Making no reply, Redmask dismounted, walking to halt six paces in front of Hadralt. He unlimbered the rygtha crescent axe and centred his grip on the hafted weapon. ‘Your father is gone. You must now let go of his hand and stand alone, Hadralt. The first and last time. You have failed as war leader. You led Awl warriors to battle, then led them in flight. You betrayed allies. And now, you hide here on the very edge of the wastelands, rather than meet the invading Letherii blade to blade, teeth to throat. You will now step aside, or die.’
‘Step aside?’ Hadralt tilted his head, then managed a rictus smile. ‘That choice is not offered to an Awl warrior.’
‘True,’ Redmask said. ‘Only to elders who can no longer defend themselves, or to those too broken by wounds.’
Hadralt bared his teeth. ‘I am neither.’
‘Nor are you an Awl warrior. Did your father step aside? No, I see that he did not. He looked into your soul, and knew you, Hadralt. And so, old as he was, he fought you. For his tribe. For his honour.’
Hadralt unsheathed his hook-blades. He was trembling once more.
One of the copper-faces then spoke. ‘Capalah ate in the hut of his son. In a single night he sickened and died. In the morning, his face was the colour of blue lichen.’
‘Trenys’galah?’ Redmask’s eyes narrowed in the mask’s slits. ‘You poisoned your father, Hadralt? Rather than meet his blades? How is it you stand here at all?’
‘Poison has no name,’ muttered the same copper-face.
Hadralt said, ‘I am the reason the Awl still live! You will lead them to slaughter, Redmask! We are not yet ready to face the Letherii. I have been trading for weapons – yes, there are Letherii who believe our cause is just. We give up poor land, and receive fine iron weapons – and now you come, to undo all my plans!’
‘I see those weapons,’ Redmask said. ‘In the hands of many of your warriors. Have they been tested in battle? You are a fool, Hadralt, to believe you won that bargain. The traders you meet are in the employ of the Factor – he profits on both sides of this war—’
‘A lie!’
‘I was in Drene,’ Redmask said, ‘less than two weeks ago. I saw the wagons and their crates of cast-off weapons, the iron blades that will shatter at the first blow against a shield. Weapons break, are lost, yet this is what you accepted, this is what you surrendered land for – land home to the dust of our ancestors. Home to Awl spirits, land that has drunk Awl blood.’
‘Letherii weapons—’
‘Must be taken from the corpses of soldiers – those are the weapons worthy of the term, Hadralt. If you must use their way of fighting, then you must use weapons of a quality to match. Lest you invite your warriors to slaughter. And this,’ he added, ‘is clearly what you were not prepared to do. Thus, Hadralt, I am led to conclude that you knew the truth. If so, then the traders paid you in more than weapons. Did you share out the coin, War Leader? Do your kin even know of the hoard you hide in your hut?’
Redmask watched as the copper-faces slowly moved away from Hadralt. Recognizing the betrayal their leader had committed upon them, upon the Awl.
‘You intended surrender,’ Redmask continued, ‘didn’t you? You were offered an estate in Drene, yes? And slaves and Indebted to do your bidding. You planned on selling off our people, our history—’
‘We cannot win!’
Hadralt’s last words. Three sword-blades erupted from his chest, thrust into his back by his own copper-faces. Eyes wide with shock, the firstborn son and slayer of Capalah, last worthy leader of the Ganetok, stared across at Redmask. Hook-blades fell from his hands, then he sagged forward, sliding from the swords with a ghastly sucking sound almost immediately replaced by the gush of blood.
Eyes blank now in death, the corpse of Hadralt then toppled face-first into the dust.
Redmask returned the rygtha to its harness. ‘Seeds fall from the crown of the stalk. What is flawed there makes its every child weak. The curse of cowardice has ended this day. We are the Awl, and I am your war leader.’ He paused, looked round, then said, ‘And so I shall lead you to war.’
On the ridge overlooking the sprawling encampment, Masarch made a gesture to sun and sky, then earth and wind. ‘Redmask now rules the Awl.’
