‘—landing! Another Malazan army, sir! Thousands more! From the river!’
The veteran commander frowned at the woman, whose face was smeared with dirt and whose eyes were brittle with panic.
He looked back down at the killing field. The dome was flickering, dying. But it had held. Long enough, it had held. ‘Inform my officers,’ he said to the runner. ‘Prepare to wheel and fast march to the river – how far? Have they managed a beach-head?’
‘If we march straight to the river, sir, we will meet them. And yes, as I was saying, they have landed. There are great warships in the river – scores of them! And—’
‘Go, damn you! To my officers!’
Sirryn was now on his feet. He rounded on the commander. ‘But sir – these ones below!’
‘Leave them to the damned Edur, Sirryn! You wanted them mauled, then you shall have your wish! We must meet the larger force, and we must do so immediately!’
Sword and shield, at last, a battle in which a soldier could die with honour.
Captain Faradan Sort had, like so many other soldiers relatively close to where Beak had sat, been driven to the ground by the ferocity of his magic. She was slow to recover, and even as the silver glow pulsed in fitful death, she saw…white.
Gleaming armour and weapons. Hair white as snow, faces devoid of all scars. Figures, picking themselves up in a half-daze, rising like perfect conjurations from the brilliant green shoots of some kind of grass that now snarled everything and seemed to be growing before her eyes.
And, turning, she looked upon Beak.
To burn, fire needed fuel.
To save them all, Beak had used all the fuel within him.
In horror, Faradan Sort found herself staring at a collapsed jumble of ashes and scorched bone. But no, there was pattern within that, a configuration, if she could but focus through her tears. Oh. The bones of the arms seemed to be hugging the knees, the crumpled skull settled on them.
Like a child hiding in a closet, a child seeking to make himself small, so small…
Beak. Gods below…Beak.
‘Plan on returning to your weapons?’ Fiddler asked the Edur war leader. ‘If you’re wanting to start again, that is, we’re willing.’
But the elderly warrior shook his head. ‘We are done with empire.’ Then he added, ‘If you would permit us to leave.’
‘I can think of quite a few of us who’d be more inclined to kill you all, right now.’
A nod.
‘But,’ Fiddler then said, as his soldiers gathered behind him, all staring at the Tiste Edur – who were staring back – ‘we’re not here to conduct genocide. You would leave your Emperor defenceless?’
The war leader pointed northward. ‘Our villages lie far away. Few remain there, and they suffer for our absence. I would lead my warriors home, Malazan. To rebuild. To await the return of our families.’
‘Go on, then.’
The Tiste Edur elder bowed. Then said, ‘Would that we could…take back…all that we have done.’
‘Tell me this. Your Emperor – can he be killed?’
‘No.’
Nothing more was said. Fiddler watched as the Edur set off.
Behind him a grunt from Koryk, who then said, ‘I was damned sure we’d get a fight today.’
‘Fiddler. The Letherii army’s marched off,’ Gesler said.
‘The Adjunct,’ Fiddler said, nodding. ‘She’ll hammer them into the ground.’
‘My point is,’ Gesler continued, ‘our way to Letheras…it’s an open road. Are we going to let the Adjunct and all those salty soldiers of hers beat us there?’
‘Good question,’ Fiddler said, turning at last. ‘Let’s go ask the Fist, shall we?’
‘Aye, and maybe we can find out why we’re all still alive, too.’
‘Aye, and white, too.’
Gesler tugged off his helm and grinned at Fiddler. ‘Speak for yourself, Fid.’
Hair of spun gold. ‘Hood take me,’ Fiddler muttered, ‘that’s about as obnoxious a thing as I’ve ever seen.’
Another helping hand, lifting Beak to his feet. He looked round. Nothing much to see. White sand, a gate of white marble ahead, within which swirled silver light.
The hand gripping his arm was skeletal, the skin a strange hue of green. The figure, very tall, was hooded and wearing black rags. It seemed to be studying the gate.
‘Is that where I’m supposed to go, now?’ Beak asked.
