Karsa Orlong smiled. Ah, they have arrived.
He lifted his sword’s point slightly higher, then surged forward.
It would not do—it turned out—to have the chains sundered. The tension suddenly vanished, and, for this night at least, all resistance to Toblakai’s will had ended.
He left the ridge and descended the slope, into the gloom once more.
Fist Gamet was lying on his cot, struggling to breathe as a tightness seized his throat. Thunder filled his head, in thrumming waves of pain radiating out from a spot just above and behind his right eye.
Pain such as he had never felt before, driving him onto his side, the cot creaking and pitching as nausea racked him, the vomit spraying onto the floor. But the emptying of his stomach offered no surcease from the agony in his skull.
His eyes were open but he was blind.
There had been headaches. Every day, since his fall from his horse. But nothing like this.
The barely healed knife-slash in his palm had reopened during his contortions, smearing sticky blood across his face and brow when he sought to claw the pain out from his head, and the wound now felt as if it was afire, scorching his veins.
Groaning, he clambered sideways from the cot and then halted, on his hands and knees, head hanging down, as waves of trembling shivered through him.
I need to move. I need to act. Something. Anything.
I need—
A time of blankness, then he found himself standing near the tent flap. Weighted in his armour, gauntlets covering his hands, helm on his head. The pain was fading, a cool emptiness rising in its wake.
He needed to go outside. He needed his horse.
Gamet strode from the tent. A guard accosted him but he waved the woman away and hurried towards the corrals.
Ride. Ride out. It’s time.
Then he was cinching the saddle of his horse, waiting for the beast to release its breath, then drawing it a notch tighter. A clever horse. Paran stables, of course. Fast and of almost legendary endurance. Impatient with incompetence, ever testing the rider’s claim to being in charge, but that was to be expected from such a fine breed.
Gamet swung himself into the saddle. It felt good to be riding once more. On the move, the ground whispering past as he rode down the back ramp, then round the jagged island and towards the basin.
He saw three figures ahead, standing at the ridge, and thought nothing strange as to their presence. They are what will come. These three.
Nil. Nether. The lad, Grub.
The last turned as Gamet reined in beside them. And nodded. ‘The Wickans and Malazans are on the flanks, Fist. But your assault will be straight up the Dogslayers’ main ramp.’ And he pointed.
Footsoldiers and cavalry were massing in the basin, moving through the thick gloom. Gamet could hear the whisper of armour, feel the thud of countless horse hoofs. He saw banners and standards, hanging limp and ragged.
‘Ride to them, Fist,’ Grub said.
And he saluted the child and set heels to his mount’s flanks.
Black and rust-red armour, visored helms with ornate cheek-guards, short thrusting javelins and kite shields, the rumble of countless booted feet—he rode alongside one column, casting an appraising eye over the companies of infantry.
Then a wing of cavalry swept round to engulf him. One rider rode close. A dragon-winged helm swivelled to face him. ‘Ride with us, soldier?’
‘I cannot,’ Gamet replied. ‘I am the Fist. I must command.’
‘Not this night,’ the warrior replied. ‘Fight at our sides, as the soldier you are. Remember the old battles? When all that was required was the guarding of the companions flanking you. Such will be this night. Leave the commanding to the lords. Ride with us in freedom. And glory.’
A surge of exultation swept through Gamet. The pain in his head was gone. He could feel his blood racing like fire in his muscles. He wanted this. Yes, he wanted this very thing.
Gamet unsheathed his sword, the sound an echoing rasp in the chill air.
His helmed companion laughed. ‘Are you with us, soldier?’
‘I am, friend.’
They reached the base of the cobbled ramp, slowing to firm up their formation. A broad wedge that then began assailing the slope, hoofs striking sparks off the stones.
The Dogslayers had yet to sound an alarm.
Fools. They’ve slept through it all. Or perhaps sorcery has deadened the sounds of our preparation. Ah, yes. Nil and Nether. They are still there, on the ridge the other side of the basin.
