The reek of their oils was heavy on the wind that still poured out from the warren. Beyond the ochre veil he could see a deepness, a darkness that did not belong.
They have come here, to the Wastelands.
They have been this way before.
Ambitions and desires spun like ash from a pyre. All at once, it was clear that nothing was important, nothing beyond this moment and what was about to begin. Could anyone have predicted this? Could anyone have pierced the solid unknown of the future, carving through to this scene?
There were times, he knew, when even the gods staggered back, reeled with bloodied faces. No, the gods didn’t manage this. They could not guess the Adjunct’s heart, that wellspring so full with all she would reveal to none. We were ever the shaved knuckle, but in whose hand would we be found? None knew. None could even dream . . .
He stood alone, warrens awake and seething within him. He would do what he could, for as long as he was able. And then he would fall, and there would be no one left but a score of squad mages and the Atri-Ceda.
On this day, we shall witness the death of friends. On this day, we may well join them.
The High Mage Adaephon Ben Delat drew from a pouch a handful of acorns and flung them to the ground. He squinted once more at the deepness beyond the veil, and then down to the Nah’ruk legions. Monstrous in their implacability—steal one away and it’s damned near mindless. Gather them in their thousands, and their will becomes one . . . and that will is . . . gods below . . . it is so very cold . . .
The Nah’ruk were half again as tall as a man and perhaps twice the weight. Little of their upper bodies could be seen, even as they drew to within two hundred paces, for they were clad in sheaths of enamel or boiled-leather armour extending out to their upper arms and reaching down to protect their forward-thrusting thighs. The stubs of their tails bore similar armour, but in finer scales. Wide helms enclosed their heads, short snouts emerging between ornate cheek-guards. Those in the front lines held arcane clubs of some sort, blunt-ended and wrapped in bundles of what looked like wire. For each dozen or so, one warrior walked burdened beneath a massive ceramic pack that sat high on its shoulders.
Behind this first line of warriors the other ranks carried short-handled halberds or falchions, held vertically. Each phalanx presented a breadth of at least a hundred warriors, all marching in perfect time, upper bodies leaning forward above their muscled, reptilian legs. There were no standards, no banners, and no obvious vanguard of commanders. As far as Ruthan Gudd could determine, there was nothing to distinguish one from another, barring those wearing the strange kit bags.
Frost glistened from his entire body now, and ice had spread thick as armour to encase the horse beneath him. It was already dead, he knew, but the ice knew to answer his commands. He rode a dozen paces ahead of the front line of Malazans, knowing that countless eyes were upon him, knowing they were struggling to understand what they were seeing—not just this alien army so clearly intent on their annihilation, but Ruthan Gudd himself, out here astride a horse sheathed in ice, the ice murky with hints of the form it had engulfed.
He held the Stormrider sword as if it was an extension of his forearm—ice had crept up to his shoulder, gleaming yet flowing as would water.
Eyeing the Nah’ruk, he muttered under his breath. ‘Yes, you see me. You mark me. Send your fury my way. First and last, strike me . . .’
Behind him, from haphazard trenches, an ominous hush. The Bonehunters crouched as if pinned to the ground, caught unawares, so rocked by the unexpected impossibility of this that not a single defiant shout sounded, not a single weapon hammered the rim of a shield. Though he did not turn round, he knew that all motion had ceased. No more orders to be given. None were, truth be told, necessary.
By his rough count, over forty thousand Nah’ruk were advancing upon them. He almost caught an echo of the cacophony only moments away, as if the future’s walls were about to be shattered, flinging horror back into the past—to this moment, to ring deafeningly in his skull.
‘Too bad,’ he muttered. ‘It was such a pretty day.’
‘Hood’s breath, who is that?’
Adjunct Tavore’s eyes narrowed. ‘Captain Ruthan Gudd.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Lostara Yil replied. ‘What’s happened to him?’
In answer the Adjunct could only shake her head.
