Their grins disappeared. Their eyes darted. ‘I dunno – how many you got?’ one asked another.
‘How many you got?’ he retorted.
Gods, they're saboteurs already. ‘All right! All right. Let's just put everything we got down here on my shield. OK?’
Eyeing one another sullenly, the youths knelt. Nait unslung his shield. Reluctantly, they dug hands into pockets and pouches and one by one, piece by piece, the extent of their haul was revealed. Nait was thrilled and horrified at the same time. Lad turn away! Eight sharpers, two melters and a collection of smokers! And … Lady's Grace! He ran a hand over the dark gold ovoid. A cussor. They're carrying cussors into battle! So that's what happened.
A band of skirmishers came jogging up, bent over, crossbows held high. Nait's lads threw themselves on top of their treasure. ‘Hey!’ one called, ‘Was that you? We got some too. Show us how you did that!’
Nait waved them in. ‘That was a one-off. We ain't gonna see anything like that again.’
‘You Jumpy?’
Nait raised his fists as if about to grasp a handful of the fellow's shirt. Then he let them fall, his shoulders slumping. ‘Yeah. That's me.’
‘OK! We want some of this.’
‘All right—’ Beyond the lad, from the Gold shieldwall, Nait glimpsed a wave of dark objects flying high out over the crowded ranks of skirmishers. His heart clenched. ‘Down!’ He threw himself on top of the lads and the assembled munitions.
A staccato of punching eruptions burst all up and down the field. Skirmishers shrieked as the jagged slivers packed into Moranth sharpers lanced through their crowded ranks. ‘Retreat!’ Nait hollered with all his strength. ‘Retreat!’
He and the lads picked up the shield and ran. But they could not get far. They quickly bunched up against irregulars firing at the advancing League skirmish-line. Behind them the punishment of Gold munitions continued. Staggered explosions split the air. Smoke wafted over the field in white and black clouds. It seemed from where Nait stood that the skirmishers were being slaughtered between the two lines, and that unless someone did something he'd join them soon enough.
He motioned to the lads to pick up their munitions, then hefted his shield and faced his squad. ‘We're gonna break the skirmish-line here, or die!’ He pointed to the youths. ‘You lot. You're gonna throw when I shout! Then keep throwing at any damned Talians who come running to reinforce. Understood?’ Sweaty pale faces nodded, terror-strained. ‘Good! OK.’ He drew his longsword. ‘Follow me!’
Nait ran for the skirmish-line. As soon as he judged the distance right he yelled, ‘Throw!’ Then, ‘Down!’ and he knelt behind his shield. Moments later sharper bursts buffeted him. Slivers sliced into his shield with high-pitched trills. He straightened in the dense smoke, bellowed, ‘Charge!’ and ran forward. He hoped to Trake that enough stupid and crazy brave men and women were within earshot to follow.
Pushing through the smoke, he suddenly faced a Talian infantryman holding a shattered arm. Nait shield-bashed that arm, raising a shriek of pain, then ran his sword through the man as he lay writhing. Another Talian heavy nearby still held a shredded shield and Nait tried to knock him backwards and though he was obviously stunned by the explosions the broad fellow didn't yield a hair's breadth. He chopped at Nait and the two exchanged blows. Three more Talian heavies straightened from where they'd lain to take cover and Nait knew he was in deep trouble. Over his shoulders and past his elbows crossbow bolts snapped through the air, plucking at his surcoat. One nicked his arm, another his leg. The heavies grunted, raising their shields. Brill and others crashed into them at a full run, overbearing them backwards, long-knives flashing. Nait passed that writhing mob to clash shields with yet another Talian heavy running to close the gap. A thrusting shortsword gouged Nait's side, caught in his hauberk and punched the breath from him. He bowed double, stepping back, and a blade crashed from his helmet. Another fusillade of crossbow bolts whipped around him singing in his ears; something smacked into the back of his mailed hand knocking the sword flying from his grip. The Talian shield-bashed him, sending him staggering backwards. Then a horde of skirmishers trampled both of them. The Talian went down beneath a storm of thrusting blades and the flood continued on. Nait halted, gasped in great lungfuls of the choking, smoky air. They were through. He leaned on his shield, his legs suddenly weak. He sat heavily in the crushed, smouldering grass. This wasn't what he'd signed up for. No, not at all.
