The cavalry turned to find themselves surrounded. The call went up to close and the razor pikeheads and billhooks advanced from all around. The noblemen spurred their mounts to escape but they had no room to gather momentum. They could only hack at the pikeheads as they thrust at them. In moments they were slaughtered to a man.
Across the field another cavalry mass was hastily forming up. The Imperials had seen success and now it appeared they intended to finish things. Every remaining horse and rider looked to be being pressed into this deciding charge. A great dark mass of men and horses started on its way towards them. The very timbers under Ivanr’s hands shivered as the ground shook.
Even though he knew the woman in Martal’s armour to be just some female officer, Ivanr could not help but glance to that dark figure where she gave orders on the carriage-platform next to the gap; like everyone constantly checking, making sure of their charm, their talisman against defeat. She’d been right – she had to be seen. She had to be here.
This final total charge bore down upon them in a dark tide, spreading out to cover the entire battlefield centre. The thick rectangles of pike wielders hunched, braced, pikes static, holding the equidistance between sharpened points that had been drilled into them day after day, month after month.
Loose pieces of iron rattled and the timbers thrummed with the advance. Archers upon the walls and within, filling the interior of the camp, aimed skyward, arrows nocked. All eyes went to Martal, arm poised, waiting. The arm cut down. A great hiss momentarily drowned out the thunder of the horses’ hooves. The salvo arched overhead, denser and darker than the constant cloud cover, to descend, cutting a swath through the centre and rear ranks of the cavalry. But the front ranks were spared and these charged onward, lances levelling.
The front chevron ploughed into the thick rectangle of men and women. Ivanr witnessed the front two or three, in places up to four, ranks disappear beneath the iron and bone and relentless momentum, but the formation absorbed all that terrifying punishment and held. A second wave now hit home but with less energy as all the carnage and litter of fallen horses and defenders impeded them. Countless horses went down, tripping and stumbling upon the gore.
A cheer went up from the Reform camp but it was short-lived as bow-fire now raked everyone: the hired crossbow and archer companies had advanced to support the charge. This time the cavalry did not wheel away to re-form; they remained, dropping lances and spears to unsheathe swords. A melee broke out and Ivanr had to stop himself from jumping the wall to join in. This could not be allowed. The pike men and women were at too much of a disadvantage. Many wore no armour at all.
But a new element had entered the field. Some sort of horde of irregular infantry armed haphazardly with spears and billhooks and scythes and lengths of wood had taken the left flank and were advancing across the centre. They mobbed the cavalry as they went. Ivanr had taken up a shield and he raised it now overhead to stand as tall as possible – the city! Damned civilians had taken to the field in the thousands! While he watched, this undisciplined mass took the cavalry from the rear to exact a bloody and thorough revenge. Men and women, young and old, pulled nobles in banded armour from their mounts to jab daggers through joints and visors. The merciless bloodthirst reminded Ivanr of the village he’d passed through and he had to look away. Around him the Army of Reform cheered its unlooked-for allies. Even those nobles who surrendered, throwing down their weapons – and probably expecting to be held for ransom – found themselves dragged off their mounts and torn to pieces. By this time the mob was turning its attention to the distant Imperial encampment and panic stirred among those bright pennants and gaily decorated tents.
He descended the wall to join the camp followers and Reform archers pouring out on to the field. His remaining guards followed him. He shook countless hands, squeezed countless shoulders, and lost all tentativeness in blessing all those who asked. The black armoured figure of Martal had remained upon the wall but when Ivanr looked back she was gone. What would the story be, he wondered. Succumbed to her wounds this night? A sudden turn for the worse?
In the carnage of the field he found no prisoners. He knelt to a wounded girl, a pike wielder, one of many in the brigades; it had been his experience that what women may lack in raw brute strength they more than made up in spirit, bravery and dedication to the unit. Her leg had been shattered at the thigh, trampled by a horse. She was white with shock and blood loss. All he could do was hold her muddied hand while the life drained out of her. He brushed the wet hair from her face. ‘We won,’ he told her. ‘You won. It’s over. Finished.’ Through the numbing fog of shock she smiled dreamily, nodding. She mouthed something and he knelt, straining to hear.
