Ian Esslemont - Assail

Gwynn, his long staff in his hands, nodded grimly. ‘Yes, K’azz. We will await you.’

‘Thank you.’ He turned to find Blues and Shimmer planted directly in his path. ‘And what of us?’ Blues said.

Their commander offered a lift of his bird-like bony shoulders beneath his torn leather jerkin. ‘You wished to find your answers … they await above.’

‘And Cal-Brinn?’ Shimmer demanded. ‘It is he we are really here for.’

K’azz nodded. ‘He is near. The same … difficulty … is affecting him. If we do not find him above, then we shall search for him.’

Shimmer stood aside. ‘Very well. But we had better find him.’

K’azz closed his eyes in tired agreement. ‘We will, Shimmer. I swear.’

The man appeared exhausted, his eyes sunken, his cheeks hollow. And clearly the strange spell of general lassitude pulled upon him as well, but she thought there was something more weighing him down: he was sad. So very regretful. What was it that affected him so? Whatever the answers were, they seemed to be breaking his heart.

At that moment she was almost ready to agree that they ought to simply find Cal-Brinn and go. If whatever lay above was so distressing to K’azz, perhaps it was best left alone. Yet to have come so far … and they were so near … She shook her head. Whatever it was, perhaps it would weigh less heavily upon him if they all shared it. It seemed almost near to breaking him even as she watched.

Yes, that was it. He need not bear this all by himself. She turned to the rest of the Guard gathering to retreat. Bars, she saw, was steadily returning her gaze. It was a good few moments before a voice spoke in her thoughts: what are you waiting for? You should go to him . She did so, and a strange relief flickered across his face. She stood close, peering up at him, and raised an arm to slip it behind his neck.

‘You have been distant of late,’ he said.

‘Yes, I have.’

‘We must get to the bottom of that.’

‘Yes, we will. When I return.’

‘Very well. When you return.’ He bent to kiss her and jerked away, shock on his face: ‘You are so cold!’

‘Is that a complaint?’

‘I mean it. Here, take this,’ and he moved to slip off his woollen cloak.

She closed her hand on his. ‘Keep it. I do not feel the cold.’ He frowned, troubled. ‘Do not worry. I will return.’

Something of his old manner slipped through as he growled, ‘See that you do.’

She turned to where K’azz and Blues waited, then gestured, inviting them, Baran, Erta and Siguna onward. She turned for one last wave farewell, wondering again: what is wrong with me?

* * *

Marshal Teal stood at a brazier in his command tent high in the upper vales of the southern slopes of the Salt range. He warmed his hands over the charcoal and considered his next course of action. Scouting parties would have to be sent, of course, to determine whether the last renegades had chosen to hang about. His orders from Luthal had been explicit; his future position depended upon his thoroughness.

Still, he was confident. This was, after all, a mere mopping up. He was eager to return to clean out Mantle. Once their grip was secure upon this north coast of the Sea of Gold, they could consider their next move. Consolidation of the south coast, most likely. Then onward to the Bone Peninsula.

All funded by their war-chest of gold dust.

Thunder rumbled beyond the hide tent walls. A storm was on its way. Good. Perhaps the renegades would die of exposure and save them any further expenditure. Still, he would like to get his hands on that white blade. It would bring a fortune in Lether, or Darujhistan. He could name his price.

The thunder intensified into a constant deep ongoing roar that Teal thought he could feel through his feet. Then the ground moved. The brazier would have fallen had he not steadied it and singed his fingers. Panicked shouts sounded without. He threw open the tent flap, demanded of a guard: ‘What is going on?’

‘Earthquake, sir.’

‘Yes, I know that!’ He waved to indicate the men rushing about bearing torches. ‘What is everyone upset about?’

The guard swallowed hard. ‘Well, sir. Most of these lads have never experienced one. They say … well, talk is, the northern gods are angry at us.’

‘What a load of bullshit. You get out there and you calm them down!’

The guard saluted crisply. ‘Yes sir!’ He ran off, waving for others to accompany him.

Teal drew in a deep breath of the cold clean air. Gods give him patience! What could he possibly be expected to accomplish with these pathetic recruits! Give him drilled and trained regulars over these amateur foreigners any day.

He crossed his arms, hugged himself for warmth against the fiercely cold wind and peered into the low clouds to the north. It looked as if something was moving there behind the swirling banners of mist. He took a few hesitant steps, squinting. It was almost as if the entire slope above them was slowly shifting. Was it a rockslide triggered by the earthquake?

The ground beneath his feet began to vibrate. Not in the rolling of any earthquake he’d ever experienced, but as a constant low drumming vibration. A distant avalanche, perhaps?

The swirling clouds parted then, as if thrust aside by some broad front of wind. Through the dimness of the overcast night he saw that the slope above was much steeper and closer than he remembered. And it was moving — roiling and churning as it came. Even as he watched, entire swaths of tall spruce and fir fell before its advance, only to be sucked beneath the leading edge of tumbling rock and soil.

True panicked yells sounded now about the camp, all nearly drowned by the roar of the coming cataclysm. Teal stood transfixed. In his experience this was unanswerable. How could anyone respond to such an onslaught? There was simply nothing to be done.

Lieutenants came, shouting to be heard, but he merely waved to them to flee. ‘Save yourselves,’ he mouthed. And they fled. He chose not to. There was something inexorable, almost magisterial, in what he was witnessing. Running might gain one a few more minutes of life, but why fall in an undignified mad scramble?

He preferred to meet what was coming. And he did — just before the end.

The screen of conifers above the camp was the last layer of trees still standing before the mountain of churned-up soil and rock tumbling its way down upon him. The ground now juddered as if in agony; he could barely keep his feet. The avalanche roar was so loud it deafened him.

And he glimpsed, above the mounded-up tons of loose soil and talus, something glowing with an inner cobalt-blue light. A broad and low wall descending out of the heights, pulverizing rock, and growling an immensely deep basso rumble that was shaking the ground, and his breath left him in awe.

How beautiful, and how terrible …

* * *

‘You must all flee.’

They were in conference within the stone tower at Mantle. Lady Orosenn stood with the aid of Jute’s shoulder — he winced whenever her full weight threatened to bow him — and he with one arm bandaged and bound across his chest. They stood together with the new king, Voti, and Malle at his side. Cartheron was there, gritting his bristled jowls, and Tyvar, dabbing a cloth to the cut above his temple that would not stop bleeding.

The young king continued to shake his head. ‘This is our home. We will not leave.’

Lady Orosenn shifted her entreating gaze to Malle, whose black skirting was now slashed and spattered with dried blood. Having seen her fighting upon the wall Jute felt even more terrified of the woman: she threw slim knife blades, then hatchets that had snapped back the heads of more than one Imass. Now, though, she merely pursed her thin colourless lips as if to say: there is nothing I can do …