‘Yes.’
‘All right. Are you coming with me?’
‘No.’
‘All right. Well, will you let go of my arm, then?’
The hand fell away. ‘It is not common,’ the figure then said.
‘What?’
‘That I attend to…arrivals. In person.’
‘My name is Beak.’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s through there?’
‘Your brother waits for you, Beak. He has been waiting a long time.’
Beak smiled and stepped forward, all at once in a great hurry – the silver light within that gate was beautiful, reminding him of something.
The stranger’s voice brought him round: ‘Beak.’
‘Yes?’
‘Your brother. He will not know you. Yet. Do you understand?’
Beak nodded. ‘Why aren’t you coming with me?’
‘I choose to wait…for another.’
‘My brother,’ Beak said, his smile broadening. ‘I’m taller now. Stronger. I can save him, can’t I?’
A long pause, and then the figure said, ‘Yes, Beak, you can save him.’
Yes, that made sense. He set out again. With sure strides. To the gate, into that silver glow, to emerge on the other side in a glade beside a trickling stream. And kneeling near the bank, his brother. The same as he remembered. On the ground on all sides there were hundreds of small wax figures. Smiling faces, an entire village, maybe even a whole town.
Beak walked up to his brother.
Who said, too shy to look up, ‘I made all of these, for him.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ Beak said, and he found tears running down his face, which embarrassed him so he wiped them away. Then asked, ‘Can I play with you?’
His brother hesitated, scanning all the figures, then he nodded. ‘All right.’
And so Beak knelt down beside his brother.
While, upon the other side of the gate, the god Hood stood, motionless.
Waiting.
A third army rose from the seabed to conquer the others. An army of mud, against whom no shield could defend, through whom no sword could cut to the quick. The precious islands of canvas were now twisted jumbles, fouling the foot, wrapping tight about legs, or pushed down entirely beneath thick silts. Grey-smeared soldier struggled against grey-smeared warrior, locked together in desperation, rage and terror.
The seething mass had become an entity, a chaotic beast writhing and foundering in the mud, and from it rose the deafening clangour of clashing metal and voices erupting in pain and dying.
Soldiers and warriors fell, were then pushed down amidst grey and red, where they soon merged with the ground. Shield walls could not hold, advances were devoured; the battle had become that of individuals sunk to their knees, thrashing in the press.
The beast heaved back and forth, consuming itself in its madness, and upon either side those who commanded sent yet more into the maelstrom.
The wedge of Letherii heavy infantry should have swept the Awl aside, but the weight of their armour became a curse – the soldiers could not move fast enough to exploit breaches, were sluggish in shoring up their own. Fighters became mired, finding themselves suddenly separated from their comrades, and the Awl would then close in, surrounding the soldier, cutting and stabbing until the Letherii went down. Wherever the Letherii could concentrate in greater numbers – from three to thirty – they delivered mayhem, killing scores of their less disciplined enemy. But always, before long, the mud reached up, pulled the units
apart.
Along the western edge, for a time, the K’Chain Che’Malle appeared, racing along the flank, unleashing dreadful slaughter.
Bivatt sent archers and spear-wielding skirmishers and, with heavy losses, they drove the two demons away – studded with arrows, the female limping from a deeply driven spear in her left thigh. The Atri-Preda would have then despatched her Bluerose cavalry to pursue the creatures, but she had lost them somewhere to the northeast – where they still pursued the few surviving Awl cavalry – and in any case, the Kechra remained on the seabed, spraying mud with every elongated stride, circling round towards the eastern side of the locked armies.
And, should they attack there, the Atri-Preda had few soldiers left to give answer: only two hundred skirmishers who, without the protection of archers, could do little more than provide a modest wall of spears guarding barely a quarter of the Letherii flank.
Seated atop her restless horse on the rise of the old shoreline, Bivatt cursed in the name of every god she could think of – those damned Kechra! Were they truly unkillable? No, see the wounded one! Heavy spears can hurt them – Errant take me, do I have a choice?
