The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  Standing in the front row off to his right, where the sun’s light slanted across unobstructed, a grizzled corporal, his broad, flat face seamed with scars visible even from where the High Fist stood. Paran squinted at the man. Then he gestured to Noto Boil. The cutter walked over, pulling the spine from his mouth.

  ‘Noto Boil,’ Paran said in a low tone.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Walk over to that corporal – that one there – and take a closer look, and then report back to me.’

  ‘Is this a test?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  The cutter reinserted the spine and then headed over to halt directly in front of the corporal. After a moment, he swung round and made his way back.

  ‘Well?’ Paran demanded.

  Noto Boil removed the spine. ‘The man is crying, High Fist.’

  ‘He’s crying.’

  ‘So it seems, sir.’

  ‘But…why is he crying?’

  Noto Boil turned back to regard the corporal once more. ‘Was just the one tear. Could be anything.’

  Swearing under his breath, Paran marched over to stand before the corporal. The marine’s stare was fixed straight ahead. The track of that lone tear, etching its way down from his right eye, was already dulled with grit and dust. ‘Something in your eye, Corporal?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘You’re trembling.’

  The eyes flicked briefly in their thinned slits, locked for an instant with Paran’s own. ‘Is that so? Didn’t know that, sir. Beggin’ your pardon.’

  ‘Soldier, am I blocking your view?’

  ‘Yes sir, that you are, sir.’

  Slowly, Paran edged to one side. He studied the sapper’s face for a half-dozen heartbeats, and then a few more, until…oh, gods below! ‘I thought you said you weren’t sick, Corporal.’

  ‘I’m not, sir.’

  ‘I beg to differ.’

  ‘If you like, sir.’

  ‘Corporal.’

  Another flicker of the eyes. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Control yourselves. Be orderly. Don’t blow any of us up. Am I understood?’

  A quick nod. ‘Aye, sir. Bless you, sir.’

  Startled, Paran’s voice sharpened, ‘Bless me?’

  And from the mob of sappers came a muttered chorus, echoing the corporal’s blessing. Paran stepped back, struggled for a moment to regain his composure, and then raised his voice. ‘No need to rush – there’s plenty for everyone.’ He paused upon hearing a faint whimper, then continued, ‘In one turn of the sand I want you back with your squads. Your sergeants have been apprised of this resupply so you can be sure that the word has gone out. By the time you get back to them they will all have done with their prayers, sacrifices, and all the rest. In other words, they’ll be ready for you. The advance begins two turns of the sand from now. That is all.’

  He set off, not looking back.

  Noto Boil came up alongside him. ‘High Fist.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is this wise? That’s more munitions than any of them has ever seen.’

  ‘In those crates are just the sharpers, burners and smokers. I haven’t even let them see the cussers and redbolts—’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, the what bolts?’

  ‘It turns out, Noto, that there exists a whole class of munitions exclusive to the Moranth. Not for export, if you understand me. Through a card I was witness to the demonstration of some of them. These ones, which I have called redbolts, are similar to onager bolts. Only they do not require the onager.’

  ‘Curious, High Fist. But if you haven’t shown them to any sapper yet, how will anyone know how to use them?’

  ‘If we need to fight the Perish, well, it’s possible that a crash course will be necessary. For the moment, however, why distract them?’

  They were approaching the camp edge, where two companies of regulars and heavies were assembled, one to either side of the cobbled road. Between them and awaiting their arrival was Fist Rythe Bude.

  Noto Boil said, ‘One more question, sir.’

  Paran sighed. ‘What?’

  ‘Those cussers and redbolts, where did you hide them?’

  ‘Relax. I made my own warren for them – well, to be more precise, I walled off a small area in a different warren, accessible only to me, via a card.’

  ‘Ormulogun?’

  ‘Excuse me? Did he paint the card? Of course.’

  ‘Did he use a funny red slash, sir? Like lightning, only the colour of blood?’

  Paran frowned. ‘Redbolt symbol, yes. How did you know that?’

  Noto Boil shrugged. ‘Not sure, sir. Seen it somewhere, I suppose. No matter.’

