Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(44)

‘Long has it been since the steppes of the Has’erin, Pran,’ said Tolb.

‘Indeed. That was a parting of many tears.’

‘Yet we meet again.’

Silverfox stepped up. ‘Pardon, Tolb of the Ifayle, but I must know … have you been here before?’

The two relinquished their grips. The newcomer turned to face her. She felt the full power of his regard, and it was potent indeed. This one may be the last and only shaman of the Ifayle, she thought. He carries their fate upon his ravaged shoulders. ‘No, Summoner,’ he answered. ‘But the Ifayle are here and I have searched everywhere to know the answer to their fate. I found it nowhere, and despaired. Until your arrival. I see now that we merely had to wait for you to come to us.’

Merely! Silverfox felt her knees weaken at the ages of weight that one small word carried.

‘So … you know.’

‘Yes. I alone escaped and have spent all this time in search of an answer. And now here you are.’

‘I?’

‘Yes.’ He bowed once more. ‘Summoner, we must travel north. The answers are there. In the far north.’

Pran Chole also faced her. ‘Summoner? What say you?’

The moment Tolb spoke she’d felt the right of it. In truth, she’d known it since they arrived on this shore. Yet she had avoided it. Dreaded the final irrevocable hard choices. She rubbed her hands up her arms and held herself. ‘I must face Omtose Phellack unveiled. Something the world has not seen in tens of thousands of years.’

‘Not you,’ said Pran.

She blinked at him, a touch irritated. ‘Not I?’

‘No. Tolb and I and the remaining Bonecasters shall. As during the ancient unveilings when the Odhan was scoured clean by rivers of ice leagues thick. Or the war over the rich fields of the Gareth’eshal, which yet lay lost to us beneath the sea.’

‘Then what of me?’

‘Summoner,’ Tolb spoke gently, ‘you must bring the Kerluhm to heel. You must stand before them and deny them their war.’

‘Your war,’ she corrected. ‘You also swore the ritual.’

The Ifayle Bonecaster nodded deeply then, his neck creaking, and it seemed to Silverfox that a great exhalation of repentance shuddered from the ancient. ‘A question of interpretation. They choose to fight it. We choose to end it.’

This near confession touched her deeply and she felt an urge to console the man though he was a walking corpse to her vision. Yet, she wondered, what differences truly lie between us? Only the accidental timing of birth. I could easily have been hearthmate to him, or he born of the Rhivi. She swept an arm to Pran. ‘Gather everyone.’

‘Summoner,’ Pran said, a warning in his voice. ‘It will be a long journey.’

‘How so?’

‘We cannot move through Tellann – Omtose inhibits this. We must travel across the land. So did the Jaghut deny us tracts of land and slow our progress in the elder ages.’

Silverfox stared, speechless. Walk … on foot all the way north across this enormous continent? It would take months! Still, was she not of the Rhivi? Why let yet another migration deter her? She smoothed her layered hides down her hips. ‘Then let us go at once.’ And she headed for her tent to pack.

Behind her, Tolb Bell’al and Pran Chole shared a glance that could almost be said to contain humour. ‘You chose well, Pran,’ Tolb murmured, his breathless voice nearly lost in the wind.

‘It was she who chose to come to us,’ he answered.

* * *

When the lookouts of the Lady’s Luck sighted land in the east, Kyle counselled that they turn south to travel round the horn of the continent. Tulan Orbed, however, ordered Reuth to find their position first to see how far north the winds had taken them. That night Reuth studied the stars, their setting and rising, and determined that they had indeed been driven quite far to the north. Kyle’s advice against travelling round the northern coast was rejected.

Two nights later Reuth came to where Kyle slept wrapped in blankets in the bows. The lad reached out to wake him but his approach had already roused him; he now slept as wary as when on campaign.

‘Kyle …’ Reuth urged over the shush of the bow wave.

‘Yes?’

Tears gleamed on the lad’s face. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, choking, his voice thick.

Kyle understood immediately, and reached up to squeeze the lad’s shoulder. From the stern came a knot of men – the majority of the crew all told – headed by the ex-Stormguard and Storval. Kyle pushed Reuth away. ‘Hide yourself now, lad.’

After one last anguished look – which Kyle answered reassuringly – the youth slid down amid the rowers’ berths and disappeared. Kyle stood. The crew confronted him, spread out, the ex-Stormguard at the fore.

‘The lad warned you, did he?’ Storval growled.

Kyle ignored the glowering mate. He spoke to Tulan: ‘You should be proud that your nephew finds murder distasteful.’

The master of the Lady’s Luck at least had the grace to appear embarrassed. He pulled on his thick black beard, his gaze downcast. ‘My apologies, outlander. But we must know …’

‘Show us the blade,’ Storval demanded.

Kyle glanced to the east where the coast lay as a dark line that brought the horizon close. With his foot, he drew the pack he used to rest his head on towards him. ‘You want to see the sword, do you?’ And he reached behind his back.