Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(75)

‘If we have the strength,’ she murmured; Dorrin was close now. ‘And what of our friends?’

He scanned the surrounding horizons. ‘I have the feeling that they’re letting us weaken.’

‘Not very fair of them.’

He drew a fortifying breath. ‘Well, it’s our own damned fault, isn’t it?’

Dorrin arrived to peer east. ‘So that is your Sea of Dread. I don’t like the look of it.’

‘Neither do I,’ Kyle agreed. He held out a hand, inviting Lyan northward, and they started off.

The next day Kyle sucked on stones. He pinched the skin of his hand and it did not fall back at all. The moisture coming off the sea was a torment, but no matter how much he feared the Silent warriors shadowing them his instincts told him that the true threat lay to the east.

Even so, if the Silent People’s strategy was to wait until they were falling down weak, then it was working. The next day he stopped Lyan from donning her mail coat. He’d found the poles of two dead saplings that he used to build a travois. He motioned to the packs. ‘Keep only what you need.’

Lyan did not even bother answering, merely set to tossing things away. With the travois finished, the poles and cross-sticks lashed with leather straps, they loaded it with what remained of their gear: armour, wrapped dried meat, a sack of meal stuffed into a cooking pot, and the empty waterskins. Lyan hung a leather pouch around her neck and tucked it under her tunic. What remained of the lad’s royal inheritance, Kyle assumed. They set off, Kyle dragging the travois by the length of two leather belts. At noon they switched over.

In the late afternoon they came to the dried bed of a stream. Kyle clambered down among the exposed rocks and gravel and started digging with a hatchet. Lyan joined him. About an arm’s length down the mixed mud and sand became damp. Kyle pressed the cold wet sand to his face and sighed in delight.

A gasp from Dorrin brought Kyle and Lyan jumping to their feet, weapons drawn.

Across the dried stream bed five people faced them: two clan elders, male and female, and three of what must be their most senior warriors, two men and one woman. The warriors wore white face paint while their mostly naked bodies were smeared in ochre mud. The elders were draped in leather skins and furs.

‘Let me drink first,’ Kyle called.

The female elder smiled, revealing blunt nubs of teeth. ‘No pleading, Whiteblade? Good. That is as it should be.’

The old man jerked his head back towards the north. ‘You are truly headed north?’

‘I am.’

The two elders exchanged a glance that greatly troubled Kyle, for it was an uneasy one. Then the old woman stamped her staff to the ground and announced, ‘It is the Quest, then. Child of the Wind, you go to the great mountains, Joggenhome, to stand before our ancestors and prove our worth as our champion.’

‘It is not agreed,’ one of the male warriors, the most scarred one, snarled.

‘Quiet, Willow,’ the old man warned. ‘The clans have lost enough blades. He has proved his worth. And we are shamed by Neese and Niala. They were not chosen.’

‘It is only the blade he carries,’ Willow answered scornfully. ‘Let us see him fight with no advantage.’

Kyle raised his chin to the elders. ‘I am half dead of thirst, but if the elders wish it – I will face this one without the white blade.’

‘The Quest is a not a trifling matter,’ the old man muttered.

‘We must be certain,’ the woman agreed.

The old man gave a curt nod. ‘Very well. You have two nights and two days. Rest, drink, eat. We will meet again at the dusk.’ He gestured to the female warrior and she tossed something to Kyle. He caught it: a skin of water. The five climbed the slope up out of the stream bed and melted away.

‘You should not have agreed,’ Lyan said.

‘I had no choice. It was a test. It was all a test. If I had failed they would have killed all of us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A test of honour. A test of bravery. A test of my resolve – they had been waiting to see whether I truly would turn north.’

‘And this last stupid duel?’

‘It is their … well, our, way. Formalized war. Some might call it a kind of game. Only we two need be wounded or killed. More humane, really.’

She was shaking her head. ‘Stupid. Damned stupid.’

‘Thank you for your faith in my abilities.’

She just waved an arm, dismissing him, and climbed the stream bed.

For two days they rested. They drank the water and boiled the last of their grain meal. As the afternoon of the second day slid into evening, Kyle began stretching. He decided to use his two hatchets and keep two knives tucked into his belt at the rear. Dorrin stood cradling the white blade in its sheath and leather wrap.

The Silent People appeared soon after. They approached in the open, out of the west.

‘Remember,’ Kyle again told Lyan, ‘follow the coast. It should curve to the east and you should come to some sort of estuary, an outlet to the Sea of Gold. There should be people there. A fortress named Mist.’

She had objections, plenty, he could tell. But she swallowed them. Instead, she slipped her hand behind his neck and pulled his lips to hers to kiss him.

He stood blinking, quite stunned.

‘There’s some motivation for you,’ she said, looking fierce. ‘Now slit him open and let’s get going.’