Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(53)

‘Why?’ Whellen echoed, thoughtful, his gaze still narrowed upon the iron-grey waters. Then that gaze shifted to Burl and in it he read only the grief that bowed the man’s shoulders. He appeared sorrowful beyond tears. ‘You think I did all this,’ he murmured, and gestured to indicate the ship.

‘Who else?’

‘Not you then?’ he asked, and a sort of weak smile plucked at his lips, as if acknowledging a poor joke.

Burl swallowed his terror and redoubled his sweaty grip upon the blade. ‘What kind of lunacy is that? Listen to yourself.’

‘I mean, are you certain the crew is gone? Perhaps it is just you who is gone.’

‘What?’ Burl didn’t want to listen to any of this craziness, but he could not bring himself to run him through in cold blood. Perhaps it hadn’t been him after all. ‘What do you mean, man? Speak sense, damn you to the Enchantress! I mean it … or I’ll kill you!’

‘I mean that there have been no murders here. No one has killed anyone.’

‘Bullshit! What happened to everyone, then?’

The first mate raised his open hands and examined them. ‘It’s this place, Burl. It’s where we are.’ He gestured to the waters, the sky. ‘We don’t belong here. It’s not for us. That’s what everyone’s been feeling. As if an enemy has been stalking every one of us. But that enemy is just our own fears.’

Burl almost thrust his blade through him for concocting such a preposterous story, no doubt to squirm out of his guilt. Yet somehow he wasn’t entirely convinced that this man was the murderer. Hadn’t he lain ill or in a faint all this time? Or had he been duped somehow? Perhaps he had an accomplice … and Burl snatched a quick glance behind. Seeing nothing, he wet his lips and muttered a weak, ‘I don’t believe you.’

Whellen nodded his understanding, or acceptance. ‘There is no way I can convince you, is there?’ he murmured softly, as if he were speaking to himself. He shrugged to drop the blanket from his shoulders. ‘Except perhaps this way.’

‘What?’ Burl answered. But the man wasn’t listening. He merely gave Burl one more nod, as if in farewell, and leaned backwards. Burl lunged, snatching at him. ‘No!’ But all he touched were the man’s sandals as he slipped over the side to fall to the water below.

Burl leaned down, reaching, his hands empty.

The Sea of Dread was a particularly clear sea, and Whellen remained visible for some time as he sank, staring upwards, his face a pale oval, in no way panicked or desperate, only so very sad. Or regretful. As if all this were nothing more than an unfortunate accident of fate. Burl watched until the man’s outline disappeared into the murk of the depths. Then he threw himself away from the side as if it burned to the touch. He snatched up the sword and continued backing away until he reached the door to his cabin, then he quickly jumped within and slammed the door.

‘Now we’ll know for certain,’ he whispered, fierce, as he readied the chair and sat once more, sword across his lap.

‘Now we’ll know!’ he shouted at the door and whatever things were gathering beyond. ‘If no one comes – we’ll know!’

He wet his lips, clenched and unclenched his hot grip on the weapon. ‘Come on!’ he screamed at the door. ‘Come on!’

He listened, but all he heard was his own hoarse breathing. He took one clumsy hacking swing at the door, croaked, ‘Come on!’ He listened again while he held his breath. Something was there. He was certain of it. Why wouldn’t it come? Why this agony of waiting? Won’t it just end it?

After a time he could no longer hold his chest tight and his shoulders sank. His face was chilled by tears. ‘Come on,’ he moaned, utterly exhausted by the waiting.

Gods, man – won’t you just end it?

* * *

They crossed the West Whitewater on the second day of climbing. It ran steep and swift out of the high valley. Orman’s breath caught as he stepped ever deeper into its icy course. He carefully picked his way between submerged boulders while the torrent surged as high as his waist. The charging water pulled at his legs and he relied upon Boarstooth to keep his footing.

Ahead, Old Bear seemed to have merely leaned into the course and bulled his way across. His ragged bear cloak had danced and whipped atop the waves as the stream appeared to be attempting to yank it from him. He climbed the opposite bank, guffawing, slapping at his sodden leathers, and Orman could actually hear his great booming laughter over the roar of the mountain stream. The Reddin brothers followed, while Gerrun brought up the rear.

They climbed steadily, half the time descending steep rocky ridges as the Old Bear’s path took them from one high valley to a higher, until it seemed to Orman as if the snowcapped peaks of the Salt range loomed directly over his head. Legendary birthplace of the Icebloods themselves. What the old legends named Joggenhome. They were now long past the point where the ghosts first came to him as a boy, and this time he saw them too: grey translucent figures in the distance, watching from among the trees and rocks. Many held spears, some shields. Some wore helmets and mail coats, others only leathers and ragged cloaks. He would have remarked upon them but for seeing the others ignore them – and so he chose to as well.

On the third evening they ate a stew of rabbit and roots and berries that the Reddin brothers had collected. One of the brothers cooked it in a smallish iron pot over a fire, and they served it out in wooden bowls. Orman’s bowl warmed his hands in a very welcome manner. The other brother tossed over flatbreads, like cakes, that they’d baked overnight in the ashes of yesterday’s fire.