  Corporal Stern wiped at his eyes. Crates were being cracked open, the sappers working quickly. He scanned the remaining boxes, swore under his breath, and then turned. ‘Manx, get over here.’

  The Dal Honese shaman waddled over. ‘Just what we figured! Only the small stuff. That bastard don’t trust us.’

  Stern grunted. ‘You idiot. I don’t trust us. But listen, if we—’

  Manx held up a hand in front of Stern’s face. ‘Got it covered. See?’

  The corporal tilted his head back, studied the tattoo blazoned across the hand’s palm. A blood-red jagged slash. ‘That’s it? That’s all you need?’

  ‘Should do. We made sure the toad described it in detail.’

  ‘Right. Has he recovered?’

  ‘Well, we roasted him a bit crispy here and there, but he’ll survive. It all kind of went wrong for a bit – I mean, we had ’em both trussed up, and we figured just threatening the toad would be enough to make the artist break down and talk. We was wrong. In fact, it was Ormulogun who suggested the roasting bit – never seen the old lunatic happier. We thought they was friends—’

  ‘Be quiet, will you? You’re babbling. I don’t care what happened, so long as you didn’t kill either of them.’

  ‘They’re alive, I told you. Trussed up and gagged for now. We’ll let ’em go later.’

  Stern looked round, raised his voice, ‘Sappers! Leave room for a cusser or two!’

  ‘Ain’t no cussers, Stern.’

  ‘Never mind that. It’s taken care of. Now let’s get this done – and carefully. We make a mistake here and we don’t take none of the bad guys with us on the way out, and that’ll send our souls to the fiends of the Sapper’s Torment for ever – and nobody wants that, do they?’

  A sudden hush, a renewed attention to caution, and here and there, a few subtle gestures warding against the curse of the Sapper’s Torment.

  Satisfied, Stern nodded. ‘Manx, stay close to me from now on.’

  ‘We ain’t never used one of those redbolts, Stern.’

  The man grunted. ‘Show me a munition I can’t figure out and I’ll show you the inside of the Cobra God’s nose.’

  Manx shot him a look. ‘Figured you had north Dal Hon blood in you.’

  ‘What’s in my blood don’t matter. I just know that when a sapper steps on to the field of battle, they’d be wise to call on every god they ever heard of.’

  ‘Amen and a spit in the eye t’that.’

  Stern hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Amen and a spit in the eye back. Now, you ready? Good. Let’s go find our squad. The sarge is gonna love this.’

  ‘No he ain’t!’

  ‘Sarge loves what I tell him to love, Manx. Credo of the Sapper’s Knuckle.’

  ‘“Who’s holding the sharper?” Aye, Sapper’s Knuckle. Hey, Stern.’

  ‘What?’

  The shaman was grinning. ‘See what this means? Us sappers. We’re back to what we never were but could’ve been, and don’t that taste sweet?’

  ‘It’s only sweet if we don’t mess this up. Now pay attention where you’re stepping. I seen gopher holes.’

  ‘Ain’t gophers, Stern. These are prairie dogs.’

  ‘Whatever. Stick a foot in one of those and we all go up.’
>
  Commander Erekala could feel the wind freshening, down from the north, funnelling up the narrow approach to the pass. Carried on that breeze was the smell of iron, leather, sweat and horses. Sister Staylock stood at his side, with a half-dozen messengers stationed behind them should commands need to be sent down to the flag stations positioned along the wall.

  The enemy forces were shaking out, seething motion all along the front lines. The medium and heavy infantry that had been positioned there in solid ranks since dawn were now splitting up to permit new troops to move forward in ragged formation. These newcomers bore no standards, and most of them had their shields still strapped to their backs. From what Erekala could make out, they were armed with crossbows and short swords.

  ‘Skirmishers?’ asked Staylock. ‘They don’t look light on their feet, Commander – some of them are wearing chain. Nor are they forming a line. Who are these soldiers?’

  ‘Marines.’

  ‘They appear…undisciplined, sir.’

