The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  The boy looked infinitely older, lifetimes closing in around his hooded eyes.

  “Rest later, Historian,” Coltaine said, fixing each person in the room with a slow, gauging study. “I made my command clear,” he said, turning at last to Bult. “Where is this captain of the Engineers?”

  Bult shrugged. “Word was sent. He’s a hard man to find.”

  Coltaine scowled. “Captain Chenned, your report.”

  “Third and Fifth companies are across the ford, digging in. The crossing’s about four hundred and twenty paces, not counting the shallows on both sides, which add another twenty or so. Average depth is one and a half arm-spans. Width is between four and five most of the way, a few places narrower, a few wider. The bottom’s about two fingers of muck over a solid spine of rocks.”

  “The Foolish Dog Clan will join your companies on the other side,” Coltaine said. “If the Guran forces try to take that side of the ford during the crossing, you will stop them.” The Fist wheeled to Captain Lull. “You and the Weasel Clan shall guard this side while the wounded and the refugees cross. I will maintain position to the south, blocking the village road, until the way is clear.”

  Captain Sulmar cleared his throat. “About the order of crossing, Fist. The Council of Nobles will scream—”

  “I care not. The wagons cross first, with the wounded. Then the livestock, then the refugees.”

  “Perhaps if we split it up more,” Sulmar persisted, sweat glistening on his flat brow, “a hundred cattle, then a hundred nobles—”

  “Nobles?” Bult asked. “You meant refugees, surely.”

  “Of course—”

  Captain Lull sneered at Sulmar. “Trying to buy favors on both sides, are you? And here I thought you were a soldier of the Seventh.”

  Sulmar’s face darkened.

  “Splitting the crossing would be suicide,” Chenned said.

  “Aye,” Bult growled, eyeing Sulmar as if he was a piece of rancid meat.

  “We’ve a responsibility—” the captain snapped before Coltaine cut him off with a snarled curse.

  It was enough. There was silence in the room. From outside came the creak of wagon wheels.

  Bult grunted. “Mouthpiece ain’t enough.”

  The door opened a moment later and two men entered. The one in the lead wore a spotless light-blue brocaded coat. Whatever muscle he’d carried in youth had given way to fat, and that fat had withered with three months of desperate flight. With a face like a wrinkled leather bag, he nonetheless projected a coddled air that was now tinged with indignant hurt. The man a step behind him also wore fine clothes—although reduced by dust and sweat to little more than shapeless sacks hanging from his lean frame. He was bald, the skin of his scalp patchy with old sunburn. He squinted at the others with watery eyes, blinking rapidly.

  The first nobleman spoke. “Word of this gathering reached the Council belatedly—”

  “Unofficially, too,” Bult muttered dryly.

  The nobleman continued with the barest of pauses. “Events such as these are admittedly concerned with military discussions for the most part, and Heavens forbid the Council involve itself with such matters. However, as representatives of the nearly thirty thousand refugees now gathered here, we have assembled a list of…issues…that we would like to present to you.”

  “You represent a few thousand nobles,” Captain Lull said, “and as such your own Hood-damned interests and no one else’s, Nethpara. Save the piety for the latrines.”

  Nethpara did not deign to acknowledge the captain’s comments. His gaze held on Coltaine, awaiting a reply.

  The Fist gave no sign that he was prepared to provide one. “Find the sappers, Uncle,” he said to Bult. “The wagons begin crossing in an hour.”

  The veteran Wickan slowly nodded.

  “We were expecting a night of rest,” Sulmar said, frowning. “Everyone’s dead on their feet—”

  “An hour,” Coltaine growled. “The wagons with the wounded first. I want at least four hundred across by dawn.”

  Nethpara spoke, “Please, Fist, reconsider this order of crossing. While my heart breaks for those wounded soldiers, your responsibility is to protect the refugees. More, it will be viewed by many in the Council as a grievous insult that the livestock should cross before unarmed civilians of the Empire.”

  “And if we lose the cattle?” Lull asked the nobleman. “I suppose you could spit the orphaned children over a fire.”

  Nethpara smiled resignedly. “Ah, yes, the matter of the reduced rations numbers in our list of concerns. We have it on good account that such reductions have not been applied to the soldiers of the Seventh. Perhaps a more balanced method of distribution could be considered? It is so very difficult to see the children wither away.”