Lostara shifted on her horse, free hand drifting to the knife at her belt, and then twitching away. Sword, you idiot. Not the knife. The stupid sword. A face drifted into her mind. Henar Vygulf. He would be with Brys right now, ready to set off with orders. The Letherii were set back, forming two distinct outside flanks, like the outer bends of a bow. They would witness the collision of the front lines, and then, she hoped, they’d quickly see the suicidal insanity of standing against these damned lizards, and Brys would deliberately rout his army. Get the Hood out of here—leave all the gear behind—just flee. Don’t die like us, don’t stand just because we’re standing. Just get out, Brys—Henar—I pray you. I beg you.
She heard horse hoofs and glanced over to see Fist Keneb riding down the length of the humped berm, passing the ranks of his dug-in soldiers. What’s he doing?
He was riding for Captain Ruthan Gudd.
Tavore spoke. ‘Sound horn, signaller—order Fist Keneb to personally withdraw.’
A blast of wails lifted into the air.
‘He’s ignoring it,’ Lostara said. ‘The fool!’
Quick Ben caught sight of Ruthan Gudd and he grunted. I’ll be damned. A Maelbit Nerruse-whore-spawn Stormrider. Who knew?
But what was he doing out front like that? After a moment, the High Mage swore under his breath. You want ’em to take you first. You want to draw them to you. You’re giving the Bonehunters a dozen heartbeats to realize what they have to deal with. Captain Ruthan Gudd, or whoever you are . . . gods, what can I possibly say? Go well, Captain.
Go well.
Swearing, Keneb savagely drove his spurs into the flanks of his mount. That was Ruthan Gudd, and if the fool wasn’t what he pretended to be, then the Malazans needed him more than ever. The man could be a damned god but single-handedly charging those things will still see him chopped to pieces. Ruthan! We need you—whoever and whatever you are—we need you alive!
Could he reach him in time?
Captain Skanarow kicked at one of her soldiers, pushing the idiot back into the shallow trench. ‘Keep digging!’ she snarled, and then returned her attention to that gleaming figure riding out towards the lizards. You stupid lying bastard! A Stormrider? Impossible—they live in the damned seas.
Ruthan, please, what are you doing?
______
Seeing the first line of the nearest phalanx level their bizarre clubs, Ruthan Gudd gritted his teeth. This Stormrider crap had better work. But gods below, it does hurt to wear. He wheeled his mount to face the Nah’ruk, and then raised high his sword.
Sunlight flashed through the ice.
A rider was coming up from behind and to his left. Poor bastard. That’s what you get for taking orders. Without a backward glance, he drove his spurs into the flanks of his mount. Sparks flashed from the ice. The beast lunged forward.
You sorry Malazans. Watch me, and then ask yourself: How deep can you dig?
Fiddler cocked his crossbow, carefully inserted a sharper-headed quarrel. Now that it was happening, he felt fine. Nothing more to be done, was there? Everything was alight, cut clear, the colours of the world suddenly saturated, beautiful beyond belief. He could taste it. He could taste it all. ‘Everybody loaded?’
Grunts and nods from his squad, all of them crouched down in the trench.
‘Keep your heads right down,’ Fiddler told them again. ‘We’ll hear the charge, count on it. Nobody pokes up for a look until my say so, understood?’
He saw, a few squads down, Balgrid edging up for a look. The healer shouted, ‘Gudd’s charging them!’
Along the entire line of marines, he
lmed heads sprung up like mushrooms.
Fuck!
Crump was on his hands and knees, a clutch of sharpers set like black-turtle eggs in a shallow pit pushed into the stony floor of the trench.
Ebron stared in horror. ‘Have you lost your mind? Spread ’em down the line, you idiot!’
Crump looked up, eyes widening. ‘Can’t do that, mage. They’re mine! All I got left!’
‘Someone could step on them!’
But Crump was shaking his head. ‘I’m protecting them, mage!’
Ebron swung round. ‘Cord! Sergeant! It’s Crump! He’s—’
The wire-bound clubs in the front line seemed to ignite like torches. Lightning arced from the blunt heads, two serpentine tendrils snaking into the air. From each weapon, one of the bolts twisted and spun to sink into one of the strange ceramic packs—a dozen such arcs for each pack. The second crackling tongue of white fire seemed to throb for an instant, and then as one they lashed out, a score or more converging on the charging, ice-clad rider and horse.
The detonation engulfed Ruthan Gudd and his mount, tore gouts of earth and stone from the ground in a broad, ragged crater.