‘Kill them all …’
He flinched away, and looking up he saw a familiar figure. It was the old pilgrim, Orman, leaning upon his crooked staff. Now, however, a crowd of civilians surrounded him and he was quite obviously in charge. Orman bowed to him. ‘Greetings, Deliverer.’
‘You appear to be the deliverer this day.’
A modest bow of his balding, sweaty pate. ‘Ring city is ours. Your example turned the tide.’
‘I see.’ Now he understood Sister Gosh’s words. This day the struggle had been to win something much more important than a mere battle. The confidence of a people? When does the movement become the institution? The rebel, the ruler? When comes that tipping point? It seemed it could happen without one even noticing. The cynical twist on Ivanr’s lips fell away and he lowered his voice. ‘About Martal …’
Orman nodded. ‘I know. I’ve been in contact all this time. It is up to you now, Ivanr. You carry our banner.’
‘No.’ He glanced down: the girl was dead. Gently, he lowered her head then stood. But the old man would not be put off. His gaze had hardened, unnerving him.
‘Yes. You have no choice now.’
‘You won’t like it.’
The old man bowed. ‘It is not for me to judge. You are the Deliverer.’
‘Then stop the killing. There’s been more than enough of that.’
Orman bowed again. ‘I will give the order. But there are risks. The people want revenge. There are enthusiasts who call for the cleansing of all followers of the Lady—’
‘No. None of that!’
The old man’s tongue emerged to wet his lips. He adjusted his grip on the staff, uneasy. ‘I will do my best to enforce your wishes, Deliverer.’
‘Do so.’ Ivanr dismissed him and went to visit Martal’s tent. What was going on there? Had that final rumour been unleashed already? Surrounded now by thousands of cheering jubilant veterans of the Army of Reform, he suddenly felt completely, and terribly, alone.
* * *
The much diminished fleet of Moranth Blue dromonds and mixed Falaran and Talian men-of-war made good time westward across the Fall Strait and up the Narrows, or Crack Strait. Strong constant winds off the Ocean of Storms allowed them to make the journey in two days and two nights. Poring over the antique maps of the region, Nok and Swirl argued for a landing further west, towards Elri, but Greymane was adamant: the landing had to be south of Kor, hard up against the Barrier Mountains. The Admirals finally appealed to Devaleth, but she could not help them. ‘I really do not know this shore,’ she had to admit. ‘Though I have heard it is rugged.’
Nok pushed himself from the low table of his stateroom. ‘There you have it. Unsuitable for a landing, I’m sure.’
‘Especially one that may be contested,’ Swirl added.
But Greymane would not budge. ‘It must be here. We are coming up on it. The landing must go ahead.’ He looked to the last member of Command present: Fist Khemet Shul. ‘Strike inland, take control of the highlands. Use them as your base. Retreat to Katakan, if necessary.’
The squat man nodded. The lamplight reflected gold from his bald blunt head. ‘I understand.’
Devaleth looked from face to face: the two reluctant Admirals, the flat uninflected Fist, and the growling, coiled High
Fist. She wanted to scream: How can you do this? But she knew she’d be dismissed out of hand. Best to swallow her dread, follow along, and do the most she could to ameliorate the certain disaster to come.
‘That is all, then,’ Greymane said, crossing his arms. ‘A dawn assault.’
Fist Shul saluted. ‘Sir.’ Bowing, he left to see to his preparations.
Devaleth bowed as well. ‘I’ll try to get some rest, then.’
The three wished her a good sleep. When she pulled the door to the stateroom closed, Admiral Nok was making tea.
Outside, Devaleth leaned on a gunwale railing. It was after midnight, and they were passing the last of the Barrier range rising north of them into the night like a distant set of ragged teeth. The sea was calm though the winds were high. And those winds chilled her, coming directly off the Ocean of Storms and bearing a hint of the Riders themselves.
