Assail

* * *

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.’

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?’

‘You are done.’ Kyle motioned to the east. ‘Perhaps you will last until the dawn and you will feel the warmth of the sun upon your face before you go.’

The man smiled dreamily. ‘A nice thought. But I think not.’

Kyle staggered to the dropped hatchet. He leaned down awkwardly to pick it up, then tucked it into his belt. Now he had three weapons. He shuffled off into the night.

The next day he washed his head wound at a waterhole. He inspected his torso and was relieved to see that it was merely a flesh wound: a slice across his upper stomach that had failed to sever any muscles. He washed it as well. He killed a lizard and cleaned it and ate the meat raw on the run.

The day after that the next warrior found him, a youth. This one he finished without taking another wound. Though strong and quick, he was far less experienced than Ruthen’el. He did not even give his name. He did shock Kyle, however, and nearly gained an advantage, by calling him ‘Whiteblade’.

He jogged now, through the rest of that day and the night, straining to put as much land as possible between himself and the Silent People. The next morning he was limping across the grassland, hardly awake, staggering and stumbling, when someone leapt up directly before him, yelled a war-cry, and bashed him to the ground.

He lay dazed, staring up at a young woman in a full coat of battered mail. She held a longsword to his throat. ‘Why are you following us?’ she demanded.

He blinked to clear his vision. ‘What? Following? I’m not …’ He swatted the blade aside, struggled to rise. The woman watched him closely, the sword still extended. He eyed her, thinking that he must be seeing a mirage. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, amazed.

‘Never mind that. What of you? What are you doing here?’

He glanced to the west, covered his gaze to scan the gently rolling steppelands. ‘I … I was travelling east when the locals set upon me.’

She grunted her understanding, sheathed the longsword. ‘They’re a murderous lot. We wrecked on the coast. Been travelling ever since. I understand there’re towns on the east coast. Civilization.’

‘We?’

‘Myself, my brother, and others. Now there’s only me and my brother.’ She whistled loudly and a head popped up from the tall grasses. She waved him in. The lad, about eight, came to stand shyly behind her. He wore a tattered shirt and trousers that might once have been very rich indeed, sewn of crushed velvet and fine leather.

He examined the tall woman more closely: thick auburn hair, pale, high cheekbones, slim but athletic build, an old scar across her right cheek from a blade. Her accent hinted of north Genabackis. ‘Who are you?’ he again asked in wonder.

She surprised him by studying him narrowly, as if wondering why he would ask such a question. Then she shrugged. ‘No one. Just stranded travellers.’

‘You do have a name?’

For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer, but she gestured to the lad. ‘Dorrin. I am Lyan.’

‘Kyle. You are of north Genabackis, yes?’

The young woman visibly flinched. She turned away, waved Dorrin off. ‘Get the gear.’

Once the boy had gone, she allowed, reluctantly, ‘Yes.’

He opened his arms to encompass the surrounding leagues of steppe. ‘May I ask what in the name of the jesting Twins are you doing here?’

She gave a snort of disgust. ‘Money, of course. Word came of gold in northern Assail. Rivers of it. We came to win our fortune. But,’ and she waved a hand, ‘fate had other plans for us. Damned ship’s master didn’t know the coast nearly as well as he claimed.’

‘No one does,’ Kyle remarked.

She nodded her agreement. ‘Forty of us made it to shore. Been fighting our way north ever since.’ Dorrin reappeared, dragging two packs. He dropped one before Lyan and shouldered the other.

‘Well, I’m headed east.’

She searched his face. ‘You would abandon us? Just like that? A woman and a child?’

He didn’t bother pointing out that she could probably cut him in half with her longsword. He glanced back to scan the western hills. ‘It’s best that I travel alone.’

‘Oh, I see. On the run and we would only slow you down. Is that it?’

‘No, it’s not … I’m being hunted.’

She eyed him up and down. ‘I can see that – you’re a right mess. But we’re being stalked as well.’

‘Trust me. It’s not quite the same.’

‘All trespassers are hunted down and killed here. There is only security in numbers. But go on …’ She waved him off. ‘I do not want any company I cannot rely upon.’ She started walking. Dorrin followed. The lad cast him a last wistful glance.

‘Well … where are you headed?’ he called.

She pointed a mailed arm to the north where foothills rose all alone like boulders from the surrounding steppes. ‘There may be water, and shelter.’

‘And then?’

She glanced over her shoulder, offered a mocking smile. ‘Then east … to this Sea of Gold.’

He pressed a hand to his forehead then hissed, yanking it from the swollen cut. Damn it to Hood’s own pit. Damned difficult woman! Could have just said … He cast one last glance to the west, then followed.

*

That evening they found a stream coming down out of the hills, and shelter in a cave. He watched the approach while she bedded the lad down. When she emerged, she wore only a long quilted gambeson, stained with sweat, and cut through in places from old sword-strokes. She glanced about in the twilight and frowned.