  “Less meat on their bones, eh?” Lull’s face was flushed with barely restrained rage. “Without well-fed soldiers between you and the Tithansi, your stomachs will be flopping around your knees in no time.”

  “Get them out of here,” Coltaine said.

  The other nobleman cleared his throat. “While Nethpara speaks for the majority of the Council, his views are not unanimously held.” Ignoring the dark glare his companion threw him, the old man continued. “I am here out of curiosity, nothing more. For example, these wagons filled with wounded—it seems there are many more wounded than I had imagined: the wagons are veritably crowded, yet there are close to three hundred and fifty of them. Two days ago we were carrying seven hundred soldiers, using perhaps a hundred and seventy-five wagons. Two small skirmishes have occurred since then, yet we now have twice as many wagons being used to transport the wounded. More, the sappers have been crawling all over them, keeping everyone away even to the point of discouraging the efforts of the cutters. What, precisely, is being planned here?”

  There was silence. Duiker saw the two captains of the Seventh exchange puzzled looks. Sulmar’s baffled expression was almost comical as his mind stumbled back over the details presented by the old man. Only the Wickans seemed unaffected.

  “We have spread the wounded out,” Bult said. “Strengthened the side walls—”

  “Ah, yes,” the nobleman said, pausing to dab his watering eyes with a gray handkerchief. “So I first concluded. Yet why do those wagons now ride so heavy in the mud?”

  “Is this really necessary, Tumlit?” Nethpara asked in exasperation. “Technical nuances may be your fascination, but Hood knows, no one else’s. We were discussing the Council’s position on certain vital issues. No permission shall be accorded such digressions—”

  “Uncle,” Coltaine said.

  Grinning, Bult grasped both noblemen by their arms and guided them firmly to the door. “We’ve a crossing to plan,” he said. “Digressions unwelcome.”

  “Yet what of the stonecutters and the renderers—” Tumlit attempted.

  “Out, the both of you!” Bult pushed them forward. Nethpara was wise enough to open the door just in time as the commander gave them a final shove. The two noblemen stumbled outside.

  At a nod from Bult, the guard reached in and pulled the door shut.

  Lull rolled his shoulders beneath the weight of his chain shirt. “Anything we should know, Fist?”

  “I’m concerned,” said Chenned after it was clear that Coltaine would not respond to Lull’s question, “about the depth of this ford. The crossing’s likely to be damned slow—not that there’s much of a current, but with the mud underfoot and four and a half feet of water ain’t nobody going to cross fast. Even on a horse.” He glanced at Lull. “A fighting withdrawal won’t be pretty.”

  “You all know your positions and tasks,” Coltaine said. He swung to Sormo, eyes narrowing as he studied the warlock, then the children arrayed behind him. “You’ll each have a warlock,” he said to his officers. “All communication will be through them. Dismissed.”

  Duiker watched the officers and the children leave, until only Bult, Sormo and Coltaine remained.

  The warlock conjured
a jug seemingly from nowhere and passed it to his Fist. Coltaine drank down a mouthful, then passed it to Duiker. The Fist’s eyes glittered. “Historian, you’ve a story to tell us. You were with the Seventh’s mage, Kulp. Rode out with him only hours before the uprising. Sormo cannot find the man…anywhere. Dead?”

  “I don’t know,” Duiker said truthfully. “We were split up.” He downed a mouthful from the jug, then stared at it in surprise. Chilled ale, where did Sormo get this from? He glanced at the warlock. “You’ve searched for Kulp through your warren?”

  The young man crossed his arms. “A few times,” he replied. “Not lately. The warrens have become…difficult.”

  “Lucky us,” Bult said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Sormo sighed. “Recall our one ritual, Historian? The plague of D’ivers and Soletaken? They infest every warren now—at least on this continent. All are seeking the fabled Path of Hands. I have been forced to turn my efforts to the old ways, the sorceries of the land, of life spirits and totem beasts. Our enemy, the High Mage Kamist Reloe, does not possess such Elder knowledge. So he dares not unleash his magery against us. Not for weeks now.”