As tentatively as possible she opened up to passively reach for her Ruse Warren. The response almost overwhelmed her. Raw churning power taut with anticipation. Something is coming. Ruse senses it, or carries it like the gravid swelling of power before its release. What is it? Our destruction? Whatever it might be it is immense; there is power here for the taking – more than I’d ever dare to take, or even suspected flowed there for the taking.
Drawing back, what frightened her the most was the dread that before tomorrow was over, she may be driven to reach for it.
The day dawned with the fleet approaching the coast on a wide front. From the side of Admiral Nok’s flagship, the Star of Unta, it looked to Devaleth as if these Malazans and Moranth had used up all their tricks and stratagems getting by the Skolati and the Mare forces, and now all they were left with was a plain straightforward assault.
They’d entered the lee of the Barrier range and many vessels had had to break out the sweeps to continue shoreward. It was clear that the rocky coast was too rough for the ships to anchor anywhere close and so crews readied launches. Ashore, bonfires burned and Devaleth could make out timber barriers and massed troops. The Roolians. Obviously Yeull also understood that this length of shore was the crucial landing place.
The vessels nosed as close to the shore as possible. Smaller cutters and sloops swept in closer, carrying as many troops as could be jammed on board. But while the water was still too deep for the men and women to jump off sheeting bow-fire met them, arcing up from massed archers. Devaleth’s stomach clenched seeing the troops delay while launches and all manner of rowboats were readied. They were sitting targets!
The coast was so rocky and dangerous here, only the smallest boats dared approach, so only the barest handful of troopers could land at any one time. Parties slogged ashore in fives and tens through the waist-deep water, and, while Devaleth watched, overwhelming numbers jumped up from behind fallen logs and rocks to charge. She saw entire boatloads of infantry cut down one at a time before escaping the wash of the waves.
This is a catastrophe! And the Korelri haven’t even yet lent their weight to the battle.
Then, just as Devaleth could not imagine things unfolding any more disastrously, batteries of mangonels, catapults and onagers opened up from the shore. A barrage of projectiles came streaming up from the hidden weapons. Devaleth jumped, flinching at the sight of the fusillade. She watched frozen in a sort of suspended fascination as the stones descended, roaring, amid the anchored fleet. Most struck only water, sending up massive jets of spray. But a few found targets and punched down through decking and hull. This is insane! Where was Greymane? The fool! Yeull was waiting for them!
But yet again she’d forgotten about the Moranth. The engines that had cast so much death and destruction among the Mare fleet now responded. The colour of the dawn changed to an orange-red as a great sheet of flaming projectiles arced up from the Blue vessels. She watched just as fascinated as this barrage passed over the immediate shore to land a good hundred paces back from the lip of the sand cliffs masking the coast.
A firestorm blossomed, roiling in fat billowing flames and black smoke. It spread in great arcs of incendiaries that reached like claws, secondary bursts scattering the inferno even farther. The blast reached Devaleth like a distant rockslide or titanic waterfall. She was shaken from the spell of that eruption by soldiers jostling her: the Star of Unta was unloading its some four hundred infantry on to launches and jolly boats.
Smoke now veiled the shore. Wave after wave of infantry from the Fourth and Eighth Armies heaved themselves over the sides of the boats to wade into the killing zone where the surf broke amid rocks and pockets of gravel strand. She could not quite tell if any foothold had yet been gained. The bodies that had not sunk now washed about, crowding the surf like driftwood.
Punching through the smoke came a continued barrage from the defending engines, only now aimed higher, to fall short among the crowded boats and knots of men. Great jets burst skyward with each impact, throwing troopers like rags. Some few struck boats, exploding them in a great eruption of wood splinters and disintegrated bodies.
A hand grasped Devaleth’s upper arm and she jumped, gasping. It was Greymane.
‘I was calling you,’ he said.
She swallowed, her heart pounding. ‘I’m – I’m sorry. I’m so … Is this as bad as it looks?’
