Assail (27 page)

‘Because o’ the Bonewight.’

Fisher nodded. This was the ‘monster’ he’d warned Malle about. It was the ‘lurking threat’ mentioned in the old lays. ‘I know the old stories. All that was long ago.’

The man shook his head. Fisher now saw that he was even younger than he’d thought. The hardscrabble life here in the wilderness had aged him brutally. ‘’Twas and ’twasn’t. It was and it still is. It will come. It wards the way north.’

Now Fisher frowned, struck by something. ‘“Wards”?’ he asked.

‘How do you know this?’ Alca demanded. ‘No one else has said anything.’

The settler shifted his attention to her. He held his chin high, defiant still. ‘They are all afeared o’ the Jotunfiend.’

Holden scowled his impatience. ‘Jotunfiend? You mean a ghoul? A ghostie?’

‘It’s as real as you strange foreigners.’

‘And where is this monster?’ Alca demanded.

‘It waits under its bridge.’

Holden let out a snort and pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘Ogres under bridges …’ He shook his head, looked to Fisher. ‘Never mind. Seems our friend here has heard the same old ghost stories you have.’ He waved Alca off. ‘Let’s go.’

The two mages left to return to the column. Fisher studied the slate-hued overcast sky where it showed between the trees. It looked like rain. He returned his gaze to the settler, who glared back, his jaws set once more. ‘Thank you for the warning,’ he said.

‘It is real,’ the man growled resentfully.

‘Thank you.’ Fisher turned to go.

As he was walking up the trail, the man shouted after him: ‘It took my brother!’

Fisher glanced back but the man had turned away to return to his work, cutting wood. The bard stood for a time, watching, but the man said no more. Fisher returned to the column.

When he fell in with the Malazans once more, Jethiss gave him a questioning look. Fisher gestured ahead, where the ground climbed to another ridge and another high pass. ‘Some sort of possible threat ahead. Something haunting the highlands.’

Jethiss nodded. ‘Ah. I saw your mage friends. They did not appear convinced.’

Fisher chuckled. ‘No. But then, they have not seen what I have seen.’

‘And neither have I, it would seem.’

Fisher studied him, his lined face, his blowing white-streaked hair. ‘I believe you have. You just do not remember it.’

The man gave an easy shrug. ‘Perhaps. Immaterial now. What is gone is gone. How could I miss that which I do not even recall?’

Sidelong, Fisher studied the man. Could he cultivate such an untroubled equanimity if he’d lost all that he’d ever been? He doubted it. It would take a strong and centred spirit to awake into a strange new existence and still keep one’s sanity. Let alone one’s sense of humour, or irony.

He shivered in the cold wind blowing down out of the heights and shaking the trees. Dampness chilled it. A late snowstorm? Would the pass be open? He pulled his travelling cloak tighter about himself. ‘The old songs and stories are consistent on it. There must be
something
there.’

‘Perhaps they merely reference one another, perpetuating the myth.’

He walked for a time in silence. Ahead, Malle, the old Gris matriarch on her donkey, raised a parasol and opened it. Fisher held out a hand; a few drops struck. A cold rain. And perhaps snow in the upper passes. This late in the season, too. He drew his idum from his back to check its oiled leather wrap. ‘Perhaps,’ he allowed. ‘We shall see.’

That night it snowed. Fisher watched it from the open front of his tent. The fat flakes hissed and melted as they slapped the ground.

He played late into the evening. At times Jethiss stirred, thrashing on his bedding. It was not until Fisher put away the instrument and lay down upon his own Malazan-issued blankets that he realized he’d unconsciously been playing themes from
Anomandaris
, his epic lay concerning Anomander Rake.

Yelling from somewhere in the camp shocked him awake in the dead of night. He bolted up, pulled on his boots, and ran out of the tent in his leather shirt and trousers. Almost everyone was up and milling about, most running to the perimeter. He spotted Marshal Teal with a bodyguard of four men, jogging for Enguf’s camp, and followed. The pirate commander was shouting and waving to disperse his crew back to their campfires and tents.

Marshal Teal closed upon the captain. ‘What was it?’ he demanded. ‘What happened?’

