Assail (23 page)

This drew Burl up short. The blade quivered as he shook. ‘Dreaming? Dreaming of what?’

‘Of dread.’

Now he was certain the man was mad. He’d harboured an insane murderer. Against all the crew’s exhortations, he’d sheltered the man. What a fool he’d been. He probably deserved to die far more than they. He clenched the shortsword in both hands but still it shuddered. ‘Why?’ he managed, his throat almost choked off, so dry was it.

‘Why?’ Whellen echoed, thoughtful, his gaze still narrowed upon the iron-grey waters. Then that gaze shifted to Burl and in it he read only the grief that bowed the man’s shoulders. He appeared sorrowful beyond tears. ‘You think I did all this,’ he murmured, and gestured to indicate the ship.

‘Who else?’

‘Not you then?’ he asked, and a sort of weak smile plucked at his lips, as if acknowledging a poor joke.

Burl swallowed his terror and redoubled his sweaty grip upon the blade. ‘What kind of lunacy is that? Listen to yourself.’

‘I mean, are you certain the crew is gone? Perhaps it is just you who is gone.’

‘What?’ Burl didn’t want to listen to any of this craziness, but he could not bring himself to run him through in cold blood. Perhaps it hadn’t been him after all. ‘What do you mean, man? Speak sense, damn you to the Enchantress! I mean it … or I’ll kill you!’

‘I mean that there have been no murders here. No one has killed anyone.’

‘Bullshit! What happened to everyone, then?’

The first mate raised his open hands and examined them. ‘It’s this place, Burl. It’s where we are.’ He gestured to the waters, the sky. ‘We don’t belong here. It’s not for us. That’s what everyone’s been feeling. As if an enemy has been stalking every one of us. But that enemy is just our own fears.’

Burl almost thrust his blade through him for concocting such a preposterous story, no doubt to squirm out of his guilt. Yet somehow he wasn’t entirely convinced that this man was the murderer. Hadn’t he lain ill or in a faint all this time? Or had he been duped somehow? Perhaps he had an accomplice … and Burl snatched a quick glance behind. Seeing nothing, he wet his lips and muttered a weak, ‘I don’t believe you.’

Whellen nodded his understanding, or acceptance. ‘There is no way I can convince you, is there?’ he murmured softly, as if he were speaking to himself. He shrugged to drop the blanket from his shoulders. ‘Except perhaps this way.’

‘What?’ Burl answered. But the man wasn’t listening. He merely gave Burl one more nod, as if in farewell, and leaned backwards. Burl lunged, snatching at him. ‘
No!
’ But all he touched were the man’s sandals as he slipped over the side to fall to the water below.

Burl leaned down, reaching, his hands empty.

The Sea of Dread was a particularly clear sea, and Whellen remained visible for some time as he sank, staring upwards, his face a pale oval, in no way panicked or desperate, only so very sad. Or regretful. As if all this were nothing more than an unfortunate accident of fate. Burl watched until the man’s outline disappeared into the murk of the depths. Then he threw himself away from the side as if it burned to the touch. He snatched up the sword and continued backing away until he reached the door to his cabin, then he quickly jumped within and slammed the door.

‘Now we’ll know for certain,’ he whispered, fierce, as he readied the chair and sat once more, sword across his lap.

‘Now we’ll know!’ he shouted at the door and whatever
things
were gathering beyond. ‘If no one comes – we’ll know!’

He wet his lips, clenched and unclenched his hot grip on the weapon. ‘Come on!’ he screamed at the door. ‘Come on!’

He listened, but all he heard was his own hoarse breathing. He took one clumsy hacking swing at the door, croaked, ‘Come on!’ He listened again while he held his breath. Something was there. He was certain of it. Why wouldn’t it come? Why this agony of waiting? Won’t it just end it?

After a time he could no longer hold his chest tight and his shoulders sank. His face was chilled by tears. ‘Come on,’ he moaned, utterly exhausted by the waiting.

Gods, man – won’t you just end it?

* * *

They crossed the West Whitewater on the second day of climbing. It ran steep and swift out of the high valley. Orman’s breath caught as he stepped ever deeper into its icy course. He carefully picked his way between submerged boulders while the torrent surged as high as his waist. The charging water pulled at his legs and he relied upon Boarstooth to keep his footing.

