Assail (13 page)

The brother – which one, damn the man! – led him up the wooded ridge slope. ‘Keth?’ he called, trying a throw. The young man paused, straightening. He glanced over his shoulder, his mouth drawn tight with suppressed humour, then turned away without offering any clue.

Ha! Very funny. Have your little joke. I’ll find out eventually.

They came to a cave comprising of leaning slabs of stone. The unmistakable musk of bear assaulted Orman, but for now the cave appeared unoccupied. The stamped-out remains of a fire lay before it. Here, the brother sat on a log and tucked his hands up into his armpits for warmth. Orman studied the fire pit. It was sunk and shielded by rocks so that its glow was hidden from below. He then glanced up at the dense branches of the spruce and fir woods. They should disperse the smoke quite well. He leaned Boarstooth up against a rock and set off to gather firewood.

When the sun reached overhead the other Reddin brother appeared. He tossed the body of a freshly killed rabbit to his brother, who pulled out his fighting dirk and set to skinning. Orman spent his time trying to decide which was which. It really didn’t matter, of course – but in a fight it certainly would. The dressed rabbit went on to a stick over the fire.

While the rabbit cooked the brothers sat quietly peering down at the clearing below. Their furs differed, Orman saw: one wore sheepskin wrapped around his tall moccasins while the other wore layered leather swathings over cloth wraps.

‘Is Gerrun joining us?’ he ventured.

The brothers exchanged a wordless glance. Then one gave a small shrug and a purse of the lips that said
perhaps
.

He gave up trying to get a response from them then. After a meal of the rabbit, goat’s cheese cut from a hard lump, and hardbread, the second brother headed off to keep watch. Orman put his back to a trunk, stretched out his legs, and allowed himself a nap.

He woke to a tap against his side. He opened his eyes a slit to see one of the brothers standing over him, bow in hand. This one inclined his head down-slope and Orman instinctively understood his message:
company
.

It was late in the day. He rose and adjusted his leathers, returned his sword to his side, then picked up Boarstooth. The brother had jogged off, disappearing into the woods. A troop of men was filing on to the clearing. A hunting party – and he the quarry. It seemed he had underestimated his uncle’s greed and temper. He slowly descended the ridge.

Presently one of the largest men of the party, one he recognized, raised his bearded face to the ridge, set his hands to his mouth, and bellowed: ‘Orman Bregin’s son!’ It was Jal, his uncle. ‘We know you are there! We tracked you! Come down, lad, and hand over that which you stole!’

Among the men, Orman now recognized two of his cousins. Of the rest, eight in all, seven were of his uncle’s hearthguards. And to his surprise the last of the hunters was the short, richly dressed figure of Gerrun Shortshanks himself. The party spread out, hands going to their sheathed swords.

Orman descended the slope to step out from behind the trunk of a large pine. He called: ‘I took only that which is mine by birthright!’

His uncle spotted him and waved him in closer. ‘Come, lad. Don’t be a fool! This has gone on long enough. Return it and I will let you journey south – no ill feelings. Why, I even offer a small purse to see you on to Mantle town.’

‘I do not want your silver, uncle. Just that which is mine by right.’

His uncle spread his hands in a gesture of exasperation. ‘And what will you do there in the wilderness? Wander willy-nilly to no good purpose like your father? Come now, grow up.’

Orman slammed the butt of Boarstooth to the frozen ground. ‘Bregin was sworn to Eusta! And I am my father’s son.’

Jal shook his head. All the while, his hearthguards advanced on the woods, spreading out. A few now crossed the rushing stream, stepping from rock to rock. Their armour rustled and jangled in the cold air. ‘Eusta is long gone, lad,’ his uncle called. ‘Your father should have bent his knee to Longarm. If he had, you could have risen in his service. But as it is …’ and he shook his head as if at the waste of it.

A new voice bellowed then, as deep as a rumbling of rocks falling. ‘Who would enter the Blood Holdings?’ The challenge echoed from ridge to ridge and a crowd of rooks took flight from a slim ash bordering the clearing. They cawed and squawked as if answering the voice and swirled overhead in a dark cloud.

The hearthguards hunched, peering warily about. Weapons slid from sheaths.