She beckoned to one of her few remaining runners. ‘Finadd Treval is to lead his skirmishers down to the east flank,’ she said. ‘Defensive line in case the demons return.’
The messenger raced off.
Bivatt settled her gaze once more upon the battle before her. At least there’s no dust to obscure things. And the evidence was plain to see. The Letherii were driving the Awl back, slowly advancing wings, at last, to form encircling horns. The fighting had lost none of its ferocity – indeed, the Awl on the outside edges seemed to be redoubling their desperate efforts, recognizing what was happening. Recognizing…the beginning of the end.
She could not see Redmask. He and his bodyguards had left the central platform half a bell past, rushing into the battle to fill a breach.
The fool had surrendered his overview of the battle, had surrendered his command. His aides carried no standard upon which his warriors could rally. If Redmask was not already dead, he would be covered in mud like all the rest, unrecognizable, useless.
She wanted so to feel exultant, triumphant. But she could see that she’d lost a third – perhaps more – of her entire army.
Because the Awl would not accept the truth. Of course, there could be no surrender – this day was for annihilation – but the fools would not even flee, when clearly they could, remaining on the seabed to prevent any pursuit from cavalry and easily outdistancing their heavier foes on foot. They could flee, damn them, in the hopes to fight another day.
Instead, the bastards stood, fought, killed and then died.
Even the women and elders had joined, adding their torn flesh and spilled blood to the churned morass.
Gods how she hated them!
Brohl Handar, Overseer of the Drene province, tasted the woman’s blood in his mouth and, in a rush of pleasure, he swallowed it down. She had poured herself onto him as he’d leaned forward to drive his sword right through her midsection. Into his face, a hot, thick torrent. Tugging his weapon free as she fell back onto the ground, he spun, seeking yet another victim.
His warriors stood on all sides, few moving now beyond struggling to regain their breaths. The slaughtering of the unhorsed and the wounded had seemed fevered, as if every Arapay Tiste Edur had charged into the same nightmare, and yet there had been such glee in this slaying of Awl that its sudden absence filled the air with heavy, turgid shock.
This, Brohl Handar realized, was nothing like killing seals on the shores of his homeland. Necessity yielded a multitude of flavours, some bitter, others excruciatingly sweet. He could still taste that woman’s blood, like honey coating his throat.
Father Shadow, have I gone mad?
He stared about. Dead Awl, dead horses. Edur warriors with weapons slick and dripping. And already crows were descending to feed.
‘Are you injured, Overseer?’
Brohl wiped blood from his face and shook his head. ‘Form ranks. We now march to the battle, to kill some more. To kill them all.’
‘Yes sir!’
Masarch stumbled his way clear, half blinded by the mud. Where was Redmask? Had he fallen? There was no way to tell. Clutching his side, where a sword-point had punched through the leather armour, and hot blood squeezed between his fingers, the young Renfayar warrior fought through the mud towards the platform – but the enemy were nearly upon it on the east flank, and atop that platform no-one remained.
No matter.
All he desired, at this moment, was to pull away from this mud, to clamber onto those wooden boards. Too many of his comrades had vanished into the cloying sodden silts, raising in his mind horrifying memories of being buried alive – his death night – when madness reached into his brain. No, he would not fall, would not sink down, would not drown with blackness filling his eyes and mouth.
Disbelief raged through him. Redmask, their great leader, who had returned, who had promised them triumph – the end of the Letherii invaders – he had failed the Awl. And now, we die. Our people. These plains, this land, will surrender even the echoes of our lives. Gone, for ever more.
He could not accept that.
Yet it is the truth.
Redmask, you have slain us.
He reached the edge of the platform, stretched out his free hand – the one that should have held a weapon – where had it gone?
A bestial scream behind him and Masarch half turned, in time to see the twisted, grey, cracked face beneath the helm, the white of eyes staring out from thick scales of mud.