Kraysos, standing on his right, grunted then said, ‘Did you truly doubt he would succeed, Masarch? Kechra guard his flanks. He is the charging crest of a river of blood, and he shall flood these lands. And even as the Letherii drown in it, so shall we.’
‘You cheated the death night, Kraysos, and so you still fear dying.’
On Masarch’s other side, Theven snorted. ‘The bledden herb had lost most of its potency. It took neither of us through the night. I screamed to the earth, Masarch. I screamed and screamed. So did Kraysos. We do not fear what is to come.’
‘Hadralt was killed by his own warriors,’ Masarch said. ‘From behind. This does not bode well.’
‘You are wrong,’ Theven said. ‘Redmask’s words have turned them all. I did not think such a thing would be possible.’
‘I suspect we will be saying that often,’ noted Kraysos.
‘We should walk down, now,’ said Masarch. ‘We are his first warriors, and behind us now there are tens of thousands.’
Theven sighed. ‘The world has changed.’
‘We will live a while longer, you mean.’
The young warrior glanced across at Masarch. ‘That is for Redmask to decide.’
Brohl Handar rode at the Atri-Preda’s side as the troop made its way down the trader track, still half a day from Drene’s gates. The soldiers at their backs were silent, stoking anger and dreams of vengeance, no doubt. There had been elements of Bluerose cavalry stationed in Drene since shortly after the annexation of Bluerose itself. As far as Brohl Handar understood, the acquisition of Bluerose had not been as bloodless as Drene had been. A complicated religion had served to unite disaffected elements of the population, led by a mysterious priesthood the Letherii had been unable to entirely exterminate. Reputedly some rebel groups still existed, active mostly in the mountains lining the western side of the territory.
In any case, the old Letherii policy of transferring Bluerose units to distant parts of the empire continued under Edur rule, certainly suggesting that risks remained. Brohl Handar wondered how the newly appointed Edur overseer in Bluerose was managing, and he reminded himself to initiate contact with his counterpart – stability in Bluerose was essential, for any disruption of Drene’s principal supply route and trading partner could prove disastrous if the situation here in the Awl’dan ignited into full-out war.
‘You seem thoughtful, Overseer,’ Bivatt said after a time.
‘Logistics,’ he replied.
‘If by that you mean military, such needs are my responsibility, sir.’
‘Your army’s needs cannot be met in isolation, Atri-Preda. If this conflict escalates, as I believe it will, then even the Factor cannot ensure that shortages will not occur, particularly among non-combatants in Drene and surrounding communities.’
‘In all-out war, Overseer, the requirements of the military always take precedence. Besides, there is no reason to anticipate shortages. The Letherii are well versed in these matters. Our entire system of transport was honed by the exigencies of expansion. We possess the roads, the necessary sea lanes and merchant vessels.’
‘There nonetheless remains a chokepoint,’ Brohl Handar pointed out. ‘The Bluerose Mountains.’
She shot him a startled glance. ‘The primary eastward trade goods through that range are slaves and some luxury foodstuffs from the far south. Bluerose of course is renowned for its mineral wealth, producing a quality of iron that rivals Letherii steel. Tin, copper, lead, lime and firerock, as well as cedar and spruce – all in abundance, while the Bluerose Sea abounds with cod. In return, Drene’s vast farms annually produce a surplus harvest of grains. Overseer, you appear to have been misinformed with respect to the materiel demands in question. There will be no shortages—’<
br />
‘Perhaps you are right.’ He paused, then continued, ‘Atri-Preda, it is my understanding that the Factor has instituted extensive trafficking of low-grade weapons and armour across the Bluerose Mountains. These weapons are in turn sold to the Awl, in exchange for land or at least the end of dispute over land. Over four hundred broad-bed wagonloads have been shipped thus far. Although the Factor holds the tithe seal, no formal acknowledgement nor taxation of these items has taken place. From this, I can only assume that a good many other supplies are moving to and fro across those mountains, none with official approval.’
‘Overseer, regardless of the Factor’s smuggling operations, the Bluerose Mountains are in no way a chokepoint when it comes to necessary supplies.’
‘I hope you are right, especially given the recent failures of that route.’