‘No fire?’

‘No.’

She grunted her understanding and returned to the cave to come out carrying her sword. She sat on a rock, unsheathed the weapon, and began working its edges.

‘A handsome weapon.’

‘Thank you. It was my father’s. I wish it had never come to me.’

‘You did not want it?’

She scowled as if this was an idiotic question. ‘My grandfather carried this weapon against the Malazans. As did my father.’ She took a heavy breath. ‘No. I prayed to the gods every day that it would never need to come to me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘As am I.’

‘Your family fought the Malazans in the north. Where? In the west? The east?’

It was obvious to Kyle from her hesitation that she was reluctant to discuss it. Yet she drew a breath and said, ‘The east coast. Taph.’

Kyle dredged through what he’d heard of the northern Genabackan campaigns. Taph, he believed, had been among the very last cities to fall to the Malazans. ‘Those eastern Free Cities hired the Crimson Guard. Did you see them?’

She blew out a long breath. ‘Togg’s teeth, man. I was a just a child. I met one. Blues was his name. He seemed kind. Why?’

He considered telling her that he’d been of the Crimson Guard but decided it best not to say anything. Given his present unimpressive condition she’d probably think him the worst liar she’d ever met. He shrugged. ‘Just curious. I’ve heard much of them.’

‘They’re fools.’

He raised his brows. ‘Oh?’

‘You can’t defeat an empire. It’s just too damned huge.’

‘Then what have your family been doing all these years?’

She ran her sharpening stone down the blade’s length. ‘Only thing you can do when facing such a giant beast. Make your own little patch of ground too much trouble to bother with and it’ll just lumber on and swallow someone else.’

He thought about that. Sound, he supposed. Provided everything you cared for hadn’t been swallowed yet. He realized, with a small start, that once more he’d taken hold of the amber stone hanging about his neck and was rubbing it between finger and thumb as he considered his options. He let his hand fall.

A call sounded then from the dark and he stilled, listening. Lyan also froze, her hand poised above her weapon. It called again. Neither beast nor bird. It was a girl’s voice in a rising and falling song, taunting from the night: ‘White … blade …’ it beckoned, ‘white … blade …’

His gaze went to Lyan. She closed her hand on the grip of her weapon. He signed a negative, shot his gaze to the cave. She nodded and began backing away to the cave mouth. He went out to meet the challenger.

She stood plainly lit in the open among the monochrome grasses under the moon’s watery silver light. He pushed his way to her through the knee-high stiff blades, thinking; Ruthen’el must have lasted far longer than he’d imagined. Long enough to talk to whoever it was who had found him.

When he was close enough, he shouted: ‘Listen, whatever your name is – just turn around and head home. I’m tired of this. I don’t want to kill—’

Something crashed into his head from the side and the next thing he knew he was staring up, blinking, at two faces peering down at him. What was strange was that the faces were practically identical. He wondered whether he was seeing double.

‘We could’ve killed you,’ one girl said.

‘But we want you alive,’ said the other.

‘For the moment,’ finished the first.

Kyle felt his head; his fingers came away wet dark and wet. A birding arrow, or a sling stone. He felt for his weapons, but they were all gone. One of the girls, he saw, carried the sheathed sword.

‘We want you to take our names with you,’ the second said, ‘so that you can tell our forefathers and foremothers who killed you.’ She pointed to herself: ‘I am Neese.’

‘And I am Niala,’ said the one holding his blade. ‘You killed our cousin and our uncle.’

‘Ruthen’el will be ashamed to hear you avenged him with an ambush,’ Kyle croaked.

‘You killed all the ones with honour,’ Neese said. ‘We decided to win instead. Isn’t that so, Niala?’

‘It is so, Neese.’

Niala hefted the blade. ‘So this is it … We have heard the stories. I will use this to cut you to pieces. Then it will rest among our clan heirlooms as proof of our power.’ She took hold of the sheath to draw it.

‘Careful with that,’ Kyle warned. ‘You have to know how …’

Sneering, Niala yanked – and the blade slid through the leather and wood of the sheath taking her fingers with it. She stared at the streaming bloody stumps of her four fingers then screamed, dropping the blade to clench her hand.

Kyle lashed out with his foot, catching Neese in the knee as she leaned to take the weapon. She fell. He threw himself on her and they wrestled for the blade. Something crashed against Kyle’s head. Once more stars burst in his vision: it was Niala, standing over him, her crippled hand gripped in the other.

‘Bastard,’ she hissed, and drew back her foot for another kick.

A war-cry froze her for an instant. Something silver blurred the air over her shoulders and her head toppled from her neck. Blood jetted. Neese screamed. Lyan lunged, turning the blade, and impaled the other sister to the ground through her chest. Kyle climbed awkwardly to his feet.