Horrified, Ullen watched while the tide of Imperial lights slowly engulfed section after section of the League skirmish-line. Even the Seti column, engaging the heavier Imperial cavalry, could do little to stem the bleeding. At the front, the Gold and Talian phalanx had advanced with the shock of the munition barrages, but a good wedge of the Imperial formation, including the banner of the Sword, yet remained. And that was it; all either side could do. All reserves had been committed on both sides. Soon the irregulars would be free to concentrate their fire once more. As he watched, another barrage of munitions punished the Imperial phalanx facing the Gold, plus the surrounding irregulars. The Imperials refused to break; Ullen had to admire their inspired obstinacy.
After a number of passes the Seti drove the Imperial cavalry from the field. Many bright and shining Untan family pennants had fallen to the man leading the charges. This man, the Wildman, peeled off from the column with a small escort and rode back to Ullen's position. He reined in his mount, hooves stamping. Blood and lather soaked the animal's forequarters. The rider's lances were all gone, as were his javelins. One war-axe was missing, shattered perhaps. His armour was rent across the hips, shiny where blows had fallen, scraping the iron. His helmet was gone and blood sheathed his neck. Blood and gore darkened his gauntlets. The fellow appeared to be ignoring wounds that would have left anyone else prostrate.
‘My thanks,’ Ullen called to him. ‘Though I do not think it is enough.’
The man wiped a handful of bunched cloth across his face, gestured back to the field. ‘It isn't. Let's just call that the settling of old debts.’ He regarded Ullen levelly, his eyes hardening. ‘What will you do? Will you yield the day? Men and women are dying down there for no good reason.’
Ullen was already nodding. Yes, that was all that was left, though he could not bring himself to actually speak it. He gestured to a messenger, swallowed the tautness of his throat. ‘Raise the surrender.’ This messenger glanced about the assembled staff, none of whom spoke. His face paled to a sickly grey but he nodded, kneed his mount forward.
The Wildman inclined his head to Ullen in grudging admiration of what it must have taken to reach that decision, and he turned his mount to descend again to the battlefield.
‘Bala!’ Ullen called, his voice savage.
‘Yes, yes,’ she answered, just as testy. ‘I am still here. Do you think I have fled already?’
‘No, of course not! Send word to Urko, Choss and V'thell. Surrender.’
‘Shall I inform the Imperial High Mage?’
Ullen's clenched stomach lurched. ‘The what?’
‘She's been watching. Had I intervened in the battle she would have struck. And though I do not consider her worthy of the title, her attack would no doubt have eliminated you and your men.’
‘Thank you so very much, Bala,‘ Ullen ground out. He waited for a retort but none came. ‘Bala?’ Silence. Ullen dismounted, walked to the carriage on legs weak and numb from sitting all day. He wrenched open a door and peered in. Empty. Completely empty. Not even a dropped cloth or a fleck of dirt.
* * *
Possum spent the entire battle keeping an eye on the grand pavilion raised to house Laseen. Certainly, a number of Claw operatives had no doubt been posted by his lower echelon commanders. But Possum no longer knew whom to trust. Frankly, he'd always been of that policy, and it had served him well all through his career, saving his life more often than he could count. Now, however, he had more than his usual nagging suspicions and doubts. He had material indications of a p
arallel command structure organized by a subordinate, Coil, pursuing her own ends. This he could not tolerate – mainly because those ends no doubt did not include him.
And so he did what he did best, watched and waited. Laseen had imposed a moratorium against any head-hunting for the time being and so he did not have to be on the job. He could wait. He did not think Coil so clumsy as to ignore that edict. He stood, sorcerously hidden, in the shade of a small tent that offered a view of the rear of the Imperial residence, and waited. He kept watch both over the mundane grounds and through his Warren of Mockra.
