Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(68)

The warband leader straightened. His face was ashen with pain, his hand tight around the bleeding stump of his wrist. Yet he scowled, unbowed. ‘We will go to tell of this. But we shall return. You will not find us craven.’ He flicked his head and the rest of the warband turned as one and jogged off.

Kyle wanted to howl: I care not if you are craven or brave – just leave me alone! But he remained silent. He knew what the clan would do was not up to him; he could only hope to minimize any damage he might have to do.

The leader shuffled to where his severed hand lay, and bent to retrieve the knife.

‘Leave it!’ Kyle barked. ‘It is now mine. Is this not so?’

The man straightened. His face had darkened with the effort – and with rage. ‘It is so,’ he ground out through clenched teeth.

Kyle motioned him away. ‘Then go.’

For an instant Kyle thought the fellow might launch himself upon him, attacking with his teeth alone. But he let out an inarticulate snarl of frustration, his eyes blazing his fury, and backed away. Kyle waited until he had shambled from sight before bending down and collecting the knife.

Now he had two weapons. He set out jogging east.

*

The second night after that encounter he jumped awake to darkness and crouched, knife and blade out, circling. His feet raised dust as he shifted. The moon was out, a thin sickle. The Visitor was a fading green smear just above the western horizon.

‘Come out,’ he called. ‘Let us speak.’

A shape straightened from the brush, advanced. It was an older warrior. Grey streaked his hair. He carried a hatchet in each hand.

‘The blade glows,’ the man remarked. Kyle glanced down: the strange material of the sword seemed to collect the moonlight and shone now with a silver lustre. ‘What is your name,’ the man continued, ‘that I might recite it before the Circle?’

Kyle thought about that, then said, ‘Kylarral-ten is the given name of my youth.’

The man cocked his head, surprised. ‘In truth? Of what clan?’

‘The Sons and Daughters of the Wind, to the south.’

The man nodded. ‘We know them. We are the Silent People. What brings you to our land?’

Kyle did not take his eyes from the man as he slowly circled, his arms out, hatchets readied. He inclined his head a touch to the east. ‘I journey east and north. To the mountains.’

The man’s eyes shifted momentarily to the north. They glittered in the moonlight. He nodded. ‘Ah. I understand. A hero quest. You go to stand before the ancient ones. The ancestors. To prove your worth.’

‘Ancestors?’ Kyle said, surprised.

The man snorted his disgust. ‘Have you Children of the Wind forgotten everything?

Kyle vaguely remembered stories. But his father had not been much of a one for stories. And he died when Kyle was young and then his mother’s brother had sold him into slavery. There had been little time to sit and listen to the old tales around the fire.

None of this did he say.

‘Our forefathers,’ the man continued. ‘You must recite your lineage to be allowed into the Great Hall. There you shall fight and feast for ever, shoulder to shoulder with all the heroes of the past. And should you defeat me – here is my name. Swear you will not forget to commend me to our ancestors … Ruthel’en.’

Kyle nodded, quite serious. ‘I’ll not forget.’

‘Very good.’ Ruthel’en started circling once more.

‘We needn’t …’ Kyle began.

‘We must.’ And the man charged. But the charge was a feint. He halted abruptly to heave one of the hatchets. Kyle barely had time to raise his blade. Somehow it caught the thrown weapon, but not in time to prevent it from striking him a blow on the top of his forehead. Stunned, he just managed to deflect a disembowelling sweep across his midsection that raked through his jerkin, leaving a flaming eruption of pain behind.

Ruthen’el staggered back. His right arm hung useless, severed to the bone across the inside of the bicep. Panting, he reached across to take the hatchet into his left hand. Kyle stood weaving, blinking to clear his vision. Warm wetness covered the right side of his face, blinded that eye. He hugged his left arm across his stomach, terrified at what might happen should he let go.

Ruthen’el straightened, leaned forward to close once more. Kyle circled in a drunken stagger. He held the point of his blade straight out at the man. Ruthen’el batted the blade aside and closed. Kyle brought the sword around underneath, managing to catch the man’s side and slicing through. The shock of that blow caused Ruthen’el’s hatchet to strike flat and weak against Kyle’s shoulder, numbing the arm rather than taking his head off. Ruthen’el slipped backwards off Kyle’s blade, half eviscerated. He fell in the mess of his own blood and fluids and lay staring skyward, still conscious.

Weaving, Kyle sheathed his blade. He kept his arm pressed across his stomach and half knelt, half fell to the man’s side. Ruthen’el’s gaze found his face. ‘Remember me to the ancestors,’ he whispered wetly.

Kyle swallowed to gather spit to speak. ‘I will remember. You are the best I have ever faced. Tell me, this place of the ancestors … what do you call it?’

‘Joggenhome.’

Kyle straightened, wincing and gasping. Ruthen’el stared up at him. ‘You will not finish me?’