The company’s standard bearer was just a few horses to Gamet’s left. He squinted up at the banner, wondered that he had never seen it before. There was something of the Khundryl in its design, torn and frayed though it was. A clan of the Burned Tears, then—which made sense given the archaic armour his comrades were wearing. Archaic and half rotting, in fact. Too long stored in chests—moths and other vermin have assailed it, but the bronze looks sound enough, if tarnished and pitted. A word to the commanders later, I think…
Cool, gauging thoughts, even as his proud horse thundered alongside the others. Gamet glared upward, and saw the crest directly before them. He lifted high his longsword and loosed a savage scream.
The wedge poured over the crest, swept our into the unaware ranks of Dogslayers, still huddled down in their trenches.
Screams on all sides, strangely muted, almost faint. Sounds of battle, yet they seemed a league distant, as if carried on the wind. Gamet swung his sword, his eyes meeting those of Dogslayers, seeing the horror writ there. Watching mouths open to shriek, yet hardly any sound came forth, as if the sands were swallowing everything, absorbing sound as eagerly as they did blood and bile.
Masses surged over the trenches, blackened swords swinging and chopping down. The ramp to the east had been overrun by the Wickans. Gamet saw the waving standards and grinned. Crow. Foolish Dog. Weasel.
Out of the impenetrably black sky descended butterflies, in swarms, to flit above the carnage in the trenches.
On the ramp to the west there was the flash of Moranth munitions, sending grim reverberations through the earth, and Gamet could watch the slaughter over there, a scene panoramic and dulled, as if he was looking upon a mural—a painting where ancient armies warred in eternal battle.
They had come for the Dogslayers. For the butcherers of unarmed Malazans, soldier and civilian, the stubborn and the fleeing, the desperate and the helpless. The Dogslayers, who had given their souls to betrayal.
The fight raged on, but it was overwhelmingly one-sided. The enemy seemed strangely incapable of mustering any kind of defence. They simply died in their trenches, or seeking to retreat they were run down after but a few strides. Skewered by lances, javelins. Trampled beneath chopping hoofs.
Gamet understood their horror, saw with a certain satisfaction the terror in their faces as he and his comrades delivered death.
He could hear the battle song now, rising and falling like waves on a pebbled shore, yet building towards a climax yet to come—yet to come, but soon. Soon. Yes, we’ve needed a song. We’ve waited a long time for such a song. To honour our deeds, our struggles. Our lives and our deaths. We’ve needed our own voice, so that our spirits could march, march ever onward.
To battle.
To war.
Manning these walls of crumbled brick and sand. Defending the bone-dry harbours and the dead cities that once blazed with ancient dreams, that once flickered life’s reflection on the warm, shallow sea.
Even memories need to be defended.
Even memories.
He fought on, side by side with his dark warrior companions—and so grew to love them, these stalwart comrades, and when at last the dragon-helmed horse warrior rode up and reined in before him, Gamet whirled his sword in greeting.
The rider laughed once again. Reached up a blood-spattered, gauntleted hand, and raised the visor—to reveal the face of a dark-skinned woman, her eyes a stunning blue within a web of desert lines.
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‘There are more!’ Gamet shouted—though even to his own ears his voice sounded far away. ‘More enemies! We must ride!’
Her teeth flashed white as she laughed again. ‘Not the tribes, my friend! They are kin. This battle is done—others will shed blood come the morrow. We march to the shores, soldier—will you join us?’
He saw more than professional interest in her eyes.
‘I shall.’
‘You would leave your friends, Gamet Ul’Paran?’
‘For you, yes.’
Her smile, and the laugh that followed, stole the old man’s heart.
A final glance to the other ramps showed no movement. The Wickans to the east had ridden on, although a lone crow was wheeling overhead. The Malazans to the west had withdrawn. And the butterflies had vanished. In the trenches of the Dogslayers, an hour before dawn, only the dead remained.
Vengeance. She will be pleased. She will understand, and be pleased.
As am I.
Goodbye, Adjunct Tavore.
Koryk slowly settled down beside him, stared northeastward as if seeking to discover what so held the man’s attention. ‘What is it?’ he asked after a time. ‘What are you looking at, Sergeant?’
Fiddler wiped at his eyes. ‘Nothing…or nothing that makes sense.’