  “Without it,” Coltaine said, “Reloe is but a competent commander. Not a genius. His tactics are simplistic. He looks upon his massive army and lets his confidence undervalue the strength and will of his opponents.”

  “He don’t learn from his defeats, either,” Bult said.

  Duiker held his gaze on Coltaine. “Where do you lead this train, Fist?”

  “Ubaryd.”

  The historian blinked. Two months away, at least. “We still hold that city, then?”

  Silence stretched.

  “You don’t know,” Duiker said.

  “No,” Bult said, retrieving the jug from the historian’s hand and taking a mouthful.

  “Now, Duiker,” Coltaine said, “tell us of your journey.”

  The historian had no intention of explaining his efforts regarding Heboric Light Touch. He sketched a tale that ran close enough to the truth, however, to sound convincing. He and Kulp had ridden to a coastal town to meet some old friends in a Marine detachment. Ill luck that it was the night of the Mutiny. Seeing an opportunity to pass through the enemy ranks in disguise, gathering information as he went, Duiker elected to ride. Kulp had joined the marines in an effort to sail south to Hissar’s harbor. As he spoke, the muted sounds of wagons lurching into motion on the oxbow island reached the men.

  It was loud enough for Kamist Reloe’s soldiers to hear, and rightly guess that the crossing had begun. Duiker wondered how the Whirlwind commander would respond.

  As the historian began elaborating on what he had observed of the enemy, Coltaine cut him off with a raised hand. “If all your narratives are as dull, it’s a wonder anyone reads them,” he muttered.

  Smiling, Duiker leaned back and closed his eyes. “Ah, Fist, it’s the curse of history that those who should read them, never do. Besides, I am tired.”

  “Uncle, find this old man a tent and a bedroll,” Coltaine said. “Give him two hours. I want him up to witness as much of the crossing as possible. Let the events of the next day be written, lest history’s lesson be lost to all who follow.”

  “Two hours?” Duiker mumbled. “I can’t guarantee I won’t have a blurry recollection, assuming I survive to record the tale.”

  A hand shook his shoulder. The historian opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep in the chair. A blanket had been thrown across him, the Wickan wool foul-smelling and dubiously stained. A young corporal stood over him.

  “Sir? You are to rise now.”

  Every bone ached. Duiker scowled. “What’s your name, Corporal?”

  “List, sir. Fifth Company, sir.”

  Oh. Yes, the one who died and died in the mock engagements.

  Only now did the composite roar from outside reach the historian’s senses. He sat up. “Hood’s breath! Is that a battle out there?”

  Corporal List shrugged. “Not yet. Just the drovers and the livestock. They’re crossing. There’s been some clashes on the other side—the Guran army’s arrived. But we’re holding.”

  Duiker flung the blanket aside and stood up. List handed him a battered tin cup.

  “Careful, sir, it’s hot.”

  The historian stared down at the dark-brown liquid. “What is it?”

  “Don’t know, sir. Something Wickan.”

  He took a sip, wincing at the scalding, bitter taste. “Where is Coltaine? Something I forgot to tell him last night.”

  “He rides with his Crow Clan.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost dawn.”

  Almost dawn, and the cattle are only starting to cross? He felt himself becoming alert, glanced down again at the drink and took another sip. “This one of Sormo’s brews? It’s got my nerves jumping.”

  “Some old woman handed it to me, sir. Are you ready?”

  “You’ve been assigned to me, List?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your first task then, Corporal, is to direct me to the latrine.”

  They stepped outside to mayhem. Cattle covered the oxbow island, a mass of humped backs slowly edging forward to the shouts of drovers. The other side of the Sekala was obscured in clouds of dust that had begun drifting over the river.

  “This way, sir.” List gestured toward a trench behind the farmhouse.

  “Dispense with the ‘sirs,’ ” Duiker said as they headed toward the latrine. “And find me a rider. Those soldiers on the other side have some serious trouble heading their way.”

  “Sir?”

  Duiker stood at the edge of the trench. He hitched back his telaba, then paused. “There’s blood in this trench.”

  “Yes, sir. What was that about the other side of the river, sir?”

