‘I can,’ Fisher answered, grimly.
‘And?’ Badlands prompted.
The bard scowled as if he regretted saying anything. Finally, he offered, ‘The ice has awakened. There’ll be no spring or summer.’
Badlands laughed aloud. ‘Ha! You’ve sung too many old sagas, Fisher. Such things no longer happen.’
Fisher gave Kyle a long-suffering why-do-I-even-try look. Kyle hid a smile and thought that perhaps he now understood something of the bard’s reticence.
‘We’ll cross then climb the ice-serpent, though it will be treacherous with crevasses,’ said Stalker, and he gestured to invite them onward.
They followed what was essentially a shallow empty riverbed of green-grey silt flats and broad gravel patches, all punctuated by boulders that emerged from the mists like sentinels. The way led them upslope. The wind was punishing now — a blasting current of cold that was oddly dry and desiccating. It carried the cracking and popping of the massive hidden field of ice. The eruptions burst as loud as the explosive munitions of the Moranth.
Stalker raised a hand to call for another halt. He came crunching across the gravel to Fisher, motioning for Cal-Brinn to join them. ‘You lot can carry on until you reach the foot of the ice. Badlands and I will check on our friends. We’ll re-join you upslope.’
Fisher and Cal-Brinn curtly nodded their agreement. Stalker waved for Badlands to accompany him and they set off jogging down the gravel bars and silts of the riverbed. In places they hopped from rock to rock as they descended.
Cal-Brinn and the Guard turned to walk on, as did Kyle, but at the last instant something urged him to turn back. Some sensation that brushed at the nape of his neck and made the small hairs on his arms stand on end. He suddenly knew they were no longer alone. He glanced about, alarmed, but saw only that, of the party, Fisher alone had turned back as well. He met Fisher’s troubled gaze, and realized: we two are of the blood …
Rocks clattered below, gravel shifted. Movement among the silts caught Kyle’s eye. Shapes were rising from the riverbed. Down below, Stalker and Badlands had halted and turned back as well.
Ragged skeletal shapes straightened. Clots of clay and silt fell to the ground. They wore rotting lengths of coarse hides and furs. Some carried the remains of a sort of crude armour of stitched straw. Stained brown skulls, some hairless, turned to him and Fisher. The faces were as he expected: dried and mummified with empty sockets and fleshless grins. T’lan Imass. The enemy of the Jaghut.
And, he realized with a terrified sickening jolt, his enemy.
‘Over here!’ he heard Stalker bellow from below. Several of the carious heads turned that way. A clash of weaponry: Badlands had charged the nearest. ‘C’mon, you bastards!’ Stalker yelled.
Kyle started forward. Hands grasped him from behind. ‘We must flee,’ said Cal-Brinn, now next to him.
Badlands was backing away down the slope, drawing the nightmare shapes after him. ‘Go, damn you!’ he yelled to Kyle.
‘Protect him!’ Stalker called, then he was off, running down the slope. This quick movement somehow settled the matter as the Imass started after him. Kyle counted some seventeen. He ought to follow — they would need the white blade!
‘We’re going to say goodbye to Coots!’ Badlands called, laughing, as he jumped from stone to stone. Their outlines disappeared into the mists.
More arms and heads were emerging from the gravel beds even as Kyle stood there, frozen, horrified.
Fisher appeared before him. He set his hands on his shoulders. ‘We must go. Now.’
Kyle blinked, remembered to breathe. He met the bard’s gaze, pleading. ‘We must help …’
‘They will outrun them. Do not worry.’
‘But …’
‘They will be safe. Perhaps they mean to lead them into the Lether troops! Imagine that, hey?’ Hands tugged at him. He stumbled backwards. The bard’s voice hardened: ‘Do not ruin their gambit! More are coming!’
This shocked him and he took a sharp breath of the frigid air. He jerked a nod. ‘Yes. All right. Yes.’ He turned and started up the gravel. Fisher’s tight grip on his upper arm urged him onward.
Higher up the slope, a wide expanse of dirty white emerged from the clouds. The serpent of ice. Far closer, however, down the wash towards them clattered stick-thin figures in rags and beast armour. Kyle snapped a glance behind: their pursuers were closing.
‘Circle up!’ Cal-Brinn ordered, and the Crimson Guard closed into a tight circle that pushed Kyle, Fisher and Jethiss inside.
Kyle fought to join the line. ‘You will need my blade!’ he shouted to Cal-Brinn.
‘You may yet have the chance,’ the Dal Honese answered grimly.
Their pursuers, further T’lan Imass that had risen behind, reached their circle first. Flint blades swung, meeting Crimson Guard shields in a clash of stone on bronze and iron. Kyle was startled to see the Imass using the flat of their blades upon the guardsmen and women. One of the women fell to a blow from an Imass fist.
Then he realized: they do not want these people … They are after us alone. His back shivered in a sensation that only hunted prey could know. He hefted the white blade, waiting for one to break through.
Next to him, Jethiss, his two hatchets readied, saw his chance and bounded out to join the defence. A blow of one hatchet split the skull of an Imass and shattered the haft of that weapon. He flung it aside. Another thrust for him but Jethiss swung, severing the arm at the shoulder.
Kyle watched this, amazed. Who could do such things to the T’lan Imass?
Then the newcomers from above closed upon them then, washing round the mêlée, and Kyle was further stunned as these Imass assaulted their attackers. Imass fought Imass in a ruthless terrifying whirl of flint swords and hard dry limbs, and then it was done, seemingly in an instant.
Eight standing T’lan Imass stood motionless, regarding them with their eerie empty sockets. One raised an arm of bone and hanging dry flesh to point upslope. ‘Run, now,’ it breathed in a voice like falling sand.
‘Who are you?’ Kyle called, even as Leena tugged at him.
‘We are of the Ifayle. I am Issen Li’gar. I came seeking my sister Shalt Li’gar, gone so very long ago. Now, run. We shall guard.’
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.