‘I suggest you try Urko next,’ Toc breathed wetly. ‘Get real close first…’
‘Tell me about these Marchland Sentries. What or who are they guarding?’
His head sinking, Toc tried to edge it side to side – perhaps he succeeded – he wasn’t sure. He dragged his fingers through the dirt, raised the handful of black earth mixed with blood to his face. ‘I’m glad to die here,’ he said, slurring. ‘Glad. The sunlight. The wind. Beautiful…’
The man rose, dusting his leathers. After a moment hoofbeats shook the ground. Then, nothing. The wind knocked the heavy grasses. Insects whirred. The sun warmed the side of Toc’s face. Then came movement again. He had no idea how much time had passed; each breath seemed an eternity of pained inhaling followed by wet exhaling. Someone else now stood before him – a Seti in moccasins and leathers. The man examined his wounds, raised his face, but Toc saw only a dark blur. The man said something to him, a question, but Toc only noted how the sunlight now held such a golden glow. The man left accompanied by many horses. The silence of the prairie that was in truth no silence returned. Toc felt himself join it.
At first Nait couldn’t believe it when the Seti withdrew. He thought it was some kind of diversion or awful cruel trick. He’d been sure they were goners. Now, though, he joined in the great roaring cheers that followed their disappearance. The tall banner marking where the Sword’s command was locked in combat with the Moranth Gold waved its encouragement. The steady crushing advance of the Gold into the Malazan phalanx faltered. In front of Nait the irregulars punched their arms into the air, hugged the infantry who moments before had been beating them away with the flats of their blades.
Then almost as if with one mind the skirmishers melted away and Nait saw the Falaran infantry phalanx closing double-time. Obviously, they now saw their only chance in breaking the Imperial units. Iron mail skirting chased in bronze flashed as the Falarans stepped in unison. They held broad, engraved leather-covered shields locked and steady, shortswords thrust straight out between the shields. Squared Falaran helmets framed eyes, some narrowed in calculation, searching their targets, others wide in eager bloodlust. ‘Hold!’ the master sergeant was bellowing to Nait’s right. ‘Hold!’
Nait would have run if he could have. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for! To be cut down in some stupid pointless battle! But he was pressed within the second rank and couldn’t even raise his elbows. He could only watch as the opposing ranks closed, the marching feet shaking the ground, the stink of piss and fear assaulting him from the men and women around him, and perhaps from himself as well. His mouth was cracked dry in terror, his hand numb on the grip of the light duelling longsword he’d picked up during the Guard’s assault of Unta.
The front lines crashed, jamming together as shields slid clashing into shield. Nait was squeezed breathless in the press. He couldn’t even raise his sword, so ruthlessly were the two bodies of soldiers jostling for momentum. Dust kicked up by the shuffling pushing feet blinded him and caught in his throat as he sucked in great gasping breaths. Soldiers screamed around him, in rage, in pain, in panic, the noise melding with the clash of sword and crack of shields, until it all became a meaningless unintelligible roar that simply sounded like a beast thirsty for his blood. Not me, was all his mind could repeat like a personal prayer, not me, not me. Not me!
The man before him fell to a blow to the neck and the press forced him forward though he had no wish to step into that gap. In a ferocious will to preserve his skin he smashed his shield into the Falaran opposing, flicked the longsword to his eyes then down around his shield to catch the inside of his thigh and cut, withdrawing. The man fell to one knee and Nait punched his face with the boss of his shield. Immediately the Falaran behind lunged forward to smash Nait’s own shield into his face. Stunned, he barely fended off the man’s attacks. That taught him, though, and he settled into a stubborn, reserved defence, using his longer reach to thrust his opponents back.
What was happening just two soldiers away came to be completely irrelevant to him. His world shrank to just the enemy facing him and his shieldman and -woman flanking. For fleeting moments when the line of locked shields moved smoothly as one he had the feeling of being part of something far greater than himself. Something far stronger, almost omnipotent. It was the most intoxicating sensation of his life. Something he’d never even suspected could exist in the world. And almost immediately he felt addicted to the power of it.