‘Excuse me? What failures?’
‘The latest shipment of poor quality war materiel failed to arrive this side of the mountains, Atri-Preda. Furthermore, brigands struck a major fortress in the pass, routing the Letherii company stationed there.’
‘What? I have heard nothing of this! An entire company – routed?’
‘So it seems. Alas, that was the extent of the information provided me. Apart from the weapons, I was unsure what other items the Factor lost in that shipment. If, as you tell me, there was nothing more of consequence to fall into the hands of the brigands, then I am somewhat relieved.’
Neither spoke for a time. Brohl Handar was aware that the Atri-Preda’s thoughts were racing, perhaps drawn into a tumult of confusion – uncertainty at how much Brohl knew, and by extension the Tiste Edur, regarding Letherii illegalities; and perhaps greater unease at the degree to which she herself had remained ignorant of recent events in Bluerose. That she’d been shaken told him she was not as much an agent of Letur Anict as he had feared.
He decided he had waited long enough. ‘Atri-Preda, this imminent war with the Awl. Tell me, have you determined the complement of forces you feel will be necessary to effect victory?’
She blinked, visibly shifting the path of her thinking to address his question. ‘More or less, Overseer. We believe that the Awl could, at best, field perhaps eight or nine thousand warriors. Certainly not more than that. As an army, they are undisciplined, divisive due to old feuds and rivalries, and their style of combat is unsuited to fighting as a unit. So, easily broken, unprepared as they are for any engagement taking longer than perhaps a bell. Generally, they prefer to raid and ambush, keeping to small troops and striving to remain elusive. At the same time, their almost absolute dependency on their herds, and the vulnerability of their main camps, will, inevitably, force them to stand and fight – whereupon we annihilate them.’
‘A succinct preface,’ Brohl Handar said.
‘To answer you, we possess six companies of the Bluerose Battalion and near full complement of the reformed Artisan Battalion, along with detachments from the Drene Garrison and four companies from the Harridict Brigade. To ensure substantial numerical superiority, I will request the Crimson Rampant Brigade and at least half of the Merchants’ Battalion.’
‘Do you anticipate that this Redmask will in any way modify the tactics employed by the Awl?’
‘No. He did not do so the first time. The threat he represents lies in his genius for superior ambushes and appallingly effective raids, especially on our supply lines. The sooner he is killed, the swifter the end of the war. If he succeeds in evading our grasp, then we can anticipate a long and bloody conflict.’
‘Atri-Preda, I intend to request three K’risnan and four thousand Edur warriors.’
‘Victory will be quick, then, Overseer, for Redmask will not be able to hide for long from your K’risnan.’
‘Precisely. I want this war over as soon as possible, and with minimal loss of life – on both sides. Accordingly, we must kill Redmask at the first opportunity. And shatter the Awl army, such as it is.’
‘You wish to force the Awl to capitulate and seek terms?’
‘Yes.’
‘Overseer, I will accept capitulation. As for terms, the only ones I will demand are complete surrender. The Awl will be enslaved, one and all. They will be scattered throughout the empire but nowhere near their traditional homelands. As slaves, they will be booty, and the right to pick first will be the reward I grant my soldiers.’
‘The fate of the Nerek and the Fent and the Tarthenal.’
‘Even so.’
‘The notion does not sit well with me, Atri-Preda. Nor will it with any Tiste Edur, including the Emperor.’
‘Let us argue this point once we have killed Redmask, Overseer.’
He grimaced, then nodded. ‘Agreed.’
Brohl Handar silently cursed this Redmask, who had single-handedly torn through his hopes for a cessation of hostilities, for an equitable peace. Instead, Letur Anict now possessed all the justification he needed to exterminate the Awl, and no amount of tactical genius in ambushes and raids would, in the end, make any difference at all. It is the curse of leaders to believe they can truly change the world.
A curse that has even afflicted me, it seems. Am I too now a slave to Letur Anict and those like him?