Fire burst in Masarch’s chest and he felt himself lifted up, balanced on a sword’s hilt and its sliding stream of molten iron, thrown onto his back – onto the boards of the platform – and the Letherii was pulling himself up after him, kicking mud from his boots, still pushing with his shortsword – although it could go no further, no deeper, and the weapon was now jammed, having thrust through Masarch’s back and gouging deep into the wood. On his knees straddling the Renfayar, the Letherii, smeared teeth bared, stared down into Masarch’s eyes, and began tugging at his sword.
He was speaking, the Awl realized, words repeated over and over again in that foul Letherii tongue. Masarch frowned – he needed to understand what the man was saying as the man killed him.
But the world was fading, too fast—
No, I hear you, soldier, yes. I hear, and yes, I know—
The Letherii watched the life leave the Awl bastard’s young eyes. And though the Letherii’s teeth were bared as if in a smile, though his eyes were wide and bright, the words coming from him repeated their litany: ‘Keep me alive, please, keep me alive, please, keep me alive…’
Seventy paces away, Redmask pulled himself onto the back of his horse – one of the few left – and sawed at the reins to swing the beast round. He’d lost his whip, but the crescent axe remained in his hands, gore-spattered, the edges notched.
Gods, he had killed so many, so many, and there were more to come. He knew it, felt it, hungered for it. Heels pounded into the horse’s flanks and it surged forward, hoofs kicking up mud. Madness to ride on this, but there was no choice, none at all.
Thousands of Letherii slain, more yet to butcher. Bivatt herself, yes – he rode towards the eastern side of the seething mass, well outside the encircling horn – oh, that would not last, his warriors would break through. Shattering the bastards and their flimsy lines.
Redmask would – once he was done with Bivatt – return to that slaughter – and yes, here were his K’Chain Che’Malle, thundering to join him. The three of them, together, thrusting like an enormous sword into the Letherii ranks. Again and again, killing all within reach.
Sag’Churok closing in from his right – see those huge arm-swords lift, readying themselves. And Gunth Mach, swinging round to his inside flank, placing herself between Redmask and the jostling line of skirmishers with their pathetic spears – Gunth Mach was lim
ping, but the spear had worked itself loose – or she had dragged it free. These beasts felt no pain.
And they were almost with him, here, yet again, for they had chosen him.
Victory this day! Victory!
Sag’Churok drew yet closer, matching the pace of Redmask’s horse, and he saw it swing its head to regard him. Those eyes, so cold, so appallingly empty—
The sword lashed out in a blur, taking the horse from the front, at the neck, just above its collarbones. A blow of such savagery and strength that it tore entirely through, cracking hard against the wooden rim of the high saddle. Knocking Redmask back, over the beast’s rump, even as the headless horse ran on another half-dozen strides before wavering to one side then collapsing.
He struck the muddy ground on one shoulder, skidded, then rolled to a halt – and onto his feet, straightening, even as Sag’Churok slashed its second blade, taking him above the knees. Blood fountained as he toppled onto his back, and found himself staring at his severed legs, still standing upright in the mud.
Gunth Mach loomed over him, the talons of a hind foot plunging down to close round his chest. The talons punched deep, ribs crushing in that embrace, and Redmask was lifted then thrown through the air – where he intersected the path of one of Sag’Churok’s swords. It chopped through his right shoulder, sending the arm spinning away – still gripping the crescent axe.
Redmask thumped onto the ground once more, already dead.
Three hundred paces to the east, Toc Anaster rose on his stirrups, ignoring Torrent’s shrieks of horror, and watched as the two K’Chain Che’Malle padded once more towards what was left of Redmask. The female one kicked at the body, lightly nudging it, then stepped back.
A moment later and the two creatures were thumping away, northeast, heads stretched out, tails horizontal and stiff as spears behind them.
‘He failed them,’ Toc whispered. What other reason could there be for such a thing? Perhaps, many reasons. Only Redmask could have answered all the mysteries surrounding the K’Chain Che’Malle. Their presence here, their alliance – an alliance now at an end. Because he failed.
The Malazan Empire Page 677