The noise and turmoil of the battle to the west rose and fell and frankly Possum did not give a damn. It was not his job. Staffers, higher-ranking soldiers and nobles came and went. Noncombatants as well – servants, cooks, craftsmen, chamberpot emptiers – everyone necessary to the maintenance of such an august dwelling. It was these who interested Possum the most. The faceless servants who came and went without notice. How often had he himself taken advantage of the selective blindness of his social betters?
The day waned; the late afternoon sun broke through to clear sky far to the west and found his position against the tent canvas. Possum squinted. Sweat dripped down his arms. Nothing. All day and nothing. He was offended … No, more than that: he was disgusted! What was his profession coming to? Surely he was not alone in his – how should he put it… his professional curiosity? He decided to replay through the day's comings and goings, searching for a pattern. Some betraying slip or detail. And after sorting through so many individual moves, glances and gestures of those who passed, he believed he found it. A woman. Civilian. An officer's woman – wife or mistress. Seven times the woman's errands and apparently random wanderings had taken her in a near circumnavigation of the tent's walls. And her walk and carriage! No camp-follower her. Each time she made a show of coming to watch the battle but she spent more time studying the tent and its guards than looking west. A pity, really; more training and experience and she'd be almost undetectable.
Possum edged up and down slightly on his toes to keep his legs limber, ran his fingers along the pommels of the knives slipped up his sleeves. Come back, little lady. Who are you? But more importantly – who do you work for?
He waited and he waited. The noise of battle waned. A flurry of message riders came and went. Had someone won the blasted dreary battle? They had, he supposed. A crowd gathered of the camp-followers, wounded and servants, kept distant by the Imperial guards. Yes, from everyone's excited smiles he imagined they must have won. And then there she was. He stepped out after her, wrapped in veils of Mockra, deflecting attention.
No raised Warren flickered about her that he could sense. She gawked westward for a time, shot glances to the Imperial tent, then headed away back to the encampment. A slim wisp of a thing; a pleasure to watch. Long black hair. From time to time Possum wasn't the only one following her. Her path took her back to the officers’ tents. He saw no gestures that betrayed her awareness of his presence. She entered the tent of a rather lower-ranked officer, a lieutenant perhaps, lifting the canvas flap then letting it fall behind her. Possum paused next to the neighbouring tent. Really, now. That's a give-away. There's no way talent like that would settle for a lieutenant. Her walk alone rated a captain. He sensed as passively as possible past and through the tent. No active Warren magics that he could detect. She was there, sitting. Very well. He dropped his favoured blades into his hands. Time to earn his pay.
He pushed aside the tent flap, his Warren dancing on the tips of his fingers, both blades raised, faced where she had been sitting and a hand clasped itself at his neck like the bite of a hound and pushed him to the dirt floor. Face jammed into the dirt he slashed, kicking. He raised his Warren once again but the hand clenched even impossibly tighter, grating the vertebrae of his neck. Such strength! Inhuman! A woman's voice breathed in his ear: ‘Don't.’
He recognized that voice. He'd heard it before the day of the attack of the Guard. This was the second time this girl-woman had got the better of him. He let his Warren slip away. ‘Good.’ She yanked the blades from his hands as if he were a child, dug one against the side of his neck. ‘Now,’ she whispered, so close her breath felt damp. ‘What should I do with you? By that I don't mean let you go … oh, no. What I mean is – how shall I kill you? I will let you choose. Do you want me to push this blade up under your chin or into your eye? Shall I ease it through your ribs into your heart?’ She crouched even lower so that her lips touched his ear. ‘Tell me what you want,’ she breathed huskily.
Despite the stark certain knowledge that he was about to die a lustful rush for this girl-woman murderess possessed him. He wanted her more than he could express. He opened his mouth to tell her what he wanted when the tent flap opened and a woman shouted deliriously, ‘They've surrendered!’ Then she screamed.