Orman scanned the woods. As if by magery a hugely tall and broad figure emerged from the trees close by the stream. A shaggy bear’s hide was bunched wide at the shoulders and hung in ragged lengths to brush the snowy ground. The great beast’s head rode the man’s like a hood, its upper jaw intact, yellowed teeth curving downward. Within that grisly headdress glared the grey-bearded, lined and one-eyed face of Old Bear.

Jal stared in amazement and wonder – he even retreated a number of steps to strike his back against the trunk of a spruce. Then he nodded to himself and fury darkened his face. ‘So. It is as everyone thought.’ He called to Orman: ‘Your father struck a pact with the Bloods. A traitor! He served them!’

Stung, Orman came sliding sideways down the rocky treed slope. He hopped fallen trunks and melt-slick rocks, holding Boarstooth high. ‘Say what you will of me,’ he shouted, ‘but do not insult my father’s name! You who cowered in the warmth of your hearthfire while he kept watch!’

‘Conspired with the mountain demons, you mean,’ Jal rumbled darkly. And he waved his contempt, his fingers thick with gold rings.

‘Enough!’ Orman yelled, furious, and he threw Boarstooth. The moment the weapon left his hand he felt a stab of regret. He did not know what he’d intended – to frighten the old man, to wound him – but the instant he loosed he knew the ancient heirloom would fly true.

Jal watched, perhaps in disbelief, as the spear flew high across the stream, then arced downward, tracing a path straight to him. It slammed home, pinning him to the tree where he remained standing, his mouth open, eyes staring wide at the haft where it emerged from his girth.

The hearthguards watched the flight and impact in stunned silence. Then they charged.

Arrows took the nearest two, one in the side, another through the head, giving Orman time to draw his sword. He parried the third – this one cousin Belard – then pommel-smashed him in the face, knocking him flying backwards in a spray of blood.

Old Bear was down from the woods in great bounds, roaring with battle-joy. He knocked aside the swing of a hearthguard with his tall spear then slashed him across the neck. The man fell gurgling and clutching at his throat. Orman’s other cousin, Tomen, backpedalled wildly, splashing through the stream then turning to run.

Two more hearthguards closed on Orman. A thrown hatchet from Gerrun took one, but the other dodged and ducked as he came. An arrow meant for him shattered on a rock. Orman met him, parrying and closing to grapple. Moments later the man jerked as a bloody arrowhead punched through the leathers of his chest, almost reaching Orman. The lad let him fall to the mud and snow, where he curled around the point like a pinned bird.

Raising his gaze, panting, Orman saw his cousins and the remaining hearthguards in full retreat from the clearing. He relaxed, or tried to: his limbs would not stop shaking. Suddenly he felt very cold indeed. He walked across the crackling sheet ice and bloodstained snow to where his uncle still stood, fixed to the spruce by Boarstooth.

Jal still lived. His bloodied hands still gripped the slick haft and thick crimson blood smeared his beard. His wide eyes followed Orman as he came. He tried to speak but coughed instead and groaned his agony. He spat out a mouthful of blood to croak: ‘Kinslayer I name you. Forsworn. Damn you to the Dark Taker’s deepest pit.’

Orman took hold of Boarstooth’s slick haft. Jal slid a hand free to fumble at the silver-wound grip of his sword. Orman held his uncle’s eyes. Hatred and wordless fury blazed back at him. He yanked on the spear, twisting and levering, until the eyes lost their focus and the man’s head slumped forward. He pulled the weapon free. His uncle fell in a heap at the base of the tree.

Orman stared at the gleaming gore-smeared blade. Steam rose from it into the chill air. I am a kinslayer, he realized. So many stories of vendetta and feud surround this weapon. Is it cursed? Am I?

‘Well met, Orman Bregin’s son,’ a deep voice growled behind him. He turned, wonderingly, still feeling as if he were in a dream, or a nightmare. There stood Old Bear, wrapped in his bunched bearskin cloak, leaning on his tall spear. His one good eye held calm evaluation, as if still taking his measure, while the other glared frosty-white like an orb of ice. Behind, the Reddin brothers now stood with Gerrun, all three silent and watchful.

‘I did not mean to …’ he began.

‘I understand, lad,’ Old Bear said, his voice gentle. ‘But Boarstooth, once loosed, would have its blood-price.’