‘We’re not going to see battle in the morning, are we?’
He glanced over, studied the young Seti’s hard-edged features, wanting to see something in them, though he was not quite certain what. After a moment, he sighed and shrugged. ‘The glory of battle, Koryk, dwells only in the bard’s voice, in the teller’s woven words. Glory belongs to ghosts and poets. What you hear and dream isn’t the same as what you live—blur the distinction at your own peril, lad.’
‘You’ve been a soldier all your life, Sergeant. If it doesn’t ease a thirst within you, why are you here?’
‘I’ve no answer to that,’ Fiddler admitted. ‘I think, maybe, I was called here.’
‘That song Bottle said you were hearing?’
‘Aye.’
‘What does it mean? That song?’
‘Quick Ben will have a better answer to that, I think. But my gut is whispering one thing over and over again. The Bridgeburners, lad, have ascended.’
Koryk made a warding sign and edged away slightly.
‘Or, at least, the dead ones have. The rest of us, we’re just…malingering. Here in the mortal realm.’
‘Expecting to die soon, then?’
Fiddler grunted. ‘Wasn’t planning on it.’
‘Good, because we like our sergeant just fine.’
The Seti moved away. Fiddler returned his gaze to the distant oasis. Appreciate that, lad. He narrowed his eyes, but the darkness defied him. Something was going on there. Feels as if…as if friends are fighting. I can almost hear sounds of battle. Almost.
Suddenly, two howls rose into the night.
Fiddler was on his feet. ‘Hood’s breath!’
From Smiles: ‘Gods, what was that?’
No. Couldn’t have been. But…
And then the darkness above the oasis began to change.
The row of horse warriors rode up before them amidst swirling dust, the horses stamping and tossing heads in jittery fear.
Beside him, Leoman of the Flails raised a hand to halt his company, then gestured Corabb to follow as he trotted his mount towards the newcomers.
Mathok nodded in greeting. ‘We have missed you, Leoman—’
‘My shaman has fallen unconcious,’ Leoman cut in. ‘He chose oblivion over terror. What is going on in the oasis, Mathok?’
The warleader made a warding sign. ‘Raraku has awakened. Ghosts have risen, the Holy Desert’s very own memories.’
‘And who is their enemy?’
Mathok shook his head. ‘Betrayal upon betrayal, Leoman. I have withdrawn my warriors from the oasis and encamped them between Sha’ik and the Malazans. Chaos has claimed all else—’
‘So you do not have an answer for me.’
‘I fear the battle is already lost—’
‘Sha’ik?’
‘I have the Book with me. I am sworn to protect it.’
Leoman frowned.
Shifting on his saddle, Corabb glared northeastward. Preternatural darkness engulfed the oasis, and it seemed to swarm as if filled with living creatures, winged shadows, spectral demons. And on the ground beneath, he thought he could see the movement of masses of soldiery. Corabb shivered.
‘To Y’Ghatan?’ Leoman asked.
Mathok nodded. ‘With my own tribe as escort. Leaving almost nine thousand desert warriors at your disposal…for you to command.’
But Leoman shook his head. ‘This battle will belong to the Dogslayers, Mathok. There is no choice left to me. I have not the time to greatly modify our tactics. The positions are set—she waited too long. You did not answer me, Mathok. What of Sha’ik?’
‘The goddess holds her still,’ the warleader replied. ‘Even Korbolo Dom’s assassins cannot get to her.’
‘The Napan must have known that would happen,’ Leoman muttered. ‘And so he has planned…something else.’
Mathok shook his head. ‘My heart has broken this night, my friend.’
Leoman studied the old warrior for a time, then he nodded. ‘Until Y’Ghatan, then, Mathok.’
‘You ride to Sha’ik?’
‘I must.’
‘Tell her—’
‘I will.’
Mathok nodded, unmindful of the tears glistening down his lined cheeks. He straightened suddenly in his saddle. ‘Dryjhna once belonged to us, Leoman. To the tribes of this desert. The Book’s prophecies were sewn to a far older skin. The Book was in truth naught but a history, a telling of apocalyptic events survived—not of those to come—’
‘I know, my friend. Guard well the Book, and go in peace.’