Enguf was bleeding at the mouth. He wiped away the blood with the back of his hand. ‘Just a difference of opinion regarding this expedition of yours.’

Teal’s brows arched. ‘A difference of opinion? Really.’

‘We were debating its merits.’

‘A debate? Is that what this was? Sounded more like a damned tavern brawl.’

The captain rubbed his jaw. ‘For the Southern Confederacy, this was a debate.’

‘I see. Well, perhaps next time you could conduct your debating in such a manner that you do not alarm the entire camp.’

‘Well perhaps I’ll just table that at the next meeting!’

‘Gentlemen,’ Fisher interrupted. ‘It’s over now, whatever it was. I suggest we continue this discussion in the morning.’

Marshal Teal eyed him up and down, his mouth a sour line. ‘Very well. However,’ and he waved at him, ‘next time you respond to an alarm …
I
suggest you bring a weapon.’ And he stormed off.

Fisher watched him go, then looked down. It was true; he hadn’t brought a weapon. Not even his belt.

Enguf muttered under his breath, ‘The lads and lasses don’t like it. All this marching, with no loot in sight. Plenty of targets left behind along the coast …’ He shook his shaggy head and peered closely at Fisher. ‘How far now, would you say?’

Fisher let out a breath. His shoulders were damp and chilled with melted snow. ‘We’re close to the highest passes. Downhill from then on to the Sea of Gold.’

‘The Sea of Gold, you say?’ He nodded, impressed. ‘They’ll like that. Maybe that’ll keep ’em quiet.’ He frowned then, looking Fisher up and down as well. ‘And don’t come running without a weapon, y’damned fool.’ He lumbered off.

Fisher turned away to go back to his tent and flinched, almost jumping. Jethiss was there. The man seemed to have appeared from nowhere, emerging from the dark like magic. He held something out to him: his sheathed sword wrapped in its belt. Fisher ruefully shook his head and took it from him.

*

Two days later they tramped through the slush and muck of lingering snow cover. They were high here, but nowhere near the treeline. The spine of the Bone Peninsula did not rise anywhere as high as the Salt range. They marched through coniferous forest; the tall pine and spruce growing far apart, with moss and bare rock and patches of snow between. Ahead lay a pass, the ridgeline not far away.

Fisher was just thinking how quiet everything had been so far when he spotted Teal’s forward scouts come running pell-mell back to the column. He jogged up to the front along with some of Malle’s people.

The scouts were panting and short of breath. ‘What is it?’ Teal snapped.

‘Some kind of bridge,’ one of them managed, gulping and pointing ahead. ‘Spans a defile. Looks like the only way across.’

Fisher caught Holden’s eye; the mage rolled his gaze skyward. Teal grunted. ‘Imagine that. Let’s take a look.’ He turned to his men, called, ‘Spread out,’ and signed the order. The Letherii troops quickly shuffled to right and left, forming a skirmish line. The Malazans and Genabackans followed suit. Malle remained behind with a guard of five veterans. Fisher and Jethiss joined the line.

Hunched, dodging from tree to tree, he edged up next to Holden. ‘A bridge …’ he murmured.

‘Just because there’s some old relic bridge doesn’t mean …’

The scouts signalled from the forward right, and the skirmish line shifted that way. They came to the broken rock of the ridge. Mixed snow and rain swirled down. Fisher’s hands were freezing in the cloth he’d wrapped around them. He edged forward to peer over the lip. A steep slope of bare rock overlooked a dark defile. Blowing snow obscured the further distances.

Holden murmured from next to him, ‘Where in Togg’s name is the way down?’

Fisher peered around as well – where was it?

Down the ridge behind him, Jethiss pointed off to the south. Fisher nodded and touched Holden’s shoulder, and they pushed themselves back from the lip. Off to the south of their position Teal was conferring with his scouts and a few of Malle’s veterans. The pair jogged over to join them.

‘One at a time, I reckon,’ one scout was saying.

‘A night-time descent?’ Teal asked.

The scouts shook their heads. ‘Too dangerous.’ Teal looked even more sour.

‘So where’s this bridge?’ Holden asked.

‘Switchback trail leads down to it,’ a scout said.