The murderess snarled something in a language unknown to Possum. He twisted, throwing her off. He jumped up, fresh weapons drawn but she was gone. He pushed the screaming woman aside to search outside. Of course there was no sign. He calmed the woman with a wave of Mockra.
‘Thank you. You know, their surrender saved my life.’ He bowed to leave then paused, turning back; he looked her up and down – not bad. A little bit more his type and he might've … well, duty and all … He headed to the Empress's tent.
Far along the western horizon the setting sun had passed beyond low clouds and Nait sat letting the slanting light warm his old bones. Old! Ha! Just this morning he'd thought of himself as young. But now he felt old – especially in the company of these sprouts. Old and wrung out. It was too much effort even to open his eyes. He thought of all the stupid things he'd done and he vowed never to ever do anything like that again. And it wasn't like he was some kind of glory-seeker or any dumb shit like that; no, he'd done all of it merely to preserve his precious skin.
Someone tapped his outstretched booted foot. Squinting, shading his eyes against the orange-gold glow, he peered up to see an Imperial officer. ‘Yeah? Ah – yes, sir?’ He saluted.
‘Are you Corporal Jumpy?’
‘Ah, no and yes, sir.’
‘Your captain wants you. Something about a commendation.’
‘That so, sir? Thank you, sir.’
The officer moved on. Nait made an effort to stir himself, failed. He fell back against his shield right where he'd sat when the skirmish-line broke. He felt as if all the brothers of all the girls he'd stolen kisses and gropes and more from had caught up with him and beaten him all over with wooden truncheons. Incredibly, his worse wounds had been inflicted by the skirmishers themselves. After the adrenalin rush of battle drained away he'd been surprised to find that a crossbow bolt had passed entirely through the inside of one thigh. Another had gouged his neck with a slice that would not stop bleeding, while another had lain open the back of his hand, and another had almost cut his ears off by knocking his helmet all this way and that. And he knew he was damned lucky.
More shapes moved about the darkening battlefield; stunned wounded walked aimlessly; camp-followers searched for loved ones and secretly looted on the sly; healer brigades collected wounded. Nait could not be bothered to get up. Around him his squad sprawled, equally quiet, sharing waterskins and pieces of dried flatbread. He took a mouthful of water, washed it around his mouth and spat out the grit and blood. He searched around for loose teeth – he'd taken such a clout in the jaw.
Someone else approached. Glancing over Nait recognized him and stood up wincing, favouring his leg. Tinsmith. The captain looked him up and down. ‘You look like Hood's own shit.’
Thank you, sir.’
‘But you're alive.’
‘Yes, sir.’ His eyes tightened on the captain. ‘Sorry, sir?’
Facing the west, the captain smoothed his moustache. ‘You and Least. And Heuk.’
Him and Least. And Heuk. That was all? So Hands and Honey Boy bought it. Big sensuous Hands dead and cold. Hood be damned – what a waste! He thought of all the awful th
ings he'd said and done to her and his face grew hot, his breath shortening. She'd taken all those things to Hood with her; no chance for him now to take them back, or apologize, or tell her she was probably damned right. ‘I'm sorry, sir.’
‘Yes. Me too. But …’ and he cuffed Nait's arm, ‘congratulations. You are now officially a sergeant.’ He held out a grey cloth armband. ‘From what I hear you earned it.’
Nait took it loosely in his fingers. Him a sergeant! Now what would they think back home! It was what he'd wanted all this time but now that he had it he realized he was just a damned fraud. It would be an insult to Hands and Honey Boy for him to wear this. He suddenly remembered the captain still standing there with him. ‘Ah, yes. Thank you, sir.’
‘You're welcome, Sergeant.’ Tinsmith inclined his head aside, ‘These your boys?’
‘Yeah. Squad of ten, sir.’
‘Very good. Your first detail is to help with the fortifications around the encampment. They've been going up all day. High Fist Anand wants a ditch and a palisade, or a wall of spikes. Whatever you ‘n’ the other sappers can manage.’
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 71