Ian Esslemont - Assail

Leena pulled Kyle backwards. He wanted to ask much more of this Ifayle, but of course to delay would defeat their purpose. He turned and kicked up the loose gravel as he went.

They pushed their way across a muddy flat of thick grey-green silt. It clung to his leather shoes and smeared all the way up to his knees. He’d served for a time in the Guard, and had heard the stories that the Imass had never attacked them. At the time he’d dismissed such tales as rather too self-promoting. ‘They wouldn’t kill you,’ he panted to Leena, still amazed.

‘They never have.’

‘Why?’

‘I believe they respect us,’ she answered, short of breath as they tramped through the thick mud. ‘Everyone calls us mercenaries, but the truth is we do not fight for money. We have honour, and this is their way of respecting that.’

Kyle thought of the Crimson Guard swordswoman they had picked up from the mud, groggy, spitting blood from the blow across her jaw. The Imass had an odd way of showing their high regard. As daughter of an Iron Legionnaire, Leena might think it was honour. The Legion had probably been esteemed for its noble values, and she had absorbed that. But he did not think such things would impress the Imass. No. There must be some other reason.

Ahead, across the broad gravel wash, now empty of run-off, the valley-wide dirty expanse of the ice-serpent rose ahead. They picked up their pace. A short hurried dash later and they reached the cliff-like leading edge of the nearest lobe, or tongue, of the ice-river. Great caves of sapphire-blue gaped at its base, where, Kyle imagined, rivers of water once flowed.

Something had halted that natural melting process. A few of the Guard, and Jethiss, clambered on to the dirty-grey leading edge and crunched their way up. They beckoned everyone to follow. A glance back revealed what Kyle thought might be thin motionless shapes through the tatters of scudding clouds. He climbed up on to the ice.

* * *

Orman walked blind through the heaviest snowstorm he had ever known. He, Keth and Kasson had strung themselves together with belts. They took turns leading the way. Whoever was at the fore thrust at the ice with Svalthbrul, searching for crevasses hidden beneath the fresh snow cover.

This snowfall was so thick it came up to their knees. A brutal wind lashed them, numbing Orman’s face and finding any gap in his leathers. He reflected sourly how unfair it was that even though he shared Iceblood, he should still feel the damned cold. He supposed that he simply wasn’t immune to it. Occasional quakes, or massive cracking, shook the broad plain of ice beneath them and they rocked, arms out, steadying themselves.

They were making for a strange azure light that glimmered and sizzled far up upon the ice-field. The black clouds seemed to congregate there, licked by sheet lightning. It appeared to be the focus of this massive storm that smothered the entire north. Through passing gaps in the churning overcast layer he caught brief glimpses of the barren rocky peaks of the Salt range above, grey and forbidding.

They pushed against the wind, fighting their way across the ice-plain. Even as they walked, Orman had the definite sensation that it was moving beneath them — crackling and rumbling profoundly as it shifted down slope.

He was walking onward, pushing at the snow ahead, when the deafening howl of the wind faded away and he found himself standing in relative calm, the dense fat snowflakes drifting down nearly straight. He looked to the brothers in wonder. Here all was quiet, though the massive cloud front churned above as it blazed with lightning and flickering mage-fire. Ahead, a figure sat waist-deep in the snow; pillows of it covered his shoulders. Buri. They approached. The snow crunched beneath their feet. Their breath steamed in the chill air.

‘Buri?’ Orman called, hesitantly.

The figure stirred. The head with its great mane and beard of hair as white as the snow lifted. The long almond-shaped eyes flickered open. He smiled and inhaled a long steady breath. ‘Ah, Orman. You have brought Svalthbrul. Good. It will help immensely.’

‘Is it … yours, then?’ he asked.

The smile became wistful, like Vala’s just before she walked into the flames. ‘No. Not mine. It is a weapon taken from the T’lan Imass long ago — your Army of Bone and Dust.’

Orman and the brothers studied its faceted leaf-shaped stone head of deep brown flint, the colour of earth. ‘The enemy? Then … how can it help?’

The smile turned rather savage. ‘You have heard of those who drink the blood of their enemies? Who hope to claim their strength? Well, there is magic there, Orman. Magic the one who first laid this ice barrier used. Magic I too shall exploit.’

‘What must I do?’

The Elder now looked upon him with compassion. ‘Must you ask? Sacrifice must be made — has been made. The old enemy must be forestalled.’

He felt his heart racing in awful panic; he could not breathe. Sacrifice? Jaochim and Yrain? Vala? Who knows how many others? Perhaps even … Jass ? He flinched from the man — the Iceblood — sickened. ‘No … never.’

Buri would not release him from his steady gaze.

Orman tried to shift his hands on the cursed weapon but found that they were frozen to the wood haft. ‘I am sorry, Buri. I … cannot. I dare not.’

‘You must. To complete the invocation.’

‘I’ll not kill you the way Lotji slew Jass.’

The Elder blinked heavily, swaying, utterly spent from his efforts. ‘Ah — I see. No, Orman. That had nothing to do with this. If Jass were here now, I would demand the same of him. But it was fated that he should not be. It is up to you to act that another should not have the blood upon his hands.’ He gestured, weakly, to Keth and Kasson. ‘Would you leave the task to one of your friends?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then you must do what must be done and take it upon yourself.’

Orman closed his eyes against this Elder’s relentless logic. He hated having to do anything so terrible, so dire. Yet it would be shameful to hand the responsibility, and the consequences, to another. He gave a weak nod of submission.

‘Very good. Through the back, please.’

The Reddin brothers went to stand off at a distance. Orman slowly made his way around behind the cross-legged Elder. ‘I’m sorry …’ he began, but Buri interrupted him.

‘Nay. Do not be sorry. Be glad. I have prepared for this for a long time. You will complete it and for that I am thankful.’ He rested his hands on his knees and straightened his slim bare back.

Orman raised his arms high, Svalthbrul angled downwards. He pressed the tip of the stone blade against the Elder’s back high and to the right of the spine. He intended to thrust downward at an angle through the heart.

Buri remained immobile throughout. He appeared to be gathering himself, and after a time he let out a long breath. He was waiting; still Orman could not bring himself to thrust. Perhaps the Elder understood this and knew what he needed, because he murmured, softly: ‘Now.’

Orman thrust. The spear slid in smoothly to pass through the man’s chest and on to sink into the ice before him. Orman hadn’t intended to strike so deeply but something seemed to yank upon Svalthbrul and demand that the stone blade pierce the ice as well.

Buri remained sitting upright, impaled and affixed to the ice. His head was tilted forward, his long snow-white hair hanging.

Orman wept. Hot wetness stung both cheeks as tears also fell from his ruined eye. He could not be certain but it seemed as if a profound vibration emanated from where Buri sat, expanding in all directions, like an immense stone tossed into a lake. He gritted his teeth and worked to remove his hands from the Imass weapon. Skin tore off in strips as he yanked each free. The blood that came froze swiftly; only a few drops stained the snow at his feet.