The rage within him was the breath of ice, held deep and overlong, until its searing touch burned in his chest. Upon hearing the copper-face Natarkas’s last words, he rose in silent fury and stalked from the hut, then stood, eyes narrowed, until his vision could adjust to the moonless, cloud-covered night. Nearby, motionless as carved sentinels of stone, stood his K’Chain Che’Malle guardians, their eyes faintly glowing smudges in the darkness. As Redmask pushed himself into motion, their heads turned in unison to watch as he set off through the encampment.
Neither creature followed, for which he was thankful. Every step taken by the huge beasts set the camp’s dogs to howling and he was in no mood for their brainless cries.
Half the night was gone. He had called in the clan leaders and the most senior elders, one and all crowding into the hut that had once belonged to Hadralt. They had come expecting castigation, more condemnation from their new and much feared war leader, but Redmask had no interest in further belittling the warriors now under his command. The wounds of earlier that day were fresh enough. The courage they had lost could only be regained in battle.
For all of Hadralt’s faults, he had been correct in one thing – the old way of fighting against the Letherii was doomed to fail. Yet the now-dead war leader’s purported intent to retrain the Awl to a mode of combat identical to that of the Letherii was, Redmask told his followers, also doomed. The tradition did not exist, the Awl were skilled in the wrong weapons, and loyalties rarely crossed lines of clan and kin.
A new way had to be found.
Redmask had then asked about the mercenaries that had been hired, and the tale that unfolded had proved both complicated and sordid, details teased out from reluctant, shamefaced warriors. Oh, there had been plenty of Letherii coin delivered as part of the land purchase, and that wealth had been originally amassed with the intent of hiring a foreign army – one that had been found on the borderlands to the east. But Hadralt had then grown to covet all that gold and silver, so much so that he betrayed that army – led them to their deaths – rather than deliver the coin into their possession.
Such was the poison that was coin.
Where had these foreigners come from?
From the sea, it appeared, a landing on the north coast of the wastelands, in transports under the flag of Lamatath, a distant peninsular kingdom. Soldier priests and priestesses, sworn to wolf deities.
What had brought them to this continent?
Prophecy.
Redmask had started at that answer, which came from Natarkas, the spokesman among the copper-faces, the same warrior who had revealed Hadralt’s murder of Capalah.
A prophecy, War Leader, Natarkas had continued. A final war. They came seeking a place they called the Battlefield of the Gods. They called themselves the Grey Swords, the Re
ve of Togg and Fanderay. There were many women among them, including one of the commanders. The other is a man, one-eyed, who claims he has lost that eye three times—
No, War Leader, this one still lives. A survivor of the battle. Hadralt imprisoned him. He lies in chains behind the women’s blood-hut—
Natarkas had fallen silent then, recoiling at the sudden rage he clearly saw in Redmask’s eyes.
And now the masked war leader strode through the Ganetok encampment, eastward to the far edge where trenches had been carved into the slope, taking away the wastes of the Awl; to the hut of blood that belonged to the women, then behind it, where, chained to a stake, slept a filthy creature, the lower half of his battered body in the drainage trench, where women’s blood and urine trickled through mud, roots and stones on their way to the deep pits beyond.
Halting, then, to stand over the man, who awoke, turning his head to peer with one glittering eye up at Redmask.
‘Do you understand me?’ the war leader asked.
A nod.
‘What is your name?’
The lone eye blinked, and the man reached up to scratch the blistered scar tissue around the empty socket where his other eye had been. He then grunted, as if surprised, and struggled into a sitting position. ‘Anaster was my new name,’ he said; a strange twist of his mouth that might have been a grin, then the man added, ‘but I think my older name better suits me, with a slight alteration, that is. I am Toc.’ The smile broadened. ‘Toc the Unlucky.’
‘I am Redmask—’
‘I know who you are. I even know what you are.’
‘How?’
‘Can’t help you there.’
Redmask tried again. ‘What hidden knowledge of me do you think you possess?’
The smile faded, and the man looked down, seeming to study the turgid stream of thinned blood round his knees. ‘It made little sense back then. Makes even less sense now. You’re not what we expected, Redmask.’ He coughed, then spat, careful to avoid the women’s blood.
‘Tell me what you expected?’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 594