How much time passed he’d no idea. All he knew was exhaustion such as he’d never imagined. Everything was wrung from him in the panicked heart-hammering effort to live. Yet he drew the strength from somewhere within to raise his shield one more time, to thrust and block. For to do otherwise would mean his death. Eventually, in a haze of pink, he sensed the pressure against him lessening. Falaran soldiery were breaking off, turning and running. Crossbow bolts took them in a withering gale like dark wings passing overhead. Nait flinched, rocked, as a number of bolts punched his shield. He opened his mouth to complain but no sound came.
Before him the men and women of the Untan Volunteer Citizen Militia now scrambled over an open field of fallen. ‘Right! Right face!’ came a roaring order. The phalanx turned, armour clashing. ‘March!’
Through the screen of the shifting, darting irregulars, Nait could see only the tall shields and helms of Moranth Gold closing in their slow deliberate pace. Then, Imperial infantry appeared, jogging from the front. A troop of Imperial cavalry came roaring back and in their midst bobbed the tall banner marking the Sword.
The leading Imperial phalanx had broken.
And now, Braven Tooth’s command, with him jammed inside, was moving across to seal the gap. Nait felt his own flesh cringing from the coming confrontation. ‘Halt!’ The phalanx froze, feet stamping as one. ‘Left face!’ They turned. ‘Relief!’ The ranks shifted, edging past one another. Nait found himself three ranks back from the front. An extraordinary weight left his shoulders and suddenly he could breathe. But the feeling was short-lived for he knew that if things went badly it would be his turn again too soon.
‘Corporal! Corporal Nait!’
The woman next to Nait nudged him. ‘Someone wants you, Jumpy.’
Movement behind through the ranks and a hand cuffed Nait’s shoulder. He turned, fist rising. Captain Tinsmith caught the hand. ‘Still with us, I see,’ Tinsmith said, impressed.
Nait tried to speak, had to struggle to wet his mouth. ‘Ah, yes, sir.’
The captain’s brows rose. ‘Sir, now, is it? Well, collect your saboteurs. There’s fallen Moranth out there and those fool irregulars are collecting munitions. Confiscate it all. Saboteurs only! Quickly!’
‘Yes, sir!’
Nait edged down the ranks picking men and women from the lines as he went. Reaching a flank, he pushed outside the phalanx, slung the heavy broad shield on to his back. Suddenly he felt completely exposed, naked. He cuffed the lads nearest him. ‘Let’s go! Collect munitions – search the Hood-baiting skirmishers for it!’ The men and women saluted him and he jerked, startled. Oh yeah – and don’t that feel good too!
The open plain of battle was a seething mass of running skirmishers jockeying for position. Troops of Talian and Falaran cavalry would suddenly appear without warning, scything through, running down irregulars, swords flashing, only to circle away before concerted fire could be brought to bear. Yet the League cavalry were too few. For the instant the horsemen passed, the skirmishers straightened and once more fire returned to punish the shield walls of the Gold and Malazan League formations.
Nait ran, directing his squad of ten to the trail of the Gold advance. In the middle distance a great shout went up from the north League phalanx. Swords thumped shields like a roll of thunder. Nait stopped, straightening; through the charging surging mass of skirmishers he glimpsed Imperial infantry fleeing the north – Fist D’Ebbin’s phalanx had broken. Now, only Braven Tooth’s command faced the remaining League elements. Part of him longed to retu
rn to the newfound security of that formation – part of him was damned glad he wasn’t. He curtly gestured his squad on.
A troop of Falaran cavalry came charging past running down skirmishers. Sabres flashed, red and silver. A fat bearded fellow on a huge dappled warhorse led it. He sported crossbow bolts stuck to his scaled armour like decorations. Nait’s squad hunched low until they thundered past, then headed on. They reached the trail of fallen Gold Moranth and Nait crouched down next to one body thatched in crossbow bolts. Everything not attached to the corpse was gone. The irregulars had thoroughly looted the trail. Someone had even tried prising the Gold’s chitinous armour from his arms, but the plates appeared sutured on. One of his squad, May, called, waving, and Nait ran to the woman. She was kneeling holding a leather satchel containing a wooden box divided into compartments. It was empty. Nait tossed it away – Hood-damned fools! They’re gonna blow themselves up! ‘Let’s go before we get chopped to pieces.’
