Dust of Dreams

by Steven Erikson

  The concussion threw Fiddler back, down into the trench. Pieces of hide and meat rained down.

  Half-winded, he struggled to reload his lobber. One last cusser—gotta get rid of it, before it goes up like those sharpers down the line—gods, we’ve been chewed up—

  Shadows swept over the trench.

  He looked up.

  The Nah’ruk had arrived.

  Corabb had managed to reload. Lifting his head, he saw a giant lizard rising above the berm, maw tilting down as if grinning at him.

  His quarrel vanished into its soft throat, punched out through the back of its skull. The creature wobbled. Flinging away the crossbow, Corabb drew his sword and scrambled to his feet. He swung at the nearest shin. The impact nearly broke his wrist and the weapon’s edge bit deep into bone and jammed there.

  Still the creature stood, twitches rippling through its massive body.

  Corabb struggled to pull loose his sword.

  To either side, Nah’ruk clambered over the berm, leapt down into the trench.

  The backswing lifted Sergeant Primly into the air, and he rode the iron blade, his blood spilling down as if from a bucket. Shrieking, Neller flung himself on to the lizard’s left arm, pulled himself higher and then forced the sharper down between the enamel chest-plate and the greasy hide. Jaws snapped, closed on his face. Phlegm like acid splashed his eyes and skin. Howling, Neller tightened his grip on the sharper and then drove the fist of his other hand against the armour, directly opposite the munition.

  Mulvan Dreader, driving a spear into the lizard’s belly, caught the blast as the creature’s chest exploded. Ceramic shrapnel shredded Mulvan’s neck, punching red gore into the air behind him. Neller was flung back, his right arm gone, his face a slashed, melting horror.

  Primly’s corpse landed five paces away, a flopping thing painted crimson.

  The lizard toppled.

  Two more appeared behind it, falchions lifting.

  Stumbling, Drawfirst set her shield and readied her sword. As Skulldeath leapt past her, landing in between the two Nah’ruk.

  A bolt sizzled close to her horse’s head. Its muzzle and mane burst into flame. Skin peeled and cracked from mouth to shoulders. The animal collapsed. Lostara Yil managed to roll clear. The heat had flashed against her face and she could smell the stench of scorched hair. Staggering to her feet, she looked over to see a dozen staff riders down, roasted in their armour. The Adjunct was lifting herself from the carnage, her otataral sword in one hand.

  ‘Get me Keneb—’

  ‘Keneb’s dead, Adjunct,’ Lostara replied, staggering over. The world spun and then steadied.

  Tavore straightened. ‘Where—’

  Lostara reached the woman, pulled her down to the ground. ‘You shouldn’t even be alive, Tavore. Stay here—you’re in shock. Stay here—I’ll find help—’

  ‘Quick Ben—the High Mage—’

  ‘Aye.’ Lostara stood over the Adjunct, who was sitting as would a child. The captain looked over to where she’d last seen Quick Ben.

  He’d annihilated an entire phalanx, and where it had been the fires of superheated flesh, hide and bone still raged in an inferno. She saw him marching towards another phalanx, above him the sky convulsing, blackening like a bruise.

  Sorcery erupted from the High Mage, struck the phalanx. Burning corpses lifted into the air.

  ‘I see him. Adjunct—I can’t—’

  From the darkness in the sky a sudden glow, blinding, and then an enormous spear of lightning descended. She saw the High Mage look up, saw him raise his arms—and then the bolt struck. The explosion could have levelled a tenement block. Even the Nah’ruk in the phalanx thirty or more paces away were flattened like sheaves of wheat. Flanking units buckled on the facing sides.

  The shock wave staggered Lostara, stole her breath, deafened her. Hands to her face, she slumped down, struck the ground hard.

  Pearl?

  Skanarow threw herself down into the second trench where the heavies were waiting. ‘The marines are overrun! Sound the fall-back—and make room for the survivors—let ’em through! Get ready to hold this trench!’

  She saw a messenger, unhorsed, crouching behind the headless corpse of a heavy. ‘You—find Captain Kindly. I just saw the vanguard go down—and I don’t know where Blistig is, so as far as I’m concerned Kindly’s now in command. Tell him, we need to begin a retreat—we can’t hold. Understood?’

  The young man nodded.

  ‘Go.’

