Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(99)

‘It will be a long walk,’ Lanas answered.

‘As it has ever been, Lanas.’

She inclined her head in assent and came abreast of Ut’el. Together, the two struck a path to the north-east over the rocky slope. The rest of the Imass followed in a rattling and clack of bone over stones. Behind, more of their brethren dragged themselves free of the eroding moraine, sloughing off a rain of dirt and mud.

* * *

Orman jogged downhill from one high mountain valley to the next, ever angling to the east. For two days ghosts, Sayer ancestors, pointed the way. On the third day he came to a ridge separating the Sayer Holding from the Bain. Here, an immense half-dead white pine stood taller than all its kind. Pinned to the trunk by a hunting knife hung Jass’s cloak.

He understood the message, for he recognized the knife. He’d last seen it pushed through the belt of Lotji Bain. He ran on, leaving the challenge hanging for others to find. Should any others be following. He descended the ridge, crossed a forest towards a stream rushing over a wide bed of naked broken rock. Here, a shout sounded over the pounding waters.

Lotji stepped forth from the cover of the wide bole of a pine. He held Jass before him, a knife to his throat, the lad’s hands tied. He bellowed up: ‘I’m glad you came, hiresword! You’ve saved me a lot of time. You know what I want. You and me! Now!’

Orman squeezed the haft of Svalthbrul so tight it seemed to squirm in his hands. He picked his way across the tumbled rocks. He so wanted to meet this man – to cut him to pieces with Svalthbrul – but what if he lost? What of Jass then? Jass, as he’d known all along, was far more important to him than any weapon. No matter how storied. He raised the spear. ‘I have something you want, Lotji … and you have something I want. Let’s exchange.’

The offer brought the man up short. His face wrinkled in distaste. ‘An exchange?’ he shouted, almost in disbelief. ‘An exchange? You would part with Svalthbrul for this useless pup?’

‘I would.’

‘Why?’

Something in Orman resisted revealing his true reason and it took him a moment to identify it: the man was not worthy of such an intimacy. It was a family matter – not for outsiders. ‘Honour!’ he shouted over the pounding stream. ‘I swore to serve the Sayers!’

Lotji shook his head, his gaze scornful. ‘Hearthguard,’ he snorted. ‘Hearthguard you are and hearthguard you will ever remain – nothing more!’

They closed further and Jass choked out: ‘Leave me to die! I deserve no better.’

Lotji shook him by the neck like a disobedient dog. ‘Quiet!’ He motioned to the rocks between him and Orman. ‘Far enough. Set the spear there and back away.’

‘Release the lad!’

‘Back away first!’

Orman jammed the butt of the spear amid the rocks so that it stood tall and straight. He backed away one step. ‘Release him!’

Lotji waved him off. ‘Further!’ He pressed a knife blade to Jass’s throat.

Orman snarled a curse but backed away a few more steps until clear of the spear. Lotji edged up almost within arm’s reach of it.

‘Now the boy!’

Lotji just shook his head. ‘You stupid fool!’ He snatched up the spear. ‘Now I have both and you have nothing!’

Orman felt his shoulders fall. Damn. Should’ve fought him.

Lotji examined Svalthbrul’s knapped stone spearhead, then cast an arched glance to him. ‘You do have one thing left, though. And now I’ll take that …’

Orman moved to draw his hatchets.

Lotji jerked his arm, Svalthbrul lashed out and crashed against Orman’s skull. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

*

He snapped to wakefulness in a panic, fighting for breath. Something was choking him; he strained to raise his hands to pull at whatever it was, but his arms were secured behind his back. He saw that he hung from a branch; Lotji was tying off the rope round the trunk even as he watched. Jass lay to one side, weeping, his hands tied behind his back.

Lotji appeared before him, peering up. ‘I was looking forward to killing you in a duel, hearthguard. But you stole the pleasure from me. Therefore, I demand a blood-price.’ He extended the nut-brown faceted stone head of Svalthbrul to Orman’s face. He tried to squirm aside but the spear licked forward. Fire engulfed his head. He screamed, or tried to, lurching and spinning as he struggled. The rope squeezed tighter about his throat.

‘Farewell, fool,’ Lotji called, now yanking Jass to his feet. ‘Perhaps this will teach you wisdom.’

Orman fought to scream, to curse, to beg, but nothing could escape the twisting noose strangling his throat. His vision, oddly restricted now, darkened. He felt nothing, sensed nothing – only a swelling balm that seemed to soothe all pain and tension from his body.

He felt as if he were floating.

Pain roused him; some sort of sharp blow. Cold air scraped his throat and he gagged, coughing. He lay for a time possessing only the strength required to draw a breath into his straining body. After this, he managed to open his eyes – or one eye, at least. The other remained stubbornly closed.

Someone was leaning over him. A dark man, skin almost black, his face deeply weathered and lined. He wore a plain leather hood. Orman tried to speak but no words would come.

‘Quiet now,’ the man urged, his accent strange. ‘No talking yet. Hard to access anything here but I think I can stop the bleeding.’