Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(67)

Then the gigantic bone hands swept in and closed upon them, sweeping them off their feet and swinging them into the air, and Fisher screamed his surprise and terror as the creature took one great leap into the defile.

It thrust them into a cave that opened directly on to the sheer cliff. Fisher could see no way down as he was pushed within. The hands released them to fall to a rocky floor.

‘My name!’ Jethiss yelled into the absolute night surrounding them.

The rumbling voice echoed back, mocking. ‘I did not say when you would have it.’ Then Fisher sensed they were alone in the inky black.

‘I am sorry,’ Jethiss said from off to one side.

‘It’s all right. We still have our bones.’

‘For a time,’ Jethiss agreed.

Fisher felt at his back then, alarmed. He whipped the idum from where he’d slung it and gingerly felt along its wrapped length to find that the neck was broken. ‘Damn.’

‘What is it?’

‘Broke my neck.’

‘Your neck!’

Fisher snorted a laugh. ‘Sorry – the neck of my instrument.’

‘Oh.’

A hand clasped Fisher’s arm and helped him upright. ‘You can see?’ he marvelled.

‘I see fine. Why?’

‘I cannot. Although …’ He squinted in one direction. ‘I believe I see some sort of a glow off that way. A fire?’

After a moment Jethiss answered, ‘I see it as well.’ The hand pulled lightly. ‘I will guide you.’

Fisher shifted the hand to his elbow. ‘There.’

‘Ah. I see.’

It can’t have been that far, but the walk seemed excruciatingly long to Fisher. He lost count of the number of times he barked his shins on rocks, or twisted his ankles on the uneven cave floor. At times Jethiss had him duck under low-hanging formations or ledges. Eventually, as they neared the fire, he could see better and better, and finally he eased free of the Andii’s hand.

They came to a very modest little fire that gave hardly any light or heat. It appeared to be built of old dry roots and other such burnable trash. In the utter black of the cave, however, it felt wonderful to Fisher. He knelt to warm his hands at it.

Jethiss breathed a low warning: ‘We are not alone.’

Fisher straightened.

Two figures came emerging from the murk. Twins they appeared, so alike were they, both in rough torn leathers, both squat with extraordinarily burly muscular builds, like wrestlers, and both as hairy as bears. One was mostly bald, with gold earrings; the other sported a great massed curly nest about his head. Twigs rode in their thick black and russet beards. Long-knives and hatchets were tucked into their leather belts.

For a time they stared at each other, wordless. Then the massively haired one struck the bald one in the chest, saying, ‘It’s that songster, Fisher. Hey, Fish. Remember us?’

Fisher squinted. He knew the accent. It was a northerner’s … ‘I’m sorry … I don’t …’

The hairy one thumped his companion in his massive chest again, once more raising a cloud of dust. ‘It’s us! Badlands and Coots! Remember us? We’re of the Losts!’

And Fisher remembered, and he pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘Oh, no …’

* * *

A warband ambushed Kyle when he was a few days inland. He was not surprised. He knew that though these lands might appear a wasteland to some, to those who lived here it was their territory, their home, to be guarded against trespassers who would strain its already slim resources.

They were on foot, and arose all at once from the stiff grasses and brush of the rolling hills. He halted and raised his hands to demonstrate his peaceful intent. They wore headscarves and treated hides laced together as leathers, and carried spears, with bone-handled knives at their waists. What Kyle noticed right away was the striking similarity they bore to himself: short and broad, skin a dark olive hue, and thin facial hair of moustache and mere tufts of beard.

‘I would speak with your hetman,’ he called out.

‘You walk alone across our land and then you make demands upon us?’ one answered. ‘You are either an arrogant fool or a warrior worthy of our attention.’

‘I intend no challenge …’ Kyle began.

‘Your presence here is a challenge,’ the spokesman answered, his face hard, and he nodded. Kyle spun in time to knock away a thrown spear. He turned back to find the spokesman almost upon him in a silent rush, knife out. He dodged two quick thrusts, retreating. ‘Do not—’ He got no further as the man bellowed a war-cry and attacked again.

Though he hated to do it, Kyle drew and brought his blade up to cut through the man’s forearm. The hand flew free, still gripping the knife. The surrounding party of men and women all flinched back a step. The man clamped his remaining hand around the stump and stared in stunned wonder. Kyle picked up the thrown spear and cut through the haft in one easy slice. He raised the shortened weapon high, circling. ‘Let me pass,’ he told them. ‘I mean no challenge to you. I merely wish to pass through.’

‘What blade is that you carry?’ the man breathed in utter awe.

Kyle glanced down. The curved blade glowed its pale honey-yellow in the afternoon light. He wiped it on his trouser leg and tucked it into his shirt. ‘It is mine. Given to me and for none other.’ He swept an arm to the south. ‘Go now, report to your elders what you have found. I suggest none of you return.’