‘Couldn’t take two damned girls?’ Lyan said.

‘I was on top of things.’

‘They were all over you.’

‘I didn’t want to kill them.’

‘Bullshit.’

A wet cough brought their attention to Neese. She’d turned her head to where the blade lay in the grasses. It glowed with a gold-tinged light, like coming dawn when the moon is still high. ‘We thought …’ she breathed, ‘just stories …’

Kyle limped to the blade, took it up. He raised his gaze to meet Lyan’s staring, wide eyes. Grimacing, he picked up the sheath and hid the blade within, holding it edge down. He wrapped it in a leather belt. ‘Can’t leave them here,’ he said.

‘There’s a pit over there.’

He nodded. ‘I will head east tomorrow.’

Lyan hesitated, cleaned her blade on Neese’s leathers, then bent her head in assent. ‘We will go east tomorrow.’

‘You’re better off—’

‘We’re better off together,’ she cut in, firm.

Kyle chose not to argue the point. There was no way he could stop them from following him if they would. And he was grateful, though twice as worried now. There was no way he would see them killed because of him. He studied the bodies. ‘We should take their gear.’

They journeyed east for three days without catching sight of another human being. On the third day Kyle found his attention wandering to his travelling companions. Dorrin kept up as they jogged through the days until loosing their breath, walked for a time to recover, then set off once more. Kyle had shouldered the other pack and so the lad ran unencumbered. Kyle hoped this was the main reason Dorrin could keep up. Not that he was getting old.

The boy also did exactly as Lyan told him. All without complaint, or face-making, or rebellion, and this struck Kyle as unlike any brother-sister relationship he’d ever heard of. He wondered whether they were in fact mother and son. But nothing in their manner reflected that: he saw no gestures of affection from either, no hugs or touches. Their behaviour to one another was in fact very formal, almost businesslike.

This drove him to say to her, as they walked along, and Dorrin was distant for the moment: ‘You are not brother and sister, are you?’

Lyan bristled at first, taking breath to mount a strong objection. But she seemed to reconsider and subsided, shaking her head. ‘No. We are not related.’

‘Yet you are more than just chance survivors. You have been together for some time.’

‘Yes.’

He simply waited, walking in silence until she sighed and waved as if capitulating. ‘I am his guard. The last of his bodyguard.’

Kyle peered over at the blond-haired lad where he walked, his shirt dark with sweat, swishing a stick through the tall grasses as he went. ‘He is of noble blood?’

‘Yes.’

‘From north Genabackis?’

Again the woman paused, reluctant to continue. Kyle just shrugged. ‘I am from the south of these lands. Bael, it is sometimes called. I haven’t even been to Genabackis.’

Lyan sighed again, accepting this. ‘Well – you have heard that the fighting in the north-east of the continent was far more savage than the west?’ Kyle nodded; he had heard. ‘There were … powers there,’ she continued, ‘that the Malazans only overcame with great difficulty.’

‘Caladan Brood commanded the Free City armies of the north.’

‘That was later,’ she said. ‘There was no alliance of “Free Cities” before the Malazans arrived. Only competing city-states and personalities. One of the most powerful cities was Anklos. Its ruling family – the Batarius family – was the one that originally hired Caladan. They were the ancestral rulers of Anklos until the Malazans forced them out and they fled into exile.’

Kyle felt his brows rising higher and higher. ‘Are you saying that Dorrin …’

Lyan jerked her head in assent. ‘With the death of his father he is now king in exile, rightful ruler of Anklos.’

‘Then … may I ask – why here? Why in the name of the Sky-King are you here?’

Lyan gave a long troubled breath. ‘I advised against it. But his father insisted. You see, word had come of gold in Assail. Rivers of gold.’ She eyed him sidelong. ‘Do you have any idea how much gold it takes to mount a rebellion? To build an army? A very great amount indeed.’

Now Kyle was even more troubled. He walked in silence for a time, frowning. ‘And why are you telling me all this?’

‘Because,’ and her gaze was constant upon him now, ‘I have also heard songs of the Malazan campaign in Fist. Of its leader, Greymane, Stonewielder … and of his companion, now known as Whiteblade. Who, I have also heard, abandoned the Malazans with the death of Greymane, his friend. Such a champion would have no use for the empire that used his friend so cruelly, I imagine.’

He lowered his gaze. ‘I walked away from all that. I have no intention of returning.’

‘You will do what you must. In the meantime one can at least keep watch while the other sleeps.’

He gave a stiff nod of acceptance. ‘At the very least.’

Towards the end of the afternoon, as the light darkened to a deep amber, he raised a hand in a halt. Lyan, who had been walking with Dorrin, jogged to him.

‘What is it?’

