Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(43)
The tall man nodded again, sombre. ‘A very good question, captain. Before Togg withdrew, he set upon me one last task, one last mission. That when certain portents were fulfilled, we of the Blue Shields would venture to the north of this region and there fight to right an ancient wrong. And to prevent a great tragedy.’
Jute frowned, uncertain. ‘A great tragedy sir? What would that be?’
Tyvar waved as if the answer was obvious. ‘Why, the death of innocents, of course.’ He bowed his farewell, then turned to Cartheron. ‘My regards to our Lady,’ he offered. ‘Come, Haagen,’ and the two returned to their launch.
Jute and Cartheron watched them go. It was now the middle of the night, and darkness quickly swallowed the small boat. The bonfires snapped and popped on the beach, sending sparks high amid the stars of the night sky. Most of Jute’s crew lay asleep around them. He sighed and rubbed his aching, foggy brow.
Cartheron slapped the cork back into the bottle and regarded him, scratching meditatively at the bristles on his cheeks. ‘Take my advice, lad,’ he said. ‘Don’t get caught up in all this talk of missions and god-given purposes. I’ve seen it before and it only leads to misery and pain.’ He offered the bottle, which Jute took. Then he inclined his head good night and walked into the dark, crunching his way across the gravel strand to his launch.
Jute stood alone for a time. He studied the night sky as if he could somehow discern there a portent of what might lie ahead, but he was no Seer or mage. He turned to the ridge with its tall tossing grasses – who knew what enemies or dangers lay hidden within? Finally, he drew a deep breath and headed to a fire to find a place to lie down.
* * *
Silverfox walked the dunes of the coast. Her hair, long uncut and uncombed, whipped about her head. She hugged herself as she went; the wind was cold this day. Sea-birds hovered overhead, their wings backswept like strung bows. It was odd, she considered as she went, how she was alone yet felt as if she had to be on her own. Because of course she was never truly alone. Within her Bellurdan, the giant Thelomen, raged for action, while Nightchill, the ancient Sister of Cold Nights, and the true wellspring of her power, counselled patience. Closest to her in her humanity was Tattersail, the mage, once of the Malazan imperial cadre. She too urged patience.
And yet what of Silverfox? What of her? What did she wish? The sad fact was that she had no idea. Hers was the mere frail soul of a girl, full of doubts and fears. How could she set herself against such potent beings? How could she even be certain which thoughts were her own?
She raised her hands to study them, turned them over. Skin sun-darkened, stretched thin and dry, age-spotted, joints knotted and swollen – not the hands of the young girl she held in her mind’s eye. Her creation, birth, and maturation had consumed the life of her mother. As now it was consuming hers. Yet she was content; it was just. She only hoped there would be enough time. The Imass had waited untold thousands of years for her arrival, a living Bonecaster who could release them from their ritual, and now that life was slipping away. Should she fail, how much longer would they have to wait again?
If there ever could be a second chance for redemption.
The wind gusted, sands hissing about her, lashing her, and she turned her face away. The stiff brown grasses clinging to the dunes shushed and grated. She saw Pran Chole standing alone on the shore, facing out to sea, and her chest tightened in bands of dread. No – not again.
Though it was the last thing she wanted to face, she clambered down the sand slopes to the strand. He did not turn when she joined him. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
Pran was slow to answer. ‘I am not certain. I sense something … different.’
‘Different? How?’
Dry tendons creaked as he turned his ravaged face to hers. ‘Powerful.’
She suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Nightchill wavered close to her consciousness as if to reassure her with the message: do not fear, I am here.
I am no child to need such soothing, she cast against the presence in her thoughts.
Regardless, I am here should there be need.
‘It comes,’ Pran breathed, and he extended a skeletal arm, all bone and desiccated flesh, pointing.
Silverfox sought out her own powers as a Bonecaster, a shaman, in her own right.
A head broke through the waves, its owner obviously walking the rising shore, approaching. Patches of long hair clung here and there over the bare dome of a tannin-stained skull. Dark empty sockets beneath thick brow-ridges, full wide cheekbones over lipless jaws that still carried strips of muscle and tendon. Next came chest and shoulders of bone beneath a ragged hide shirt, coarsely sewn, with sleeves all torn and stained.
At her side Pran Chole made one faltering step forward, as if half moving to greet the newcomer. A dry breath, like a sigh, escaped his throat.
‘What is it?’ Silverfox asked.
The newcomer approached, bowed on one knee to her. ‘Greetings, Summoner,’ he murmured in the T’lan voice that was the mere brush of falling leaves. ‘It is an honour.’
Pran Chole took another hesitant step closer. ‘I am Pran Chole. We of the Kron salute you.’
‘I am Tolb Bell’al,’ the newcomer answered, ‘Bonecaster to the Ifayle T’lan Imass. And long have I been absent.’
And to Silverfox’s utter astonishment, the two Imass embraced. For a time they held one another at arm’s length, seeming to study each other. Ifayle, she marvelled, amazed. According to the Kron they’d been lost long ago. Some even claimed they were lost here, on Assail.