  ‘It is my understanding, Sister Staylock, that against the Malazan marines the armies of the Seven Holy Cities had no counter. They are, in fact, unlike any other soldier on the field of battle.’

  She turned to eye him quizzically. ‘Sir, may I ask, what else have you heard about these marines?’

  Erekala leaned on the rail. ‘Heard? Yes, that would be the word.’

  They were advancing now, broken up into squads of eight or ten, clambering steadily over the rough ground towards the first trench, where waited masses of Shriven – Kolansii regulars. Solid enough soldiers, Erekala knew. Proficient if not spectacular, yet subject to the sorcery of the Forkrul Assail. Without the Pure, however, there would be no power sufficient to unleash in them any battle frenzy. Still, they would not buckle so long as the mixed-blood commanders held their nerve.

  ‘I don’t understand you, sir.’

  He glanced across at her. ‘The night of the Adjunct’s disengagement from the docks of Malaz City, Sister – where were you stationed?’

  ‘The outer screen of ships, sir.’

  ‘Ah. Do you recall, did you by chance happen to hear thunder that night – from the island?’

  Frowning, she shook her head. ‘Sir, for half that night I was in my sling, fast asleep.’

  ‘Very well. Your answer, Sister, is not long in coming, I fear.’

  Thirty rough and broken paces below the first berm now, the squads thinning out, those wielding crossbows raising their weapons.

  On the Shriven side, the pikes angled down, readying for the enemy to breach the top of the berm. The iron points formed a bristling wall. From the second trench the archers had moved up, nocking arrows but not yet drawing. Once the Malazans reached the ridge line, coming into direct line of sight, the arrows would hiss their song, and as the first line of bodies tumbled, the archers would begin firing in longer arcs – to angle the arrows down the slope. And the advance would grind to a halt, with soldiers huddling under their shields, seeking cover from the rain of death.

  Twenty paces now, where there was a pause in the advance – only an instant – and then Erekala saw arms swinging, tiny objects sailing out from the hands.

  Too soon.

  Striking the bank two-thirds of the way up. Sudden billowing of thick black smoke, boiling out, devouring the lines of sight. Like a bank of fog, the impenetrable wall rolled up and over the berm’s topside.

  ‘Magery?’ gasped Staylock.

  Erekala shook his head.

  And from that rising tide of midnight, more objects sailed out, landing amidst the pike-wielding press of Shriven.

  Detonations and flashes of fire erupted along the entire length of the trench. The mass of Kolansii shook, and everywhere was the bright crimson of blood and torn flesh.

  A second wave of munitions landed.

  The report of their explosions echoed up the slope, followed by screams and shrieks of pain. The smoke was rolling into the trench, torn here and there by further detonations, but this just added dust and misted blood to the roiling mix.

  Along the second trench, the archers were wavering.

  ‘Begin firing blind,’ Erekala murmured. ‘Do it now.’

  And he was pleased to see Watered officers bellowing their commands, and the bows drawn back.

  A sleet of quarrels shot out from the smoke and dust, tore into the archers. And the heads of many of these quarrels were explosive. The entire line disintegrated, bodies tumbling back to the crouching loaders.

  More grenados arced after the quarrels, down into the trench. Closer now, Erekala could see limbs, ripped clean from bodies, spinning in the air.

  Higher up the slope, the reserve companies boiled into motion, rushing down towards the third trench, while those troops who had been stationed in that position were now foaming up over their own berm, to begin a downhill charge. The line of archers dug in above the third trench were swept up in the wholesale advance.

  ‘What are they doing?’ demanded Staylock.

  ‘The trenches are proving indefensible against these munitions,’ Erekala replied. ‘The half-blood officers have correctly determined the proper response to this – they must close with the marines. Their elevation and their numbers alone should win the day.’

  The marines, he now saw beneath the fast thinning smoke, had overrun the archers’ trench, and looked to be digging in all along the line – but Erekala had ensured that the earthworks were designed in such a manner as to expose them to attack from higher up the slope. Those trenches offered them nothing. The marines began scurrying in full retreat.