  Brys flinched as the Nah’ruk lines struck the Malazan defences. He saw the heavy falchions descending. Barely slowing, the lizards swarmed over the first trench and began closing on the next one.

  ‘Aranict—’

  ‘I think she lives, Commander.’

  Brys swung round in his saddle, caught the eyes of his outriders. ‘We need to retrieve the Adjunct. Volunteers only.’

  One rider pushed through the others. Henar Vygulf.

  Brys nodded. ‘Get your spare horses, Lieutenant.’

  The huge Bluerose saluted.

  ‘When you have them,’ Brys said before the man turned away, ‘ride for the supply train.’

  The soldier frowned.

  Brys gritted his teeth. ‘I will not stand here watching this slaughter. We will close with the enemy.’

  They saw the impossibly thick bolt of lightning tear down from the dark stain ahead. As the shockwaves drummed through the ground, Warleader Gall raised an arm to signal a halt. He faced Kisswhere, his face ashen. ‘I am sending you to the Mortal Sword Krughava—tell her the Malazans are assailed, and that the Khundryl ride to their succour.’

  She stared at the man. ‘Warleader—’

  ‘Ride, soldier—you are not Khundryl—you do not understand what it is to fight from a horse. Tell Krughava the gods were cruel this day, for she will not reach the Malazans in time.’

  ‘Who is their enemy?’ Kisswhere demanded. ‘Your shamans—’

  ‘Are blind. We know less than you. Ride, Kisswhere.’

  She swung her horse round.

  Gall rose in his stirrups and faced his warriors. He drew his tulwar and held it high. And said nothing.

  In answer, six thousand weapons were freed and lifted skyward.

  Gall pulled his horse round. ‘Ride ahead, Rafala, until you sight the enemy.’

  The woman kicked her mount into a gallop.

  After a moment, Gall led his army after her, at a quick canter, and the sound of thunder grew louder, and the yellow sky deepened to brown in which flashes bloomed like wounds.

  He wondered what his wife was doing.

  Worse than chopping down trees. Fiddler gave up trying to hack through legs and began hamstringing the bastards, ducking the slashes of notched weapons, dodging the downward swings. The surviving Malazans had been driven from the first trench, were now struggling to hold a fighting withdrawal across the ten paces to the heavies’ trench.

  Crossbow quarrels and arrows spat out from the troops arrayed behind the heavies, winging at heights mercifully above the heads of the soldiers in their desperate retreat. Most missiles shattered against enamel, but a few were punching through, finding gaps in the Nah’ruk’s armour. Beasts were toppling here and there.

  But not enough. The phalanx was a machine, devouring everything in its path.

  Fiddler had lost his cusser and lobber in the first trench. The shortsword felt puny as a thorn in his hand. A glancing blow had sent his helm flying and blood streamed down the right side of his head.

  He saw Koryk pushing his sword through a Nah’ruk’s neck; saw another lizard step in behind the man, halberd lifting high. Bolts punched into both armpits. The creature fell forward, burying Koryk. Smiles rushed over, diving and rolling to evade a lashing falchion.

  Cuttle stumbled up against Fiddler. ‘Retreat’s sounded!’

  ‘I heard—’

  ‘Quick Ben’s been Rannalled, Fid—that giant strike—’

  ‘I know. Forget him—
help me get the squad back—the heavies will hold, enough so we can regroup. Go on, I ain’t seen Corabb or Bottle—’

  Nah’ruk and human corpses half-buried Bottle, but he was in no hurry to move. He saw more of the lizards marching past on all sides.

  We never even slowed them.

  Quick, whatever happened to subtlety?

  He could see a sliver of sky, could see the wyval wheeling round up there, eager to descend and feed. Grandma, you always said don’t reach too far. Close your dead eyes now, and remember, I loved you so.

  He left his body, winged skyward.

  Corabb yanked hard and dragged his sword from the Nah’ruk’s left eye socket, then he reached down to take up again Shoaly’s ankle—but the man had stopped screaming and as he looked he saw in the heavy’s face a slackness, a dullness to the staring eyes.

  A line of Nah’ruk was closing, only a few paces away. Swearing, Corabb released his grip and turned to run.

  The trench of the heavy infantry was just ahead. He saw helmed faces, weapons readied. Arrows and quarrels hissed over them and the thud and snap of their impacts was torrential behind him. Corabb hurried over.

  Cuttle fell in beside him. ‘Seen Tarr?’