Ahead, Old Bear seemed to have merely leaned into the course and bulled his way across. His ragged bear cloak had danced and whipped atop the waves as the stream appeared to be attempting to yank it from him. He climbed the opposite bank, guffawing, slapping at his sodden leathers, and Orman could actually hear his great booming laughter over the roar of the mountain stream. The Reddin brothers followed, while Gerrun brought up the rear.

They climbed steadily, half the time descending steep rocky ridges as the Old Bear’s path took them from one high valley to a higher, until it seemed to Orman as if the snowcapped peaks of the Salt range loomed directly over his head. Legendary birthplace of the Icebloods themselves. What the old legends named Joggenhome. They were now long past the point where the ghosts first came to him as a boy, and this time he saw them too: grey translucent figures in the distance, watching from among the trees and rocks. Many held spears, some shields. Some wore helmets and mail coats, others only leathers and ragged cloaks. He would have remarked upon them but for seeing the others ignore them – and so he chose to as well.

On the third evening they ate a stew of rabbit and roots and berries that the Reddin brothers had collected. One of the brothers cooked it in a smallish iron pot over a fire, and they served it out in wooden bowls. Orman’s bowl warmed his hands in a very welcome manner. The other brother tossed over flatbreads, like cakes, that they’d baked overnight in the ashes of yesterday’s fire.

Old Bear sat in the glow of the fire, hugging his spear. His ruddy lined face seemed to glow like heated metal in the dancing light.

From what Orman could remember of his father’s tales, they were currently in lands claimed by either the Sayer clan or the Bain clan. ‘Which Hold is this?’ he asked Old Bear.

The man’s single dark eye shifted to him. He nodded at the appropriateness of the question. ‘We are in Sayer Hold.’ He gestured north-east with his crust of bread. ‘Next valley over lies within Bain Holdings. Further east climbs the Lost Hold, though I’ve never met a Lost. They say they’ve hired many mercenaries to fight for them these last years. Must have a lot of gold, those Losts …’ Orman knew most of this already from his father, but he was quiet, taking it all in once more from the mouth of Old Bear himself – a figure out of legend he’d never imagined he’d meet again.

The old man shifted to point west. ‘The Heels. I have treated with the Heels and visited Heel Greathall. Beyond them lay the Myrni.’ He shook his hoary head. ‘Never met any of them.’

‘Will they challenge us?’ Orman couldn’t suppress a slight tremor of dread at the thought. He’d never been this high in the Holdings before. Retreat was no longer an option for any of them.

Old Bear circled a crust of bread in his bowl, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. At last he opined, ‘I have lent my spear to the Sayers now and then. We should be allowed passage.’

‘And the stream. Is it the Upper Clearwater?’

Old Bear’s gaze shifted to Gerrun across the fire where the little man sat with his booted feet stretched out close to the embers. ‘It is. The seam is high in the headwaters. Gold lies strewn down the water’s course where it falls from rapid to rapid. Is this not so, Shortshanks?’

The little man smiled thinly. ‘It is.’

‘Will we reach it soon?’

‘We are moving quickly. Another two days, I should think.’ The old man tilted his head to examine him with his one good eye. ‘You are keen to collect your gold, are you?’

Orman looked to the fire. ‘I will need money to travel. I cannot stay in the north.’

The old man nodded his assent. ‘That is true. You are now outlawed. Kinslayer. You have claimed Boarstooth. Your name will now be added to your father’s, and Jorgan Bain’s before him.’

Orman was not pleased by the man’s light tone. ‘You would mock me?’

Old Bear held up a hand. ‘Not at all, lad. I am merely repeating the tale that is no doubt making the rounds of the taverns even as we speak. Boarstooth has returned to the Holdings – a tale worth the telling.’

Orman could not be certain the man was entirely in earnest. He didn’t think any of this was worth telling at all. He picked up a branch and poked at the fire. ‘That was not what I wanted to happen.’

Old Bear produced an apple from within his cloak. He bit down loudly and chewed while he regarded the fire. ‘I know, lad,’ he said. ‘These things rarely go the way we want them to.’

