‘Where is – the other…the Dal Hon?’ Ullen said.
‘Weren’t no other,’ the old bald infantryman ground out, his voice so hoarse as to be almost inaudible. ‘Never was, hey?’
‘But…’
Panting, gasping in great lungfuls and swallowing with effort, the veteran waved Ullen’s objections aside. ‘No, just the two of us. Ain’t that right, ah, Slim?’
‘Slim?’ the Seti growled. He wiped his glistening face with the back of a hand, leaving a smear of blood. ‘Naw. It’s…Sweetgrass.’
‘Wha—’ The infantryman faced the Seti directly to stand weaving, exhausted. ‘Sweetgrass? All these years…none of us even knew?’
A truculent glower on the man’s battered and cut face, chin thrust out. ‘What of it?’
‘Nothin’. Just surprising ’s all.’ The two bent down attempting to pick up fallen gear, couldn’t bend far enough and gave up, then turned away to head back to the field. They limped, stretching their backs, pausing now and then to bend over gasping for breath, coughing. Ullen, Moss and his guards following along exchanged mute glances of wonder.
‘What about you?’ the Seti, Sweetgrass, asked of the old veteran.
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘What?’
‘No.’
‘C’mon.’
The old veteran stopped to lean over. He dry heaved, gagging, then hawked up a mouthful of catarrh that he spat. ‘No.’
‘Boulbum?’
‘No.’
‘Ishfat?’
‘No!’
Ullen looked to Captain Moss, who walked with the back of his hand pressed to his grinning mouth.
They returned to find mixed Malazans, Talians and Falaran elements being ordered into phalanxes by a battered and bloodied Braven Tooth and Urko. The four old veterans greeted one another with great back-slapping hugs. Then, to Ullen’s shock and horror, Braven Tooth and Urko saluted him, sharing wicked grins. He answered the salute then waved aside their gesture. ‘No – you command, Urko.’
‘No. We ain’t done yet. These ones all run off but we got a pocket of Guardsmen yet. Dug in on a hill. Fist D’Ebbin and his remaining forces and the Wickans are keeping them tight. Time we contributed. I’ll be with one of the units. You can coordinate. Congratulations, Commander.’
The four veterans went to join units leaving Ullen to face his last remaining guard. He rubbed a hand at his wrenched, aching neck, feeling overcome. ‘Well…find a mount and send word to Fist D’Ebbin that we’re coming.’
The guard saluted, jogged off. Horns sounded a general advance. After some ragged reordering the columns began marching south. It was now well past midnight. The fires had died down and the field of battle was a dark tangled nightmare of fallen twisted bodies, broken equipment and wounded, dying horses.
With Moss at his side, Ullen picked his way south carefully. After a time, the captain leaned close and glanced about, troubled. The savage gashes that crossed his face appeared livid, raw. ‘Where’s your staff?’
‘Scattered.’
‘You need more of an escort.’ He gestured aside. ‘We should join that column.’
Ullen shrugged. ‘If you think it best.’
But the man halted. His hands snapped to the bright ivory grips of his sabres. ‘Something…’
Dust swirled up around them; Ullen shaded his gaze, wincing. ‘Captain?’ The clash of blows exchanged, iron grating iron. Ullen fumbled to draw his sword left-handed. Then an impact into his back like the clout of a sledgehammer. Cold iron slid deep inside him. Gasping, he turned to see a woman, her long white hair wild in the wind, eyes slitted, lips snarling. A flash of silvery-grey then that head tilted, falling, blood jetting, body jerking. Ullen fell as well.
Starry night sky then Captain Moss leaning over him, saying something, but all Ullen could hear was his pulse roaring in his ears. He couldn’t breathe! He strained, but nothing would enter his burning, aching lungs. Damn! This wasn’t right.
What of—
Couldn’t he—
The roaring pulse slowed. Night closed, obscuring Moss’s face, his mouth moving. One beat sounded like a heavy, slow hammer echoing.
Wait—
Chapter III
Vision dims, memory fades,
All forestalled is discounted,
And so returns upon the ignorant
In violent refrain.