‘Blood-price?’

Old Bear nodded solemnly. ‘Aye. Jal insulted it. Had no right to lay his hand upon it.’

‘And I do?

‘Oh, aye. When your father was hardly older than you are now he wrested it from the dead hand of Jorgan Bain. It was a storied duel. They fought in Green Rock Valley on the border of Bain and Lost holdings. There they duelled through two days. Stopped only to rest at night.’

Orman blinked, hardly understanding. ‘But I heard none of this …’

Old Bear snorted his disdain. ‘These southern lowland scum aren’t worthy of such tales, hey?’

Feeling oddly cold and shivery, Orman nodded. ‘I see … I think.’ Then he bent over and vomited ferociously, hands on his knees, gagging.

Old Bear rumbled a laugh and slapped him on the back. ‘There, there. The first one’s always the hardest!’ He chuckled again, greatly amused, then roared: ‘You three! Pack up! Kasson, we leave at once!’

‘Aye,’ Kasson answered, and it irritated Orman no end that he didn’t catch which brother had spoken.

* * *

Three days after Burl and the crew of the
Strike
came across a ghost ship adrift on the Dread Sea, men and women of the crew began disappearing. No one saw anything. Burl questioned everyone himself, as did the second mate, Gaff. Those on watch neither saw nor heard anything. Nor were there any discernible signs of violence; no blood, no marks of forcible abduction. Over the course of the day or night people simply went missing. Sometimes it even happened during their time on duty. Burl had no explanation for it; the crew members seemed to have merely up and jumped over the side to sink without a call or a struggle.

It happened sometimes. Over the course of his decades at sea Burl had known of a few cases where seamen had taken their own lives. Their disappearances had been similar to these: no struggle, no blood, no yelling. One time, when a young mate, Burl had been watching over the deck, glanced away, and looked back to find one less crewman at work. The man had simply thrown himself quietly over the side and allowed himself to sink to Mael’s own boneyard below.

Over the course of three decades it had happened two or three times. Not more than twice that in mere days. So he was not surprised when he found a contingent of crew members confronting him one foggy morning.

Gaff, the second mate, led the knot of men as First Mate Whellen was still abed, apparently unable to awaken from whatever it was that ailed him. Burl crossed his arms and waited for Gaff to say his piece. He was not too concerned; the crew had every right to be fearful. It had hold of him as well. Perhaps more so, as he wasn’t sure they understood that they were far past turning back. He no longer had any clear idea of their direction, and hadn’t for some time.

The second mate finally clawed a hand down his wiry beard and cleared his throat. ‘Me ’n’ the crew,’ he began, his voice hoarse, ‘we say you can’t deny it no longer, captain. These disappearances ’n’ such. They’re the work of the curse.’

Burl made a show of his annoyance. ‘What curse, man? What? I know of no such thing. It’s just this place. The fogs and cold – it has an unhealthy effect on some.’

The man hunched and ran his hands over the thighs of his frayed canvas trousers, but his mouth was set in a stubborn line. ‘There’re stories. Old songs. The Dread Sea …’

‘Tall tales. Made up fireside imaginings. Nothing more.’ Burl raised his gaze to take in everyone. ‘Have any of you ever actually
seen
anything?’

None of the assembled crew would meet his eyes. None but Gaff, who scowled anew. ‘It’s been weeks, captain. The sea isn’t this large. We should’ve reached the north shore long ago. The curse has us, I tell you. Soon there’ll be none of us left and the
Strike
will be like that ghost ship we come across. Act now before it’s too late, captain.’

‘Act? How so? What is it I’m to do?’

The second mate’s gaze slid past Burl to the stern, to the door to the cabin where Whellen lay abed. The realization of what his second mate intended came to Burl and he felt real anger clench his throat – that, and disgust. So, we have finally come to this. Funny how all must band together to throw just one off the ship. ‘That’s enough of such talk, Gaff,’ he growled, fury rasping in his voice. ‘Are we superstitious fools to sink so low? You think you can pin such things on any one person – all in some craven effort to save your own hide? No. We’re not of Korel, where I hear they practised such things against the Stormriders – not that it did them any good. No more such talk. We’ll be through this soon. Things will look up. Think of the gold ahead – we may be the only ones to actually make it, hey?’