  “Heard from some Tithansi outriders,” the historian said as he relieved his bladder. “The Semk have come south. They’ll be on the Guran side, I’d guess. That tribe has sorcerers, and their warriors put the fear in the Tithansi, so you can expect they’re a nasty bunch. I’d planned on mentioning it last night but forgot.”

  A troop of horsewarriors was passing in front of the house at that moment. Corporal List raced back to intercept them.

  Duiker finished and rejoined his aide. He slowed. The troop’s standard was instantly recognizable. List was breathlessly conveying the message to the commander. The historian shook off his hesitation and approached.

  “Baria Setral.”

  The Red Blade commander’s eyes flicked to Duiker, went cold. Beside him his brother Mesker growled wordlessly.

  “Seems your luck’s held,” the historian said.

  “And yours,” Baria rumbled. “But not that white-haired mage. Too bad. I was looking forward to hanging his hide from our banner. This word of the Semk—from you?”

  “From the Tithansi.”

  Mesker barked a laugh and grinned. “Shared their tents on the way, did you?” He faced his brother. “It’s a lie.”

  Duiker sighed. “What would be the point of that?”

  “We ride to support the Seventh’s advance picket,” Baria said. “We shall pass on your warning.”

  “It’s a trap—”

  “Shut up, brother,” Baria said, his eyes still on Duiker. “A warning is just that. Not a lie, not a trap. If Semk show, we will be ready. If not, then the tale was false. Nothing surrendered.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” Duiker said. “We’re on the same side, after all.”

  “Better late than never,” Baria growled. A hint of a smile showed in his oiled beard. “Historian.” He raised a gauntleted fist, opened it. At the gesture the troop of Red Blades resumed their canter to the ford, Mesker alone flinging a dark glare Duiker’s way as he rode past.

  The pale light of dawn edged its way into the valley. Above the Sekala an impenetrable cloud of dust eased crossways to the faint breeze, descending on the ford itself, then staying there. The entire crossing was obscu
red. Duiker grunted. “Nice touch, that.”

  “Sormo,” Corporal List said. “It’s said he’s awakened the spirits of the land and the air. From a sleep of centuries, for even the tribes have left those ways behind. Sometimes you can…smell them.”

  The historian glanced at the young man. “Smell?”

  “Like when you flip a big rock over. The scent that comes up. Cool, musty.” He shrugged. “Like that.”

  An image of List as a boy—only a few years younger than he was now—flashed into Duiker’s mind. Flipping rocks. A world to explore, the cocoon of peace. He smiled. “I know that smell, List. Tell me, these spirits—how strong are they?”

  “Sormo says they’re pleased. Eager to play.”

  “A spirit’s game is a man’s nightmare. Well, let’s hope they take their play seriously.”

  The mass of refugees—Duiker saw as he resumed his study of the situation—had been pushed off the oxbow island, across the ford road, to the south slope and swampy bed of the old oxbow channel. There were too many for the space provided, and he saw the far edge of the crowd creeping onto the hills beyond. A few had taken to the river, south of the ford, and were moving slowly out into the current.

  “Who is in charge of the refugees?”

  “Elements of the Crow Clan. Coltaine has his Wickans oversee them—the refugees are as scared of them as they are of the Apocalypse.”

  And the Wickans won’t be bought, either.

  “There, sir!” List pointed to the east.

  The enemy positions that Duiker had ridden between the night before had begun moving. The Sialk and Hissari infantry were on the right, Hissari lancers on the left and Tithansi horsewarriors down the center. The two mounted forces surged forward toward the Weasel Clan’s defenses. Mounted Wickan bowmen accompanied by lancers rode out to meet them. But the thrust was a feint, the Hissari and Tithansi wheeling west before locking antlers. Their commanders had called it too fine, however, as the Wickan bowmen had edged into range. Arrows flew. Riders and horses fell.

  Then it was the turn of the Wickan lancers to bolt forward in a sudden charge and their enemy quickly withdrew back to their original positions. Duiker watched in surprise as the lancers pulled up, a number of them dismounting as their bowmen kin covered them. Wounded enemy were summarily despatched, scalps and equipment taken. Ropes appeared. Minutes later the Wickans rode back to their defenses, dragging the horse carcasses with them, along with a handful of wounded mounts they had managed to round up.