‘I smell smoke – and worse.’

Her gaze went to Dorrin, who crouched now in cover, as he’d been instructed. ‘I see.’

‘Should I scout ahead?’

She shook a negative. ‘Let us keep together.’

‘Very well.’

They advanced warily. Lyan hovered close to Dorrin, sword out. Kyle scanned the hillsides. In time, he spotted the source: a long patch of flattened and disturbed grass stretching between hills. They passed outliers of the attack: a burst wooden chest, spilled trampled clothes. A child’s rag doll. The smouldering remains of a two-wheeled ox cart. Staked out amid the wreckage lay bodies, and seeing this, Lyan steered Dorrin aside. Kyle approached.

They had been left alive but had had their skin flayed from their bodies. Eyes gouged out, hands hacked off. Incredibly, two still breathed. Kyle crouched next to one: a thing that might have once been an old man. ‘Can you hear me, oldster?’

The head moved as if its owner were searching for the source of the voice. Kyle allowed a few drops of water to fall on to the man’s split and mangled lips. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Alana?’ the oldster whispered hoarsely. ‘Little Gerrol? Reena?’

Kyle had seen no remains of women or children. He did not wonder as to their fate: the clans here were similar enough to his own. Children adopted into the clan; women of childbearing years taken to replenish their numbers.

‘Taken,’ he said.

The man’s head fell back. He moaned long and low – a sort of keening.

‘Old man …’ The fellow did not answer. He now seemed oblivious, lost in his pain. Kyle glanced to the surrounding hillsides: had the clans left scouts? Had they eyes on the remains?

‘Old man!’ The head shifted once more, blindly searching. ‘Why are you here? Why are you trespassing?’

‘For the gold. We came north. Trains of travellers. Heading north … for the gold …’

Kyle straightened. The fools. As if the various clans of the Silent People would allow them to cross their lands. He jogged to where Lyan waited, her hands on Dorrin’s shoulders.

‘Trains of wagons travelling north,’ he explained. ‘It’s a rush to collect this gold of yours.’

She squinted to the south, appalled. ‘The clans are slaughtering them all.’

‘Yes.’ He examined Dorrin, who peered up at him, quite direct in his gaze. ‘You have a weapon?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know how to use it?’

‘The Shieldmaiden is training me.’

He raised his gaze. Well, it seems he was not the only one with secrets. One of the legendary shieldmaidens of north Genabackis. Her lips remained tight and her eyes wary as her thick auburn hair blew about her. ‘Well, lad, here’s another one.’ He handed over one of his extra hatchets. To Lyan he said: ‘We’d best get going.’

She gave a curt nod of agreement.

Two days later the wind again brought hints of smoke. Lyan had the lad kneel in the grass and keep watch as she and Kyle advanced up a hillside. From this rise they could see another hilltop, this one fortified and occupied. Kyle counted more than thirty swords.

‘We should go round,’ he said.

‘Yes, we should. But … who are they?’

‘I should warn them.’

‘Warn them? Warn them about what?’

He handed her his weapons, water, and gear. ‘Take these. Hunker down. If I’m taken, just go on without me.’

Lyan stared, uncomprehending. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to talk to them.’ Hunched, he edged down the hillside.

‘Don’t be some kind of fool hero!’ she hissed after him.

This gave him pause. It reminded him of Ruthen’el’s words. But he wasn’t trying to be a hero; he was just trying to do these people a favour.

When he got close enough, he shouted, ‘You there! On the hilltop! Let me speak to your commander.’

The men and women guarding the perimeter of heaped wrecked carts and baggage all sprang to their feet. They scanned the hillsides, readied crossbows.

After a moment a gruff voice called out: ‘Yes? What is it? Show yourself.’

‘You can’t stay here,’ Kyle shouted. ‘You have to keep moving.’

‘Show yourself! Are you one of them?’

Damned fools. Couldn’t they tell he couldn’t possibly … oh, fine! He stood. The guards pointed. A man climbed the barricade: a fat fellow, in leather armour.

‘I see you there. So, a traveller like as ourselves.’ He waved Kyle up. ‘Very well, come. Join us.’

‘No. You’re in a death trap. Your only hope is to keep moving.’

The commander appeared taken aback for an instant, then he gave a great belly laugh. ‘We’re holding them off!’ He glanced about to his people. ‘Isn’t that so?’

Kyle resisted raising his hand to press it to his forehead. Blind idiot. ‘Listen – they’re coming in twos and threes, yes?’

The man frowned, losing patience. ‘Yes? What of it?’

‘They’re just using you. They’re sending their least experienced warriors to blood them. You don’t understand: it’s like a game to them. They’ve got you right where they want you.’

The fellow was scowling now, rubbing his bearded jaw. ‘Wait a moment … it’s you, isn’t it? You’re the one they’re after. You caused all this!’

