrier used. Magic I too shall exploit.’
‘What must I do?’