  ‘They’re panicking,’ hissed Staylock. ‘They’ve run out of toys, and now…’

  The descending, elongated mass of Kolansii was like an avalanche racing after the straggly marines.

  ‘Hold up at the lowest trench,’ Erekala pleaded. ‘Don’t follow the fools all the way down!’

  The sound of that charge, past the archers’ trench and into the dip of the first trench, was like thunder.

  There were officers in the lead ranks. Erekala saw them checking their soldiers—

  The whole scene vanished in multiple eruptions, as if the entire slope had exploded beneath the Kolansii forces. The concussion rolled upwards to shake the summit, fracturing the wall and shaking the stone gates, taking hold of the wooden platform Erekala and the others stood on and rattling it so fiercely that they all lost their footing. Rails snapped and men and women tumbled over the sides, screaming.

  Erekala grasped one side post, managed to hang on as successive shock waves slammed up the slope. Wolves protect us!

  Twisting now on the strangely tilted platform, he saw the clouds lifting to blot out the view to the north – dust and dirt, armour and weapons and sodden strips of clothing – all of it now swept down towards them, a grisly rain of devastation.

  Unmindful of the deadly deluge, Erekala pulled himself upright. One of the legs of the platform had snapped and he was alone – even Staylock had plummeted to the broken ground below.

  A sword tip stabbed deep into the pine boards just off to his left, the blade quivering with the impact. More rubble rained down.

  He stared downslope, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. All but the highest, nearest trench – along with the levelled ground behind it – was torn chaos, the ground wounded with overlapping craters steaming amidst chewed-up corpses. Most of the Kolansii army was simply…gone.

  And then he saw movement once again, from the downward end – the same marines, swarming back up the slope, into the huge bites in the earth, up and over. Squads advancing, others drawing into tight clumps and beginning work on something.

  Streams of Kolansii survivors, stunned, painted crimson, were retreating up towards the stone wall, clumping on the cobbled road. Most of the soldiers had flung away their weapons.

  Just like that, the Kolansii are finished.

  Strange crackling bursts of fire from the marines, and Erekala’s eyes widened to see streaks of flame race
out from squad positions, sizzling as they lunged up and into the air, arcing upslope.

  Of the dozen terrifying projectiles launched, only two directly struck the crowded road.

  The platform under Erekala pitched back, flinging him round. He lost his grip, slid past the embedded sword, and then he was falling. There was no sound. He realized that he had been deafened, and so in sweet, perfect silence, he watched the ground race up to meet him. And overhead, shadow stole the morning light.

  Staylock had only just picked herself up – bruised and aching – when a closer detonation threw her back to the ground. The wall before her rippled, punching away the soldiers huddled against its protective barrier. And then, with a roar of fire, something descended on the gate to her right. The stones disintegrated in a flash of light. The sound of the impact threatened to crush her. Stunned, she staggered away from the blazing gate – saw Commander Erekala lying not ten paces away, in the wreckage of the toppled platform. Vague motions from his body drew her to him.

  ‘Brother Erekala!’ she cried.

  His eyes were open, but the whites were crazed with blood. His mouth opened and closed like that of a beached fish, but she could hear no breaths going in or out.

  Just as she reached his side she heard a desperate gasp from the man, and all at once he was on his side, coughing.

  ‘Commander!’

  But he did not hear her – she could see that. She looked up – entire companies of Perish had been thrown to the ground by multiple impacts.

  This is not war.

  This is slaughter.

  And in her skull, she thought she could hear the howling of her gods. A sound of impotent rage and blind defiance. A sound that understood nothing.

  A gloved hand grasped Stern by the shoulder and spun him round. Snarling, he reached for his sword, and then stared. ‘Fist!’

  ‘Cease the bombardment immediately!’

  The corporal looked up and down the rough line of redbolt stations. The crates positioned behind them had each been cracked, and bundles of fleece-packed padding lay torn and scattered between the crates and the launch sites. He did a quick count of the nearest ones. ‘Still got four or five salvos left, sir – right down the line!’