Lessons from the field of the Crossroads
Waden Burdeth, Unta
KYLE, K’AZZ AND THE LOST BROTHERS FOUND THAT A flotilla of makeshift rafts had been pulled up along the north shore of the Idryn. Lying sprawled on the approach to the Pilgrim Bridge and piled in its mouth lay a trail of slaughtered Kanese soldiery. Facing the dead was one Crimson Guardsman. He was leaning against the stone wall of the bridge, legs wide, sword planted before him, his body and limbs feathered in arrows.
‘Baker,’ K’azz said, his voice thick.
The man stirred, his head rising. A sad smile crept up beneath long, tangled ginger hair. ‘M’Lord.’ He struggled weakly to straighten.
The Guard commander eased him back. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered gently. ‘We need you to guard the north.’
A wry smile pulled Baker’s mouth to one side. ‘Oh, aye, sir.’
The brothers were collecting shields from among the fallen. Kyle joined them. Each held as many as they could carry under both arms. Kyle offered one to K’azz who took it with a bob of his head. They jogged up the bridge.
Ahead, a deep sonorous roar, like the continuous detonation of thunder, raised the hair on Kyle’s neck and arms. It was a low, reverberating, animal growl of anticipation uttered from thousands of throats, so loud it almost drowned out the clangour of weapons clashing and shields striking. They met the struggle near the bridge’s mid-point. Four Avowed, back legs braced, faced the pressing solid wedge of Kanese infantry. Shield thrust against shield, spears and other pole-weapons jabbed, while a fifth Avowed remained a step back, watching, resting. Armour hung hacked and torn from all, helmets battered, arms black with drying gore. The rear Avowed, a short, broad woman, saluted them. The side of her head glistened, one raw wound; her sliced scalp hung down as a flap. Underfoot lay a litter of broken shields, fallen swords, spears, lances, arrows and shattered pieces of armour. Blood darkened the set stones of the bridge crimson.
‘You are most welcome, my Lord!’ the woman shouted to be heard through the din. ‘But we didn’t call for reinforcements.’ The woman frowned then, eyeing K’azz up and down. ‘Being away didn’t agree with you, I think. But you should leave. We will hold until we fall!’
‘So will I! Good to see you too, Lean.’ K’azz readied his shield, raised his long-knife. Other than this, the man was unarmed. Lean shook her head. ‘No – you’re reserve.’ She nodded to Kyle and the cousins. ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘Stalker, Coots, Badlands, Kyle,’ K’azz shouted. ‘They’re up to it.’
‘Wecome, brothers!’ She pointed to the Avowed hacking at the exposed front line of massed soldiery, rank upon rank of which held spears and javelins which they raised high or thrust at the defenders in a forest of jabbing, waving stalks. ‘Amatt, Cole, Black and Turgal.’
There was room for only eight or so Kan soldiers to stand shoulder to shoulder, though the layered ranks behind could reach with spears and halberds. Lean bashed her own spear to her shield and the four Avowed yielded a step, adjusted their footing and hunkered down. The Kan soldiery surged forward to be met by quick ruthless thrusts from the Avowed. Their wounded and fallen comrades choked and encumbered all those who struggled forward to fill the ranks. Eyeing the fighting, Stalker threw down his load of shields. He kept one and picked up a fallen spear. Instinctively, the brothers followed suit, as did Kyle.
Lean paced back and forth behind the defending Avowed, keeping close watch, and perhaps making sure K’azz did not push forward to join the line. She tapped Black on the back of his leg, waved Badlands forward.
�
��Relief!’
Black curled away, spinning, and the startled Badlands was caught surprised. But he leapt forward, knocking aside the hafts of jabbing spears to thrust himself in, bulling in with all his weight. Lean watched narrowly, gauging.
Stalker came and touched Kyle’s arm. He pointed to his waist: ‘Use that.’
Kyle glanced to the sword strapped into the outsized scabbard. His gift from Osserc; he hadn’t even drawn it yet. ‘No reach,’ he yelled back.
‘It must be something!’ Stalker answered.
Kyle shrugged.
One by one Lean relieved the Avowed until only Cole – whom Kyle recognized from Kurzan – remained, and it was Kyle’s turn. K’azz objected but apparently Lean was in charge of this particular contingent and so her judgement ruled. The relieved Avowed, Black, Amatt and Turgal, stood panting, faces glistening. They bore horrific wounds; Amatt coughed up blood; Black’s iron cuirass leaked blood at every overlapping band; Turgal, who bore a huge Malazan infantryman’s rectangular shield, had it strapped to his mangled, broken left arm.