Kyle raised a hand for a pause. ‘Now wait! I didn’t cause any of this …’

‘Kill him!’ the commander ordered. ‘Fire!’

Bows and crossbows thrummed. Kyle dived for cover. Bolts and arrows hissed through the grasses about him. ‘Get out there,’ the fellow bellowed. ‘Get his sword! It’s worth a fortune!’

Kyle ran hunched almost double, straight south. Bolts and arrows continued to punish the grass about him, but luckily none struck. One did slash his arm. He ran on until he judged it long enough, then cut due east. He kept glancing back to look for any pursuit but saw none. It appeared these men and women were unwilling to travel too far from the security of their redoubt.

Their voluntary burial ground, as far as he was concerned.

He jogged east until twilight came. Only then did he start to worry; he hadn’t really organized a firm rendezvous with Lyan. What if he’d lost her too? He assumed she’d been watching. Wouldn’t she have started east, knowing that this was his chosen direction?

He walked now in the open, scanned the gently rolling steppe lands as he went. It was getting cold as night gathered. Then a light flashed on a distant hillside. He raised a hand to shield his vision. It came again from north of him, flashing and flickering on and off. A signal? He set out jogging in that direction.

He came to a long winding hillock, not too tall, but broad with steep sides. A figure rose from the deep shadows there and descended towards him. He went to meet it.

It was Lyan. She held out his weapons and gear. He took it all and re-girt himself. Dorrin rose from cover nearby and came dragging the two heavy packs.

‘So,’ Lyan said. ‘That went well.’

Kyle just made a face.

‘Your diplomacy skills at work again, I see.’

He merely gestured, inviting her eastwards.

‘Making friends all over the region.’

He let out a long breath. ‘Try to help someone and what do you get?’

‘No good deed goes unpunished.’

‘No indeed.’

‘Now what?’ she asked. ‘Just going to leave them to be ground down?’

‘They deserve it. I recognized them. Slavers out of the south. A city named Kurzan. I have a particular dislike of slavers.’

‘Slavers! In truth? Then they do deserve it.’

He took a pack from Dorrin. ‘Thanks, lad. You’re doing just fine, you know?

‘Thank you, sir.’

Kyle laughed. ‘Sir? You don’t have to call me sir.’

‘Oh, but I should,’ the lad returned quite seriously. ‘All champions should be called sir. As a sign of respect.’

Kyle’s gaze snapped to Lyan, who looked away as if disinterested, but he thought her face a touch flushed.

‘Who says I am a champion?’ he said, still gazing over the lad to Lyan.

‘Oh, I’ve heard the stories too,’ Dorrin continued, unaware. ‘From my tutors. They said that Whiteblade cut through a ship’s chain a thick about as a man’s thigh.’

‘A wrist, perhaps,’ Kyle conceded.

‘That the sword Whiteblade cut a goddess that none other could touch.’

‘That is true.’

Lyan seemed to flinch at that, reddening even more.

‘They said Stonewielder broke the Shieldwall – though many in Fist claim it was just an earthquake.’

‘It was he,’ Kyle said, his voice hoarse and faint, and he looked away to scan the hillsides.

Lyan cleared her throat. ‘That’s enough, Dorrin.’ Then, to Kyle: ‘This sea to the east … it is the Sea of Gold, yes?’

He shook his head. ‘No. It is another. It has many names. My people called it the Sea of Terrors. Everyone knows it is cursed. We will not go near it.’

‘Then … what is our route?’

‘North, skirting its shore.’

‘Then … we remain within the Silent People’s territory?’

‘No. I understand their territory ends just to the north.’

‘And who is next? What murderous clans?’

Kyle did not answer immediately; he shaded his gaze to the west, squinted into the sunset, glanced away. ‘We’ll need to find a camp soon.’

‘What tribes?’ Lyan continued stubbornly.

His gaze lowered, he drew his hatchets, tested their edges with his thumbs, hooked them back into his belt. ‘There are stories,’ he began slowly. ‘Only stories. The further north we go the less I know of things.’ He took a steadying breath. ‘The Silent People’s territory ends north of here because they are afraid of those lands. As were my people.’

‘Who lives there?’

He cast her a quick bleak smile. ‘No one knows. We call it the Vanishing Lands. That is because those who venture there are never seen again. None have ever returned.’

Lyan halted. ‘And we are walking into it? You would … I would take Dorrin to such a terrible place? I would rather take my chances with this sea.’

Kyle halted as well. ‘Believe me, you would not. I know more of this sea than the north – that is why I would avoid it.’

‘There will be ships! Surely one will be headed south, away from these dreadful lands.’

‘There is only death on that sea. All agree it is cursed with madness.’

‘A few days on a ship will see us free of here!’