The next day they traced a course up the valley. The way was stony, steep, and rough. A stream had once run here, but it had long since dried up or shifted course. They came to a pond no bigger than a stone’s throw across where pines grew thick and the air was heavy with their scent. Standing in the water, as if awaiting them, was a ghost.

Old Bear raised a hand, signalling a halt.

The Reddin brothers moved to either side of Orman so that the three of them formed a triangle, back to back. Of Gerrun, Orman saw no sign. Run off, the faithless bastard. Best that they found out this early, he supposed.

Old Bear approached the ghost alone. It was a woman. Tall and slim, her opaque form wavered slightly as if caught in an otherworldly wind. Orman wondered why she’d chosen to stand in the pond. She wore a thick cloak of some sort of animal hide clasped by a large round brooch, like a shield. Her hair was full and long and bunched like a mane itself. For some reason he imagined it must have been black.

The two spoke; or at least she spoke to him. She raised an arm to point to the east. Old Bear nodded and backed away. The woman’s form wavered and disappeared.

‘There is a trespasser,’ the old man announced, returning to them. ‘From the east.’

‘A trespasser?’ Orman repeated. ‘What is that to us?’

Old Bear studied him. ‘The Sayers will allow us to cross here, but not for free. This is their price. We must … look into things for them. Do you refuse? Would you turn back?’

Orman looked to the Reddin brothers; they too studied him, but not narrowly, not frowning. Merely coolly evaluative. He shrugged his indifference. ‘No.’

‘Very well. Let us go greet our visitor.’ Old Bear gestured with his spear that they should spread out and head east across the valley towards the ridge.

‘What of Gerrun?’ Orman asked the nearer of the Reddin brothers – he still didn’t know which was which. This one waved vaguely southwards before continuing on, unconcerned.

Orman hefted Boarstooth. Fine. I can play that game as well. Though he had many more questions, such as what were they to do with the trespasser should they find him or her? He pushed his way through the tall grasses and brush in silence.

Ahead, the woods thickened in a mixed forest of pine, aspen and cedar that climbed the valley’s slope. A voice called from the trees. ‘Greetings! I have come to talk! Is that a senile old bear I see with you?’ Orman halted, crouching for cover.

To one side Old Bear stepped out from dense brush and cocked his head to examine the woods. He shouted back: ‘Is that a young cub come to receive yet another lesson?’

A figure emerged, tall and lanky, and loped down from among the trunks. Orman had the impression of the relaxed bounding of a wolf. The fellow closed on them, his grin exposing prominent teeth in a long jaw. Kinked brown hair blew about his head. He wore leathers that had seen hard use, and tall moccasins climbed to his knees. A longsword and two fighting dirks hung at his waist.

He and Old Bear embraced. ‘What about that lesson then?’ Old Bear rumbled.

‘Your heart would burst, I fear.’

‘What brings you to Sayer lands?’

The fellow glanced to Orman, or, more precisely, to the weapon in his grip. ‘News.’

Old Bear followed the man’s glance, then gestured to where one of the Reddin brothers was closing. ‘Kasson,’ he said, then of the other: ‘Keth.’ So, it’s Keth in the sheepskin leggings, Orman told himself. Old Bear gestured to him: ‘Orman Bregin’s son. And the last one is named Gerrun.’

‘He must be the one trying to get behind me,’ the young man said, grinning all the more.

Old Bear let out a long-suffering sigh, waved to the trees. ‘Get in here, Gerrun!’

The newcomer glanced again to Boarstooth. ‘So it is true.’

‘Yes.’ Old Bear cleared his throat. ‘Fellows, this is Lotji Bain. He is nephew to Jorgan Bain.’

Orman started, and tensed his grip upon Boarstooth’s haft.

‘I knew your father,’ Lotji told him.

‘You did?’

‘Yes. He visited Bain Hold.’ He pointed to the spear. ‘I see that the whispers are true. Boarstooth – as you call it – has returned to the Holdings.’

‘You cannot challenge upon Sayer lands,’ Old Bear rumbled in warning.

Lotji gave an easy laugh. ‘No.’ He waved Orman to him. ‘However, if you wish to step on to Bain lands I would gladly meet you.’