His turn coming, Kyle readied his spear, tucking it tightly under his arm. He was suddenly deathly thirsty but knew that while he needed water it was best to be thirsty in case of a stomach wound. He tried not to think of what was about to come, and Lean, perhaps sensing his gathering dread, did not wait. ‘Relief!’ she bellowed, and Cole ducked away. Kyle lunged forward. Almost immediately his spear entangled amid the forest of jabbing, swinging pole weapons. Strikes on his shield rocked him, numbing his arm and shoulder. He could not bring his weapon to bear. It was hung up, useless.
The Hooded One’s laughter! He was going to die, spitted like a boar.
Javelins thrust around him, Lean and others driving back the ranks for him to straighten out his spear. He recovered, bending forward into the press. From the edges of his vision he saw that the Lost brothers were up to the challenge. Coots and Badlands fought like grinning, savage dogs, at home in their element, while Stalker was calm, pacing himself, yielding nothing. They were holding their ground and again Kyle wondered: who were these men seemingly equal to the Avowed in their strength, ferocity and endurance?
As for himself…Kyle and the Kanese soldiery opposite both sensed almost immediately that he was the weak link in this line. A thrown javelin cannoned from his helmet, briefly stunning him. A solid blow to his shield snapped it backwards to smack into his forehead, sending blazing agony across his vision. Blinking, everything a blur, he missed a strike to his own haft that levered his spear from his grip. The two Kanese facing him and the ranks behind roared, surging forward. Hands steadied him from behind, javelins thrusting. In a panic Kyle pulled his sword free, snapping the straps that kept the slim curved blade in the scabbard. He brought it up, fending off thrusting, clanging spears and halberds, and was dumbfounded as the dark golden blade cut through each haft as easily as if passing through a candle.
The Kanese flinched away, eyes huge under the lips of their helmets. The severed hafts clattered to the stones, loud in the sudden silence. ‘Beru Bless us!’ Lean cursed behind him, awed.
Osserc’s own weapon! Could it be, truly?
Kyle edged forward, recovering his lost footing. He crouched down behind his shield. Now I am ready. Beside him Coots and Badlands exchanged savage, elated grins.
Kyle remained in line while the others traded off. After his blade sliced shields in half and shattered swords no one would face him. The respite allowed the Avowed to recover, though for Black and Amatt the fight was over. Loss of blood left them unable to stand. The rest traded off in quick succession and in this system, presided over ruthlessly by Lean, they held.
K’azz was in communication with Shimmer through the Brethren. She reported that Skinner and his remaining Avowed had quit the field, abandoning their remaining loyal Guardsmen regulars. Shimmer and the majority of the surviving Guard had established a strongpoint. She claimed to have reached a temporary truce with the Imperials. In any case, the Wickans that had smashed Skinner’s command now merely encircled Shimmer, content with containment. Later K’azz reported that Shimmer expected formal negotiations to begin any time and that they had to hold off the Kanese in order that she could press for as favourable terms as possible. K’azz concurred.
Just after this report from Shimmer, Kanese horsemen came fording laboriously up the middle of the bridge. They forced their way through the press of soldiers like ships over a heavy sea, beating their way through the men with switches and kicks. At a bellowed command from the leading figure the infantry stepped back, spears levelled. Into the resultant ringing silence the fellow yelled, ‘Who commands here?’
‘I do!’ Lean answered, stepping forward. She pushed her scalp up and pressed it in place.
He drew off his helmet. He was a dark fellow with a neatly trimmed moustache and beard. He bowed as well as he could while mounted. ‘Commander Pirim ’J Shall at your service.’ He motioned to the rider behind: ‘Invigilator Durmis.’ The robed man bowed far more awkwardly, his pained gaze fixed far beyond them to the north cliffs.
‘We commend you, Guardsmen, on a heroic defence – though it has cost us dear. But we come bringing news. Are you by any chance in communication with the main body to the north?’
An unsure glance back from Lean. ‘We are.’