Kyle raised his eyes to the darkening cloudless dome of the sky. ‘There will be no ships coming south out of the Sea of Terrors.’

Lyan dropped her pack and waved a dismissal. ‘How do you know? Have you seen this? Countless ships are entering it now. Heading north even as we speak! Yes? Do you deny that?’

‘No, I do not deny that.’

‘Then why are you even arguing? They will come south again.’

Dorrin came and stood between them; he looked from Lyan to Kyle.

Kyle shook his head. ‘None of them will ever return.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, come now. Listen to yourself: “None will ever return.” Some will.’

He drew a sharp breath.

Dorrin announced loudly, ‘We need to camp. It’s late.’

Kyle clamped his jaws shut. Lyan glanced away. She clenched and unclenched her gauntleted hands.

Dorrin headed for the nearest hilltop. Kyle watched him go. After a time, he murmured ruefully, ‘Wise beyond his years.’

Lyan hitched up her pack and followed. ‘I’m glad one of us is.’

*

There was little talking the next morning. Kyle walked ahead and apart. He thought through yesterday’s conversation. How close could they get to the sea? And what of water? They were in desperate need. Yet the narrows could sometimes reverse their flow and seawater would wash into the basin. It was unhealthy to drink much of it, although some claimed it was the water itself – run-off from the great icefields and snows of the north – that carried the curse.

They passed the scene of an old attack: grass grew through the spokes of burnt cartwheels; tiny scavengers had gnawed the leather of scattered rusted equipment. A skull half bare of flesh grinned from the dusty dry earth. Its hair was long and black. Kyle scuffed dirt over it before Dorrin arrived.

Later, he and Lyan walked together. He cleared his throat. ‘We do need water …’ he began.

‘But as you say – if it is too dangerous …’ she answered. ‘And you should know. You’re the local. I should defer. I’m sorry … command is a hard habit to break.’

He laughed. ‘Yes it is. And I am sorry. I swear that if I see any ship headed south I will personally swim out and shake the captain’s hand.’

Lyan was quiet for a time, then she peered sideways at him, her brows raised. ‘You can swim?’

They walked east for four more days. The grasses grew taller here, and greener. Copses of brush and short trees occupied the depressions. Kyle sought out each hoping to find a pool or a soak. So far he had found none.

He did his best to maintain a watch for possible challengers but it was harder and harder to maintain the necessary heightened awareness and readiness. He felt that they were being watched; yet now these Silent warriors were keeping their distance. It was exhausting, and he was feeling the weakness and drain of lack of water. Dorrin hadn’t realized it yet, but he was now the only one drinking.

Kyle could sometimes feel moisture on his face in the breeze out of the east. White birds flew in the eastern sky. He stopped walking and gestured to the rolling horizon. ‘The sea is close. Just beyond those rises, perhaps. Some call this the Shore of Fear, or Anguish Coast.’

‘Pleasant names you lot have here.’

He grinned. ‘They are meant to keep people away.’

‘They don’t seem to be working.’

He nodded. ‘Unfortunately, they just seem to have piqued everyone’s interest.’

‘We turn north?’

He nodded again, wearily, already tired. ‘Yes. I wonder if we should start moving at night now.’

‘Dangerous. I’ve seen predators watching our camp at night. Jackals and spotted cats.’

‘Yes.’ He drew a sleeve across his brow, let the arm fall. ‘Perhaps I should head to the top of those hills. Have a look.’

‘We’ll all go.’

He eyed her; she still wore her heavy mail coat. Sweat ran in rivulets down her temples and her hair lay pressed and matted to her skull. Her eyes were sunken and dark. He nodded heavily. ‘Very well.’

The slope was gentle; in fact, it was hard to tell that they had reached a hilltop so lightly did the land rise and fall. He stopped, shaded his gaze in the harsh noon light. Between hills he could just make out the iron-grey shimmer of the sea. He raised his chin to Lyan. ‘There it is.’

She lifted her hand to her brow. ‘Looks harmless. We could reach it by the end of the day.’

‘Yes.’

‘But we won’t. So … what?’

He gestured north. ‘There are a few streams that run to the sea. We should come across one eventually.’

‘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.’

‘Yes, ma’am. You really are a shieldmaiden. Where is your shield anyway?’

‘Lost it in the shipwreck.’

‘Have to get you another.’ And he walked away, swinging his arms to loosen them and kicking at the dry dusty earth.

The Silent People’s warrior, Willow, stepped forward. He drew two fighting knives. Kyle was surprised to see that both blades were of chipped black stone, obsidian. The warrior saw him eyeing the blades and held them up. ‘You have set aside your white blade, and so will I face you in the old way, with the traditional weapons.’

So the man hadn’t been seeking his own advantage when he demanded that Kyle set aside his sword. He’d given up quite a lot in choosing those brittle blades. A solid blow from his hatchet should shatter one. But then, even a fragment from such a weapon would be deadly sharp.