‘Aye.’
Nait led them back around, heading for the flank of Braven Tooth’s command. One of his squad, Brill – was that his name? – called to him, pointing in a panic to the west. There, past a screen of intervening irregulars, Nait saw a moving line of blue and green soldiery, shields raised, marching forward. It extended far to the north and south. Shit! League reserves advancing in a skirmish-line! They’re going to try to sweep back the Imperial lights.
‘What’re we gonna do?’ Brill asked, wiping his running nose.
‘How in the Abyss—’ Nait caught himself, cursed under his breath. ‘Let’s find someone in charge out here in this mess. C’mon!’
They hunched low, jogging, and passed a natural depression in the rolling plain where a knot of irregulars had gathered, all clustered around something, crossbows loose at their sides. Nait ran over.
‘Do you crack ‘em?’ someone was asking within the crowd.
‘Naw. I think you scratch ’em.’
‘You try’
‘No – you try.’
Nait’s bowels tightened in sudden gelid terror. He surged forward. ‘Who’s in charge here!’
Sullen, sneering faces turned on him. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘I do!’
‘Who’re you?’
‘Corporal Jumpy, that’s who!’ Brill bellowed, pointing a warning finger.
Silence, then gales of raucous laughter all around. ‘Corporal Jumpy! That’s a good one!’
Nait hung his head. Gods, Brill… ‘Yeah, yeah. Listen, you’re gonna blow yourselves up – worse than that, you’re gonna blow me up. I know how to use those so hand them over…’
‘Piss off!’
The crowd melted. Men and women legging it in all directions. ‘Wait, dammit!’ None halted. In seconds all that remained were four skirmishers; the youngest of the lot. They wore plain leather caps and soft leather hauberks set with rings and studs. The faces of three were ravaged by pimples and pox scars. They peered up at him suspiciously.
‘You a real sapper?’
‘Yeah, kid.’
‘You’ll show us how to use ’em?’
‘Yeah.’
They exchanged narrowed glances. ‘Well, OK – but we get to throw ’em!’
In a heroic effort, Nait squelched the urge to grab them by their ankles and shake them until they dropped the munitions. ‘Sure, kid. You’ll get to throw them.’ He motioned everyone to the lip of the depression. There, they knelt for a peek. The lads cocked their crossbows. The smallest lay on his back, pushing both feet on the goat’s foot lever, straining, until it caught. Nait was amazed, and appalled. He did that just as fast as any soldier could. Crazy brave kids. Just what he needed.
The Imperial skirmishers were now facing a fluid, shifting battle on two fronts. To the west, the League skirmish-line was making steady progress against the irregulars, who were giving ground. The line was long and loose but three deep, staggered. Shieldmen advanced, covering their own bowmen or crossbowmen. Their superior discipline was showing over the Imperials who simply retreated, making no effort to pull together an organized line. The remaining League cavalry swept back and forth across the grounds before the skirmish-line, swords scything, scattering any knots of resistance.
To the east waited the swollen merged wedge of League elements and Moranth Gold. And it was obvious to Nait that the skirmishers were now bunching up dangerously close. Braven Tooth’s command must have absorbed enormous punishment holding all that back, but it still held. Behind, the reserve phalanx under High Fist Anand was closing to reinforce. With it came the Sword’s banner. Oh, great! Now he’s gonna wreck another one. Nait motioned aside.
They ducked and wove through the massed irregulars. Crossbow bolts sang overhead like angry insects, so close that Nait almost stopped to chase down one or two offenders but they scattered when he turned and he gave it up as useless. He led his squad to a position as close to the Gold shieldwall as he dared. All around skirmishers knelt, loading and firing. The whine and singing of bolts through the air was unrelenting. They’d passed a number of skirmisher bodies displaying bolts in their backs – the occupational hazard of friendly fire. Occasionally, the irregulars would dare to advance and a wave of javelins arcing out of the Moranth formation drove them back. The shouting and clash of weaponry from the ferocious engagement of heavies just beyond was deafening. Hunkered down, Nait waved his squad close. ‘Okay,’ he shouted. ‘I want you lot to spot one of them Gold carrying something – it might be on his back or at his side. It’ll be about so big – a pack or a box…’
From his position on the modest hillside overlooking the battle, Ullen felt sick. That horde of skirmishers was savaging their forces. Soon they might have no cohesive units left. If the Gold and Talian heavies could push through, force the Empress to retreat, then they would have a chance to bargain for terms. Otherwise, they faced a slow gnawing down to nothing. He wish Urko continued luck with his skirmish-line. Gods! A line! Forming line with Imperial cavalry still in reserve! But it was all they had. He turned to one of the messengers who waited along with his staff next to Bala’s cumbersome carriage, now unhitched of all its horses, much to her annoyance. ‘Any news of Toc?’