‘Then, the Invigilator Durmis is most insistent—’
‘What do they sense?’ the robed man cut in.
‘Sense?’
‘Yes, damn you! Inquire through your Brethren.’
Lean glanced back again, bloodied brows wrinkled. K’azz nodded. ‘A moment,’ she reported.
K’azz straightened, calling, ‘They report disturbances among the Warrens.’
‘And growing,’ the Invigilator added. ‘Something is coming blasting its way through the Warrens like a collapsing tower and it’s headed right for here!’
Commander waved a hand deprecatingly. ‘He may be exaggerating…the Invigilator’s job is to be wary of such irresponsible abuses among the men and women you name Talents – such as may threaten our Confederacy. A main reason, by the way, why we did not resort to such extreme measures to eliminate you from our path. For to do so would be to invite retaliation and escalation from your formidable Avowed mage cadre, yes? Thus costing us significantly more personnel than otherwise, yes?’ A smug smile. ‘In any case, the office’s more enthusiastic members have been known from time to time—’
Invigilator Durmis kneed his mount to bump into the commander’s. ‘This is real,’ he ground out.
‘Like the warning earlier this night? Of impending thaumaturgic transgression? The mere arrival of a few horsemen?’
‘Who knows who they could have been? They may have been allies of the Guard! In any case, those horsemen won the battle for the Empress.’
‘A point curiously moot to us here on this bridge!’
Lean cleared her throat. ‘Gentlemen! We are still in parley?’
Commander Pirim returned his attention to the front. He pulled on his long, cream-hued jupon to straighten it, adjusted his helmet under his arm. ‘Invigilator Durmis insisted upon this exchange of intelligence. To my mind formalities have been observed. We are done.’ He bowed.
Lean answered the bow, her hand still pressed to her head.
The commander struggled to turn his mount and, from the gathering rage and dismay on his face, found that he could not. He cut his switch viciously at the men pressed in around him. ‘Make way, damn you! Way!’
Lean turned an arched brow on Kyle and those of the line. Coots gave a mocking hoot. Invigilator Durmis, however, remained motionless on his mount. He sat slumped, hands folded before him. ‘It is here,’ he said, sounding defeated.
Kyle risked a quick glance behind. Above the cliffs the night sky of the north-west seemed to swirl, stars rippling. A pink and orange glow gathered, streaming into banners and crown-like circles that widened, fading. ‘What is it?’ he breathed.
Then a flash like an im
mense distant fire blossoming only to be snuffed out. Shortly afterwards a muted roll of thunder reached them. Lean looked to K’azz. ‘Something has struck the battlefield,’ he reported. ‘Cut a swath through units on the west flank. Left a trail of wreckage.’
Commander Pirim’s brows rose in almost comical surprise and alarm. He looked to Lean. ‘I suggest a truce – for the time being.’
Lean bobbed her head, wincing. ‘Agreed.’
Whether the sea would swallow Ho and his mage escapee companions had become immaterial. As Yath’s control over the disparate chords of his ritual participants gradually asserted itself he took steps to protect the vessel. A cocoon of power edged round its sides. Through the barrier’s pulsing multicoloured walls the sea appeared to have been left behind – the Forlorn seemed to float on nothing.
Sighing her profound relief, Devaleth sat with a heavy thump next to Ho. She massaged her hands. Sweat coursed down her ashen face. Unnerving groans now sounded from the vessel as timbers creaked, popping and flexing. The masts shivered, their tops shorn off where they met the aurora of power above. The deck juddered beneath them and she and Ho shared uneasy glances.
‘Where are we?’ Treat asked of Fingers, hushed.
‘Serc,’ the mage whispered.
A scream made everyone jump. One of the ritual mages had leapt to his feet. He pointed at Yath, mouthed something unintelligible. Two of the Avowed, Dim and Reed, stepped in to calm him. He wrenched his arms from their grasp, clasped his hands to his head, all the while howling his own personal horror. The Avowed fought to subdue him but incredibly the skinny fellow pushed them aside. He gouged at his face as if he would tear it open then in two long steps reached the side and threw himself over. His shriek was cut short as he passed beyond the barrier.
‘Otataral madness,’ Devaleth said to no one in particular.
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 107