An instant before the explosion, other front lines had awakened their own weapons, and even as the flash erupted, hundreds of bolts snapped out to strike the front trench.
On his way back to the squad, Bottle was thrown down into the trench, the impact punching the breath from his lungs. Gaping, his head tilted to one side, he saw a row of bodies lifted into the air along the entire length of the berm—all those who had climbed up to watch Ruthan’s charge. Marines, most of them headless or missing everything above their rib cages, twisted amidst dirt and rocks and pieces of armour and weapons.
Still unable to breathe, he saw a second wave of the sorcery lance directly over his trench. The ground shook as ranks behind him were struck. The blue of the sky vanished behind thick clouds. Bodies sailed in and out of those churning clouds.
Bottle writhed, deaf, his lungs howling. He felt the muted impacts of sharpers, too close, too random—
A hand reached down out of the sudden gloom and closed on his chest harness. He was dragged out from the slumped side of the collapsed trench.
Bottle coughed out a mouthful of earth, hacked agonizing breaths, his throat afire. Tarr’s spattered face was above him, shouting—but Bottle could hear nothing. No matter, he pushed Tarr back, nodding. I’m all right. No, honest. I’m fine—where’s my crossbow?
Keneb had come too close. The detonation caught him and his horse and literally ripped them both to pieces. Chunks of flesh sprayed outward. Ebron, leaning hard over the berm, saw part of the Fist’s upper torso—a shoulder, a stub of the arm and a few splayed ribs—cartwheel skyward, lifted on a column of dirt.
Even as the mage stared, disbelieving, a sorcerous bolt caught him dead centre on his sternum. It tore through him, disintegrating his upper chest, shoulders and head.
Limp howled as one of Ebron’s arms flopped down across his thighs.
But no one heard him.
They had seen Quick Ben, but had elected to ignore him. He flinched as the first waves of lightning ploughed into the defences along the ridge. Thunder rattled the ground and the entire facing side of the Bonehunter army vanished inside churning clouds of dirt, stone, and dismembered bodies.
He saw the nodes recharging on the shoulders of the drones. How long? ‘No idea,’ he whispered. ‘Little acorns, listen. Go for the drones—the ones with the packs. Forget the rest . . . for now.’
Then he set out, walking down towards the nearest phalanx.
The Nah’ruk front was less than a hundred paces away.
They had seen him and now they took note. Lightning blistered all along the front line.
Horse clambering drunkenly from the crater, Ruthan Gudd shook his head, readying his blazing weapon. Dirt streamed down his back beneath his smeared, steaming armour. He spat grit.
That wasn’t so bad now.
Directly in front of him, twenty paces away, looming huge, the front line. Their eyes glittered like diamonds within the shadows beneath the rims of their ornate helms. The fangs lining their snouts glistened like shards of iron.
He had an inkling that they had not expected to see him again. He rode over to say hello.
‘Crossbows at the ready!’ Fiddler yelled. ‘Go for the nodes!’
‘The what?’
‘The lumpy ones! That’s where the magic’s coming from!’
Koryk scrambled to crouch beside Fiddler. The man was sheathed in bloody mud. ‘Who pops up for a look, Fid?’
‘I will,’ said Corabb, surging upward and clawing up the berm. ‘Gods below! That captain’s still alive! He’s in their ranks—’
As Corabb made to clamber out of the trench—clearly intending to join Gudd and charge the whole damned phalanx, Tarr reached out and dragged the fool back down.
‘Stay where you are, soldier! Get that crossbow—no, that one there! Load the fucker!’
‘Range, Corabb?’ Fiddler asked.
‘Forty and slowed, Sergeant—that captain’s carving right through ’em!’
‘Won’t matter much. I don’t care if he’s got Oponn’s poker up his ass, he’s only one man.’
‘We should help him!’
‘We can’t, Corabb,’ Fiddler said. ‘Besides, that’s the last thing he’d want—why d’you think he went out there on his own? Leave him, soldier. We got our own trouble come knocking. Koryk, you take the next look, count of ten. Nine, eight, seven—’
‘I ain’t getting my head blasted off!’
Fiddler swung his crossbow round to point at Koryk’s chest. ‘Four, three, two, one—up you go!’