‘None. Apparently he went after the Seti – hasn’t been seen since.’
Poor man. They probably killed him out of shame. He examined the field. It was hard to tell – the dust kicked up by all those shuffling feet obscured any details – but it looked as though the skirmishers were bunching up favourably. He was about to tell Bala to send a message to V’thell when across the field Imperial pennants and battle-flags dipping and circling caught his attention. The Imperial cavalry – many boasting their own noble family banners – was on the move. Two wings came cantering out from the rear where a tall grey horizontal banner bore the Imperial sceptre. They arced around the battlefield to the north and south. But few. Very few. Less than a thousand all told, he calculated. His gaze flicked to Urko’s thin skirmish-line. The risk they’d invited had been delivered. It suddenly seemed to him that perhaps they’d waited too long. ‘Bala! Bala!’
‘Do not bark! I am here!’ came her scornful voice from within the carriage.
‘Tell V’thell, now’s the time! Open up!’
‘Yes, yes!’
A flash from the battlefield made him flinch. It was followed by an eruption of dirt and bodies that arced up high above the Gold formation, flying outwards in all directions, armoured bodies pinwheeling, then spinning down. The thunderous echo of the explosion reached him like a distant roll.
Hood preserve us! A lucky crossbow bolt? Who could know? He almost laughed. His order might well be irrelevant now that the first munitions had been unpacked. V’thell would probably just go ahead now. And he watched sideways, half wincing, for the firestorm to come. His gaze caught the top of the distant outcropping to the south, golden now in the late afternoon sun. And the Guard. What would they do? Should Laseen win would they throw their weight against her now that she was weakened? Yet what cou
ld they hope to accomplish? Someone else would merely claim the Throne. And what if Urko and Choss down in the chaos below should prevail? Would the Guard simply leave, the terms of their Vow sufficiently fulfilled?
‘What do you sense of the Guard?’ he asked of Bala.
‘Ahh! You are perhaps no fool after all, little Ullen. They have not deployed – yet. But they watch. And wait. And bide their time.’
Some ally this mage of theirs was proving to be!
A moment later a rider charged up from behind Ullen’s position, sawed his reins. ‘Seti approaching from the rear, sir,’ he gasped. ‘A long column.’ Ullen’s staff and guards repositioned themselves, swords drawn. Shortly afterwards five Seti horsemen galloped up. Ullen raised a hand and kneed his mount to the fore. The lead Seti was a bull of a man in layered ringed armour bearing a score of lances, javelins and two long-handled axes crossed over his back, long-knives sheathed at his hips. Under his blunt bronze helmet his scarred, sun- and wind-darkened features were those of a startlingly old man.
An intuition whispered to Ullen and he inclined his head, ‘You are this Wildman of the Plains?’
‘I am. And I am come to offer a measure of restitution, Malazan, for my countrymen’s betrayal.’
‘That is?’
‘We will ride against the Imperial cavalry – just the cavalry and only them! What say you?’
This unlooked-for offer, the answer to his despair, made Ullen’s gaze blur. His throat clenched so tightly he was unable to talk. Thank the capricious laughing Gods!
‘Well? Speak, damn you!’
Ullen fought to breathe. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Your arrival is timely.’
‘Damned right – we’ve been watching.’ The man straightened in his saddle, raised a hand signalling and rode onward. A roar of cheers arose from behind Ullen’s position; then came a rumble of hundreds of galloping horses. They came charging past, yipping and chanting, lances raised. Most carried no animal fetishes at all, though some bore wolf, lion and ferret pelts and tufts tied to their lances or worn over their backs.
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 92