Mathok wheeled his horse to face the west trail. An angry gesture and his riders followed as he rode into the gloom.
Leoman stared after them for a long moment.
Howls shattered the night.
Corabb saw his commander suddenly bare his teeth as he glared into the darkness ahead. Like two beasts about to come face to face. Spirits below, what awaits us?
‘Weapons!’ Leoman snarled.
The company thundered forward, along the trail Corabb had now traversed what seemed countless times.
The closer they drew to the oasis, the more muted the sound of their passage, as if the darkness was devouring all sound. Those howls had not been repeated, and Corabb was beginning to wonder if they had been real at all. Perhaps not a mortal throat at all. An illusion, a cry to freeze all in their tracks—
The vanguard entered a defile and suddenly quarrels sprouted from riders and horses. Screams, toppling warriors, stumbling horses. From further back in the column, the clash of swords and shields.
Dogslayers!
Somehow, Corabb and his horse found themselves plunging clear. A figure darted close to his left and he shrieked, raising his weapon.
‘It’s me, damn you!’
‘Leoman!’
His commander’s horse had been killed beneath him. He reached up.
Corabb clasped Leoman’s arm and vaulted him onto his horse’s back.
‘Ride, Bhilan! Ride!’
Black-armoured horse warriors plunged through the low wall, massive axes whirling in their gauntleted hands.
Quick Ben yelped and dived for cover.
Cursing, Kalam followed, Korbolo Dom’s bound body bouncing on his shoulders. He flung himself down beside the wizard as hoofs flashed over them, raining sand and bits of mortar.
Then the heavy cavalry was past.
Kalam pushed the Napan off his back and twisted onto his side to glare at Quick Ben. ‘Who in Hood’s name were those bastards?’
‘We’d best lie low for a time,’ the wizard muttered with a grimace, rubbing grit from his eyes. ‘Raraku’s unleashed her ghosts—’
‘And
are they the ones singing? Those voices are right inside my head—’
‘Mine, too, friend. Tell me, had any conversations with a Tanno Spiritwalker lately?’
‘A what? No. Why?’
‘Because that is what you’re hearing. If it was a song woven around these ancient ghosts we’re seeing, well, we’d not be hearing it. In fact, we’d not be hearing much of anything at all. And we’d have been chopped into tiny pieces by now. Kalam, that Tanno song belongs to the Bridgeburners.’
What?
‘Makes you wonder about cause and effect, doesn’t it? A Tanno stole our tale and fashioned a song—but for that song to have any effect, the Bridgeburners had to die. As a company. And now it has. Barring you and me—’
‘And Fiddler. Wait! Fid mentioned something about a Spiritwalker in Ehrlitan.’
‘It would have had to have been direct contact. A clasping of hands, an embrace, or a kiss—’
‘That bastard sapper—I remember he was damned cagey about something. A kiss? Remind me to give Fiddler a kiss next time I see him, one he’ll never forget—’
‘Whoever it was and however it happened,’ Quick Ben said, ‘the Bridgeburners have now ascended—’
‘Ascended? What in the Queen’s name does that mean?’
‘Damned if I know, Kalam. I’ve never heard of such a thing before. A whole company—there’s no precedent for this, none at all.’
‘Except maybe the T’lan Imass.’
The wizard’s dark eyes narrowed on his friend. ‘An interesting thought,’ he murmured. Then sighed. ‘In any case, Raraku’s ghosts have risen on that song. Risen…to battle. But there’s more—I swear I saw a Wickan standard back near the Dogslayer trenches just as we were hightailing it out of there.’
‘Well, maybe Tavore’s taken advantage of all this—’
‘Tavore knows nothing of it, Kalam. She carries an otataral sword, after all. Maybe the mages she has with her sense something, but the darkness that’s descended on this oasis is obscuring everything.’
Kalam grunted. ‘Any other good news to tell me, Quick?’
‘The darkness is sorcery. Remember whenever Anomander Rake arrived some place with his warren unveiled? That weight, the trembling ground, the overwhelming pressure?’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 362