The warrior twisted the blades before him as he circled. Sometimes he reversed them, spinning and jumping. Kyle saw that the grips were wound in leather. As they circled, he glimpsed Lyan standing aside, Dorrin before her, her hands on his shoulders. She wore her sword.

‘Do you know why I challenged you, Son of the Wind?’ Willow called.

‘No.’

‘Because when I defeat you I will take your place in the Quest. I will stand before our ancestors and it will be my name they will know.’

‘Then you are a fool,’ Kyle answered simply. He put all the tired contempt he could muster into the observation.

The man jerked, stunned, then snarled and charged in. The charge was a feint as the man slid aside at the last moment, slashing, but Kyle was prepared, as he had learned the hard way from Ruthen’el – these people were deadly knife-fighters. The deadliest he’d ever faced. But he had been taught by the best as well, by veterans of the Crimson Guard, and by Greymane himself. Grey had been a legendary brawler. ‘Just win,’ his friend had always berated him. ‘Never mind the fancy shit – just win.’

Kyle parried and countered lazily, disguising his own speed. Willow returned to circling.

And so the duel slid into a pattern. The two circling, darting in to test one another, sometimes counter-attacking, sometimes feinting a move, always watching their opponent’s reactions, searching for openings.

Twilight thickened. Their shuffling feet raised clouds of dust that wafted heavily off to the east. The man was quick, Kyle realized. Probably faster than him. Yet he seemed to be losing patience. Most of his duels must have been long over before this. Even weakened, Kyle believed he could probably outlast him. And so he pulled back, circling more, parrying, holding himself loose and relaxed, conserving his energy. Just win, Greymane’s words returned. The only ugly fight is the one you lose.

Willow streamed with sweat now, his arms quivering with suspended energy. He glared, enraged. ‘You are frightened, yes?’ he taunted. ‘You would run away if you could.’

Kyle decided that silence would frustrate the man further and so he didn’t answer.

Willow darted in with breathtaking speed, weapons reversed, slashing low. Kyle slid backwards, parrying. He managed to kick one knee, bringing Willow to the ground, and came down hard with one hatchet, but the man rolled aside. A flame of pain erupted across Kyle’s shoulder.

Sharp! A voice screamed in Kyle’s mind. So sharp! Already a warm wetness was spreading down his back. From behind he heard a suppressed gasp from Dorrin.

Not even thinking consciously through the mist of pain, he allowed the left arm to hang loose. He circled, even warier.

Willow was panting, sheathed in sweat, but grinning now. He nodded to himself. Kyle kept his right side to him, hatchet extended. The warrior darted in, batted the hatchet aside; Kyle shifted backwards without bringing his left arm up. Willow slashed with both weapons but chose not press the attack, easing back instead, watching. It looked to Kyle as though the man was ready to let him bleed out.

He loosened his left hand and let the hatchet fall free to thump into the dust.

Willow suddenly changed direction, hunched, weaving the obsidian blades before him. Kyle followed, shuffling slowly. He still had his reserves and he meant to expend them all in one burst.

The warrior’s feet shifted, his weight easing forward. He held one blade high, the other low. Kyle knew the danger lay with the raised blade. He faked his own falling back, as he had done so often already. Willow lunged in, the high blade ready to dart for neck or chest.

Kyle reached behind to his belt with his left hand to pull free a knife and snap throw from his waist all in one motion. The Silent warrior was so fast he managed to shift so that the blade only grazed his side. But in that moment of distraction Kyle swung his hatchet up and the raised obsidian blade exploded in a burst of fragments. The low blade thrust for him but Kyle deflected it with his left forearm.

Willow stabbed Kyle’s side with the remains of the shattered blade still gripped in his hand even as Kyle brought his hatchet up between them to thrust the killing spike up behind the man’s jaws, piercing his palate and entering his brain.

They stood locked together. Held in each other’s arms. A moment that seemed frozen to Kyle. Long enough to watch the man’s gaze fade from bewilderment to unfocused emptiness. Still, they held one another’s arms. Then Willow slid down to slump to the ground. Kyle stood panting, his blood roaring so loud in his ears as to drown out all other sounds, his vision blurry with lancing agony. Hands took him, arms, and he relaxed into them.

He awoke to glaring sunlight and he winced, hissing in pain. ‘It’s all right,’ Lyan said from nearby. A shadow occluded the glaring light; a hand pressed his chest. ‘We’re safe. We have food and water. Thirsty?’

He nodded. Turning his head he could just make out that his torso was wrapped, as was his shoulder. Lyan held the spout of a waterskin to his lips, gently squeezed the skin. He drank.

‘What happened?’

‘You won. Barely. It was stupid, but impressive. He was fast, that one. Damned fast. You have all the time you need to recover. We’re guests of the Silent People now.’