‘See us coming five league away,’ one of the veterans grumbled.

‘No signa any guards so far,’ another scout pointed out.

‘Not yet,’ Teal breathed absently, peering away into the gusting snow. Then he scowled, muttering, ‘Dead take them …’

Fisher glanced over. Enguf and a handful of his crew were sauntering up.

‘What’s all this?’ the Genabackan called out.

The scouts all winced. The veterans hung their heads.

‘Quiet,’ Teal hissed.

‘What’s that?’ the man shouted back. ‘What?’

Fisher could swear veins were writhing in the Letherii commander’s temples. Through clenched teeth he grated, ‘
Quiet
.’

Enguf was now close enough to hear and he nodded. ‘Ah! Quiet. Very well. May I ask why?’

Teal was pressing his fingertips to his brow, his head lowered.

‘The scouts think they saw a bridge down the trail here,’ one of Malle’s old veterans said. ‘But the clouds closed in on us so we can’t be sure. Why don’t you take your boys down and have a look?’

Fisher glared at the man, but the rest of the veterans were grinning. One had a strip of dried meat held in his teeth. Sucking on it to soften it, Fisher knew.

‘No thank you,’ Enguf answered. ‘We’re happy where we are.’

It was good to know that the Genabackan wasn’t a complete fool. ‘You Malazans go down under cover of these clouds,’ Teal said, raising his head. ‘Reconnoitre.’

The four veterans exchanged slow looks. ‘Don’t think so,’ answered the one who’d spoken earlier.

Teal studied the man for a moment. ‘You don’t …’ He drew a breath. ‘Go down and reconnoitre … soldier.’

The Malazan’s stare was steady. Then he gave a small shrug of his rounded shoulders. ‘I don’t take orders from you.’

Teal appeared ready to bring the rocks down around them excoriating the man, so Fisher jumped in, saying, ‘What’s your name, solder?’

The man’s gaze swung to him. It was half-lidded, distant, the eyes a pale hazel. Fisher recognized the loose watchfulness of someone poised to kill at any moment. Not your usual veteran. A trained bodyguard, perhaps? But field experienced, obviously.

‘Stub,’ the man said. ‘Sergeant Stub.’

Teal nodded brusquely. ‘Thank you, Fisher.’ To the sergeant, he said: ‘I will have a word with your employer regarding your insubordination, soldier. You can be sure of that.’

The man actually gave Teal a wink, saying, ‘You do that.’

But irony appeared lost on Teal, who merely nodded, indicating that he most certainly would.

There seemed to be an impasse, as none of the three parties was willing to risk men on the steep twisting trail down to the hidden defile below. Fisher blew on his painful hands and clenched them to being warmth to the fingers. It struck him that one man might sneak down whereas a full party would make too much noise.

‘I will go,’ he said.

Teal’s quick nod of acceptance seemed to say it was about time he did something useful. The veteran, Stub, frowned, either displeased or uneasy, Fisher wasn’t certain which. He started down the trailhead. It was extraordinarily steep; to keep from falling he had to lean into the slope, running his hands along the rock as he descended. Gusting curtains of snow obscured the bottom. The sky was iron-grey, the rock slate-hued, or black with melt and ice, while the snow seemed to swallow everything down its swirling leaden throat.

After many switchbacks, he stepped out on to a relatively flat ledge. It was wide and deep. He thought he could make out a structure of sorts at its far end and was about to step towards it when movement in the corner of his eye snapped him round, sword out.

It was Jethiss. Fisher let out a breath, sheathed his sword. ‘You needn’t have come,’ he whispered.

‘I could not let you go alone.’

‘You are very quiet.’

‘Thank you.’

Fisher gestured ahead. ‘What do you sense?’

The Andii’s long-jawed face hardened in distaste. The contrary gusting winds whipped his white-streaked hair. ‘Something terrible. A crime.’

Fisher nodded his agreement. They spread apart and advanced. The structure emerged from the flurries: tall and thin, the landing or buttress of a bridge that went on to span the defile ahead. The bridge, however, was not a suspended arc of rope and wood, as Fisher expected. It was the trellis sort, one that descended in segments all the way down into the darkness where, presumably, it rested upon the uneven ground below.