Snarling, Koryk scrambled upward. Then was back down almost instantly. ‘Shit. Twenty-five and picking up speed!’
Fiddler raised his voice. ‘Everyone ready! The nodes! Hold it—hold it—NOW!’
______
Hedge led his Bridgeburners just to the rear of the last trenches. ‘I don’t care what Quick thinks, he’s always had backup, he never went it alone. Ever. So that’s us, soldiers—keep up there, Sweetlard! Look at Rumjugs, she ain’t even breathing hard—’
‘She’s forgotten how!’ Sweetlard gasped.
‘Remember what I said,’ Hedge reminded them, ‘Bridgeburners have faced worse than a bunch of stubby lizards. This ain’t nothing, right?’
‘We gonna win, Commander?’
Hedge glanced over at Sunrise. And grinned. ‘Count on it, Sergeant. Now, everyone, check your munitions, and remember to aim for the lumpy ones. We’re about to pull into the open—’
A concussion shook the very air, but it came from the Nah’ruk lines. A billowing black cloud rose like a stain of spilled ink.
‘Gods, what was that?’
Hedge’s grin broadened. ‘That, soldiers, was Quick Ben.’
Lightning arced out from hundreds of clubs, from multiple phalanxes to either side of the one he had attacked. The bolts snapped towards him, then slanted off as Quick Ben flung them aside. And I ain’t Tayschrenn and this ain’t Pale. Got no one behind me, so keep throwing them my way, y’damned geckos. Use it all up!
The first dozen or so ranks of the phalanx he’d struck were down, a few writhing or feebly struggling to rise with crushed limbs and snapped bones. Most were motionless, their bodies boiled from the inside out. As he walked towards those who remained, he saw them regrouping, forming a line to face him once more.
The huge falchions and halberds lifted in readiness.
Quick Ben extended his senses, until he could feel the very air around the creatures, could follow currents of that air as they slipped through gills into reptilian lungs. He reached out to encompass as many of them as possible.
And then he set the air on fire.
Lightning shunted from the High Mage, careened off into the sky and out to the sides.
Sergeant Sunrise shrieked as one bolt twisted and spun straight for Hedge. He flung himself fo
rward, three paces that seemed to tear every muscle in his back and legs. He was a Bridgeburner. He was the man he had always wanted to be; he’d never stood taller, never walked straighter.
And all because of Hedge.
See me? Sunrise—
He was smiling as he flung himself into the lightning’s path.
Hedge’s sergeant erupted, blinding white, and then where he had been was nothing but swirling ashes. His soldiers were screaming behind him. Spinning, Hedge shouted, ‘Everyone down to the ground! We’ll wait it out—we wait it out!’
Fuck you, Quick—this ain’t Pale, you know! And you ain’t Tayschrenn!
Ruthan Gudd slashed down to either side, but the damned things were pressing in—they’d halted his forward progress. Heavy iron blades cracked and skittered against his horse, his thighs. The armour was showing cracks, but after each blow those fissures healed. His sword cut through helms and skulls, necks and limbs, but the Nah’ruk did not relent, closing tighter and tighter about him.
He heard concussions somewhere to his left, caught the stench of howling warrens being forced to do unspeakable things—Quick Ben, how much longer can you hide? Well, Ruthan knew he’d not be around to witness any revelations. They were taking him down with their sheer weight. His horse staggered, head thrashing and flinching with every savage downward strike of falchions.
The rest of the phalanx had moved past the knot trapping him, were ascending the ridge, only moments from reaching the first trench. He caught flashes of other phalanxes marching past.
Four blades struck him simultaneously, lifting him from the saddle with a splintering explosion of ice shards. Cursing, he twisted, lashing out even as he plunged into the maelstrom of reptilian limbs and iron weapons. And then taloned feet, slashing, stamping down. A blow to the face stunned him. White, and then blessed darkness.
Twelve paces. The surviving marines rose as one from the foremost trench. Crossbows thudded. Sharpers cracked and burners ignited. Directly before Fiddler, he saw his bolt glance off a node and then explode immediately behind the lizard’s head. The helm went spinning, whipping fragments of brain and bone in a wild cavorting tail of gore. The node blackened, and then exploded.
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