‘I see. Well, if you don’t mind I’ll pass out again.’

‘Go ahead.’

It was night when he opened his eyes once more. He tried to rise and failed when agony shot up his side. He relaxed back on to the blankets. In the morning Lyan spooned him a mush of boiled vegetables and grains. ‘I need to get up,’ he told her.

‘Why?’

‘I need to … you know.’

Her brows rose. ‘Ah. You shouldn’t, really. But … all right.’ She took hold of him under the arms and gently lifted him so that he could draw his legs beneath himself. He snarled and hissed in suppressed pain but managed to stand. ‘Help me walk a bit.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve nursed a lot of men – no need for shyness.’

‘Humour me.’

Tsking, she took his weight so that he could limp off a few steps.

‘Good,’ he said, his voice taut. ‘Thank you.’

‘Fine. Call if you fall down.’ She walked away.

‘I most certainly will.’ He unlaced the front of his pants and eased his bladder. How embarrassing that when you were wounded you couldn’t even get up to see to the most basic of things. He resolved not to be wounded again.

Slowly, very slowly, he tottered back to camp. Lyan came and took his arm. ‘I should lie down,’ he gasped. He’d broken into a cold sweat. She eased him back down.

‘I will call for their healers,’ he heard her say as through a roaring waterfall.

When he next awoke he felt much better. The stabbing pain was gone from his side. It was late afternoon. Dorrin dozed in the shade nearby. ‘Hey, lad. How are you?’

Dorrin jerked awake, sat up. ‘I’ll get Lyan.’ And he ran off.

After a moment Lyan jogged up, wearing only a sweat-soaked shift and trousers, her sheathed sword in one hand. ‘You are awake.’

‘Yes. What happened?’

Her face grew serious. ‘A needle of obsidian was left behind in your side. It was digging in, slicing you up. They found it and drew it out. The old lady used her teeth for that, by the way.’

‘I’ll have to thank her.’

‘Better?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ She cleared her throat, then motioned to his throat. ‘That necklace you wear. A remembrance, perhaps? From a girl?’

He raised a hand to touch the smooth amber stone at his neck. ‘From a friend. He was of the Thel Akai. An ancient race. Giants, some name them. You have heard of them?’

‘You mean a Toblakai? We know them in the north.’

‘Related.’

‘Ah.’

‘What were you doing?’

Lyan peered down at herself, jerked. ‘Oh, yes. Practising.’

He nodded. ‘Good.’ He thought the view from down here looking up at her was wonderful and she seemed to see something of this in his expression.

She gave him a sour face. ‘Rest. I’m not done.’ She walked off.

He eased back, then frowned; he smelled something disagreeable. He realized it was him: he smelled to the heights of stale sweat and urine – and worse. He must have had a touch of fever. Of course: Lyan’s taking care of me and I stink like a pig.

Yet he was too weak to get up to wash himself. For now. He shut his eyes. Great Wind he was hungry.

At dawn the next morning he decided to try to get up. With Lyan’s help, he managed. She’d fashioned a kind of crutch from one of the poles of the travois and with this he hobbled off into the tallest grasses to squat for his toilet. This took a great deal of time, and by time he’d managed to straighten he was sheathed in sweat from the effort of bending down. But he was standing. He hobbled back to camp.

That day he limped about, regathering his strength. In the afternoon Dorrin came running up, pointing to the south. ‘Look! Look what’s coming!’

Kyle squinted, shading his gaze. Up a slight valley between two gentle rises came one of the Silent People leading three horses. Kyle stared, amazed. Gods. Horses! Rare as pearls on this continent. Where’d they come from? What were the Silent People doing with them?

The one leading the horses was the old man from the challenge. He nodded to Kyle. ‘You are recovered.’

‘Getting better.’

‘Good.’ He gestured proudly back to the horses. ‘You can ride, can you?’

‘Yes.’ He looked to Dorrin. The lad nodded vigorous assent. ‘Yes we can.’

‘Good. We Silent People do not. These are yours, then.’

‘Ah, may I ask … how did these come into your possession?’

The old man was untroubled by the question. ‘Foreigners bring them from their houses that float. They land them and try to ride through our lands – but they still do not escape our blades.’

Kyle blew out a breath. ‘I see. Well … we thank you for the gifts. They will aid us greatly.’

‘Very good. Fare well, then. Remember us to the ancients. Prove your worth and bring honour to us all.’

Kyle inclined his head. ‘I will try. Fare well.’

The old man walked away. Lyan already had a hand on the neck of the biggest of the three, a broad roan. ‘That one’s mine,’ Kyle called.

‘No she ain’t. I’m heavier than you in my armour, so she’s mine.’

Kyle just shook his head. He wasn’t about to argue with her over that subject.