Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(62)

Fisher was not surprised. He knew that music spoke to the emotions, not the intellect. The heart was where people truly lived, and died. He also knew that this magic that music and poetry were said to possess was the power to touch that heart. So he pursued his phrasings from melodies and strumming from ancient hero cycles and lays. Perhaps at some point Jethiss might stop and turn to him and say with wonder: that reminds me …

These inland valleys and forests they crossed were not entirely empty. Tiny villages huddled here and there. Their inhabitants were a trickle of homesteaders slowly journeying inland and north from the lower, more settled, part of the peninsula. To a man and woman they looked with stunned incomprehension upon the arrival of this pocket army of outlanders.

To Fisher’s relief, Teal was strict in keeping his guard in hand. If they came across a clutch of chickens, not all were taken. Maize cribs were not entirely emptied. Larders were thinned, but not cleaned out. It seemed the Letherii officer was more than familiar with the art of taxing to the very bone – but not beyond. The Malazans under Malle were particularly watchful of the women and girls. It seemed they did not want to leave behind a name synonymous with wholesale rape and murder, and this also Fisher could not fail to note.

Enguf’s Genabackan pirates, however, clung hard to their traditional right to rape, murder, loot and burn. It took the threat of turning upon them from both Teal’s guard and Malle’s veterans to bring it to a stop. Even then, the Letherii and Malazans had to divide their time between scavenging for provisions and guarding the cottages and farms. Enguf’s crew were mutinous, but their captain kept reminding them of the real reward waiting ahead: all the gold they could carry. As it was, Fisher believed a number of the crew members had dropped away as they journeyed inland. Deserted with an eye on plain old-fashioned brigandage, probably.

On the seventh day he found the Cawn mage Holden waiting for him as he slogged past along a forest trail. He stepped out of the column and raised his brows in a question. The mage waved him over, then led him up a thin path through the woods. A cottage built of wattle and daub stood ahead, roofed in straw. The young and rather sour-faced mage of Cat, Alca, was standing with what Fisher presumed was the settler himself, a youngish fellow in tattered shirt and trousers with a defiant look on his lined face.

‘What is it?’ Fisher asked Holden.

‘Intelligence – if you can call it that.’

Fisher nodded a greeting to the farmer, who returned the gesture.

‘Would you care to repeat what you’ve said?’ Alca asked him.

The man nodded, his jaws set. ‘Aye. I’m not afeared.’

Fisher wanted to ask what the man was not afraid of, but decided not to interrupt.

‘You are travelling the Wight Road,’ the farmer said, addressing himself to Fisher. The way was actually more of a path, an old trail that linked passes through the high ridges, but Fisher did not correct him.

‘Yes.’

‘You should turn back.’

Fisher glanced to the mages. Holden’s face held scepticism, even tolerant amusement; Alca was grim, as if she was conducting an interrogation. ‘Oh? Why is that?’

‘Because o’ the Bonewight.’

Fisher nodded. This was the ‘monster’ he’d warned Malle about. It was the ‘lurking threat’ mentioned in the old lays. ‘I know the old stories. All that was long ago.’

The man shook his head. Fisher now saw that he was even younger than he’d thought. The hardscrabble life here in the wilderness had aged him brutally. ‘’Twas and ’twasn’t. It was and it still is. It will come. It wards the way north.’

Now Fisher frowned, struck by something. ‘“Wards”?’ he asked.

‘How do you know this?’ Alca demanded. ‘No one else has said anything.’

The settler shifted his attention to her. He held his chin high, defiant still. ‘They are all afeared o’ the Jotunfiend.’

Holden scowled his impatience. ‘Jotunfiend? You mean a ghoul? A ghostie?’

‘It’s as real as you strange foreigners.’

‘And where is this monster?’ Alca demanded.

‘It waits under its bridge.’

Holden let out a snort and pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘Ogres under bridges …’ He shook his head, looked to Fisher. ‘Never mind. Seems our friend here has heard the same old ghost stories you have.’ He waved Alca off. ‘Let’s go.’

The two mages left to return to the column. Fisher studied the slate-hued overcast sky where it showed between the trees. It looked like rain. He returned his gaze to the settler, who glared back, his jaws set once more. ‘Thank you for the warning,’ he said.

‘It is real,’ the man growled resentfully.

‘Thank you.’ Fisher turned to go.

As he was walking up the trail, the man shouted after him: ‘It took my brother!’

Fisher glanced back but the man had turned away to return to his work, cutting wood. The bard stood for a time, watching, but the man said no more. Fisher returned to the column.

When he fell in with the Malazans once more, Jethiss gave him a questioning look. Fisher gestured ahead, where the ground climbed to another ridge and another high pass. ‘Some sort of possible threat ahead. Something haunting the highlands.’