Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(97)

Land of Winds. Land of Dust. Put these two together and you have a desolate uninhabitable desert that scours all life from itself.

Then a shape resolved itself out of the sweeping scarves and twists of sand and dust. Vaguely humanoid; a shape of seething hissing winds and grit. A blunt arm pointed. A moaning wind-voice spoke: ‘You I would allow to pass. But you carry a thing of chaos. This cannot be allowed to pass.’

Thing of chaos? Kyle clutched at the blade. He called uselessly into the winds: ‘What do you mean? This is the sword of Osserc!’ He heard no sound of his own voice yet the creature answered.

‘Yes. This thing he carried for a time. Yet its origins are older than he. Know you not what it is?’

‘It is a sword.’

‘It is no sword. Lay it down and you may pass.’

‘No! It was given to me by Osserc himself!’

‘Then he did you no favour. All that will be left of you will be that artefact. And that I shall grind until its dust is spread across the continent entire.’

Artefact? ‘No!’ Kyle yanked the blade free, swinging across his front. The winds flinched. At least that was how it felt to him. He almost tumbled forward into a lull that lasted a fraction of a moment. The winds’ howling doubled. It rasped and growled in what seemed like frustration.

‘Then die!’ the creature bellowed, and raised its arms of churning dust.

Kyle charged, rolled forward, and swung. The blade bit into the shape at its broad base, and just as when he had struck the manifestation of a goddess on Fist an enormous blast of unleashed energies threw him backwards to land on the rock, depriving him of his breath and bringing stars to his vision.

When he regained his senses, he raised his head to see the dust storm dispersing. It fell in uncoiling scarves of particles that came hissing down. He stood, brushed a thick layer of it from his chest and hair. He raised the blade still gripped tightly in his hand. He remembered that someone had once told him it wasn’t made of metal – it certainly didn’t look like metal. It was creamy amber, opaque at its thick spine verging down to translucent towards the curve of its keen edge. He ran his fingers down the side of the blade. It felt organic to him, like horn, or scale. An artefact? Artefact of what? And chaos? What had that being meant about chaos? Yet he didn’t imagine he’d killed the creature. Just as at Fist, when he’d struck the Lady, she had merely dispersed for a time. So too here, probably. Shrugging, he resheathed the blade, carefully, edge up, and walked on.

The air was clearing. The winds were dying. The peaks and shoulders of the distant Salt range emerged from the haze of dust once again. He raised his last remaining waterskin, shook it to listen to its meagre sloshing, and let it fall. He angled his route a touch to the east.

* * *

This village was larger than any of the ones she’d yet found. The sight of the collection of round hide roofs was a gut-punch to Silver-fox when she topped a slight rise. She paused, nearly toppling from her quivering lathered mount. Pran appeared at her side, ready to catch or steady her.

She flinched from his presence, kicked her mount on. It started forward with heavy clumsy steps.

As before she found them strewn where they’d fallen. As before, kites and crows lifted like dark shadows from her advance to hover overhead, waiting for the momentary disruption to move on. The vultures merely spread their wide black wings and waddled to one side.

Occasionally, foxes and wild dogs scampered off into the grasses, their muzzles wet and dark with blood. There they lurked, awaiting her departure.

But this time it was quiet. So quiet she could hear the hide flaps tapping and slapping in the wind, the grasses shushing, the wind moaning through gaping open entrances. No strained voices rising in near-crazed grief shattered the silence. No screams of rage. No weeping.

This time all was silent. Silverfox slid from her mount, let the reins fall. She stepped on to soil dark and wet with blood yet hardly noticed. She found that she had to consciously urge her legs to move. Pran appeared from behind a hut ahead of her.

‘Summoner,’ he began, and she thought she heard pain in his voice, ‘you need not—’

‘Yes,’ she snapped. The word felt torn from her. ‘I must. I must … witness this.’

She brushed past him. She walked between silent huts of poles and hide, stepped over knifed women, men, and children. Many had fallen curled round their young, protecting them. Slaughtered. All. She raised her gaze, found it blurred. All? All?

Lanas … how could you? What will they say of you? Of the T’lan?

She lifted her wrinkled, age-darkened hands to her face, turned them over and over. Yet what was this but a glimpse of the old ways? Her people’s hands were no more clean. No one’s were. How could this have once been the norm? How could the ancestors have named this a great victory and boasted of it? The slaughter of children? Perhaps it was a good thing to be reminded of this – once in a while.

Sound reached her. So wrapped in her horror was she that it took some time for it to register for what it was: the wail of a baby. She started, jerking, and ran in the direction of the noise. Rounding a hut she came up short, her breath catching.

All were not dead. A woman stood ahead. She cradled a tiny squirming bundle awkwardly in her muscular arms. A woman not of this village, nor even of this continent. For Silverfox knew her, and as she advanced the woman’s sharp gaze reflected their mutual recognition. Dark earth-brown she was. Sun-darkened even more over her wide arms. Sturdy-boned, heavy-browed, with smooth silken black hair, in old buckskins.