The big man grimaced his understanding. ‘It’s ugly – there’s no way round it. Attacking a hostile shore? You can only push and keep pushing. It’s up to the troops now – they mustn’t flinch.’ He looked to shore, his pale eyes the colour of the sky. ‘But I have every confidence in them.’ His gaze returned to her. ‘Now I have a request of you, High Mage.’
‘Me?’
‘A journey through your Warren. I’m needed elsewhere.’
‘What?’ She gestured to the shore. ‘But what of this? You’re needed here!’
He shook his head. ‘No. It’s no longer up to me here. I can only watch. Nok and Shul have their orders and they will see things through. I must go – believe me.’
‘But the Lady …’
His lips crooked up in a smile. ‘We’re on water, mage.’
She sighed as she acknowledged defeat. ‘Very well. Where?’
‘West. I will let you know. In fact, you may sense it yourself.’
‘All right. West. If you must.’ She took hold of his forearm. ‘Gods – it’s been ages since I’ve done this.’ She reached out to Ruse … and stepped through.
She found herself on a flooded plain, standing in shin-deep water. The sky was clear, deep blue. Greymane was with her in his heavy armour of banded iron, helmet pushed high on his head. He hooked his gauntleted hands at his belt. ‘Where are we?’
‘I don’t know.’ She turned full circle: flat desolation in all directions. The water was fetid, heavy with silt and muck. The stink, gorge-rising.
‘Which way?’ Greymane asked, wincing at the smell.
‘This way.’ She headed off, slogging through the flood. Her sodden robes dragged as she pushed through the water.
They came to a long low hill, like a moraine, and there washed up against its side lay a great line of pale things like a high-water mark. At first she thought them stranded sea-life, seals or porpoises, but as they drew closer the awful truth of them clawed at her and she bent over, heaving up her stomach. Greymane steadied her.
‘God of the Sea preserve us,’ she managed, spitting and gasping. ‘What has happened here?’
‘It’s me,’ Greymane ground out, his voice thick with suppressed emotion. ‘A warning, or a lesson, from Mael.’
‘A lesson?’ She studied him anew. ‘What is this? What is going on here?’
The man tried to speak, looked away, blinking back tears, then tried again. ‘I’m going to do something, Devaleth. Something I’ve been running from for decades. Something that terrifies me.’
She backed away, splashing through the shallow polluted waters. ‘No!’ A dizzying suspicion clenched her chest – she could not breathe. ‘Stonewielder! No! Do not do this thing!’
/> ‘It must be done. I’ve always known that. I … I couldn’t summon the nerve, the determination, before. But now I see there’s no choice.’
She pointed to the swollen rotting corpses, men, women, children, heaved up like wreckage. ‘And what is this? You would do this!’
He bowed his head then raised it to look to the sky, blinking. ‘I was handed two ghastly choices decades ago, Devaleth. Mass murder on the one hand – and an unending atrocity of blood and death on the other. Which would you choose?’
‘I would find a third course!’
‘I tried. Believe me, I tried.’ He gestured off into the distance. ‘But it hasn’t stopped, has it?’ He added, more softly, ‘And do you really think it will?’
She had to shake her head. ‘No. It won’t. But … the price …’
‘It’s the only way to end it. Everyone is in too deep. A price must be paid.’
Devaleth hugged herself as if to keep the pain swelling in her chest contained. ‘I … I understand. For us the time for easy options is long past. And now our delay has brought us to this.’
‘Yes.’
She bowed her head. Gods – you are all a merciless lot, aren’t you? But then, how can you be any better than your worshippers? She started off again. ‘This way. I feel it. It’s unmistakable.’
She found the locus: a great current coursing through the flood where the water fairly vibrated with power. Here she brought them out of the Warren to appear in the shallows of a long wide beach that led up to a wooded shore.
Greymane turned to her. ‘My thanks. You didn’t have to …’
She waved that aside. ‘I understand. It’s time we made the hard choices. And I understand now why you pushed everyone away. Your friend Kyle. Us. All of us.’
He winced at that. ‘Speak to him for me, won’t you? I … I couldn’t tell him.’
‘Yes.’
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