  ‘Seen him go down.’

  ‘Bottle?’

  Corabb shook his head. ‘Smiles? Koryk?’

  ‘Fid’s got ’em.’

  ‘Fiddler! He’s—’

  The first trench directly behind the two marines erupted. Nah’ruk ranks simply vanished in blue clouds.

  ‘What—’

  ‘Some bastard stepped on a cusser!’ Cuttle said. ‘Serves ’em right! C’mon!’

  Deathly pale faces beneath helm rims—but the heavies were standing, ready. Two parted and let the marines through.

  One shouted over at Cuttle. ‘Those clubs—’

  ‘Got ’em, soldier!’ Cuttle yelled back. ‘Now it’s just iron.’

  At once a shout rose from the length of the trench. ‘HAIL THE MARINES!’

  And the faces around Corabb suddenly darkened, teeth baring. The instant transformation took his breath away. Iron, aye, you know all about iron.

  The Nah’ruk were five steps behind them.

  The heavies rose to meet them.

  Hedge watched as the lizards clambered from the enormous crater where Quick Ben had been, watched as they re-formed their ranks and resumed their advance. Twisting from where he was lying, he then looked back to study the Letherii legions drawing up at a steady half-trot, pikes set and slowly angling in overlapping layers.

  Hedge grunted. Good weapons for this.

  ‘Bridgeburners! Listen up! Never mind the High Mage. He’s ashes on the wind. We’re going to soften up the lizards for the Letherii. Ready your munitions. One salvo when I say so and then we retreat and if the Letherii are sharp, they’ll make room for us! If they don’t, then swing to the right—to the right, got it? And run like Hood himself is on your heels!’

  ‘Commander!’ someone cried out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who’s Hood?’

  Gods below. ‘He’s just the guy you don’t want on your heels, right?’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Hedge lifted his head. Shit, these ones got clubs and nodes. ‘Check your munitions! Switch to Blue. You hear me? Blues! And aim for that front line! Nodes, lads and lasses, those white lumps!’

  ‘Commander!’

  ‘Hood’s the—’

  ‘I hear horses! Coming from the southeast—I think—is that horses?’

  Hedge rose slightly higher. He saw two lizard phalanxes smartly wheeling. Oh gods . . .

  Rolling into a charge, Gall leaned forward on his horse. Just like the Malazans to find the ugliest foes the whole damned world had to offer. And the scariest. But those squares had no pikes to fend off a cavalry charge—and they would pay for that.

  When he’d led his army up to where Rafala had reined in, he’d seen—in the first dozen heartbeats—all he’d needed to see.

  The enemy was devouring the Malazan army, driving them back, cutting down hundreds of soldiers if they were no more than children. This was slaughter, and barely a third of the phalanxes had actually closed with the Bonehunters.

  He saw the Letherii moving up on both flanks, forming bristling pike walls in a saw-tooth presentation, but they’d yet to meet the enemy. Out to the far flanks mounted troops mustered, yet held far back—unaccountably so, as far as Gall was concerned.

  Directly ahead of the Khundryl charge, two phalanxes were closing up to present a solid defensive line, denying the Burned Tears the opportunity to drive between the squares, winging arrows on both sides. Gall needed make no gestures or call out commands—his lead warriors knew to draw up upon loosing their arrows; they knew their lanes, through which the heavier lancers would pass to drive deep into the wounded front ranks of the enemy—drive in, and then withdraw. There would be no chance of shattering these phalanxes—the demons were too big, too heavily armoured. They would not break before a charge.

  This is the last day of the Khundryl Burned Tears. My children, do you ride with me? I know you do. My children, be brave this day. See your father, and know that he is proud of you all.

  The foremost line of demons began preparing strange clubs.

  ______

  Hedge saw the lightning erupt from the Nah’ruk line, saw the jagged bolts tear into the mass of Khundryl warriors. The charge seemed to disintegrate inside a horrific cloud of red mist.

  Sickened, he twisted on to his back, stared up at the sky. Didn’t look like sky at all. ‘Bridgeburners, get ready! Munitions in hand! One, two, three—UP!’

  Brys had thought the bodies lying on the ground ahead were corpses. They suddenly rose, forty or fifty in all, and flung objects at the front line of Nah’ruk. The small dark grenados splashed as they struck the enemy warriors. An instant later, the Nah’ruk who had been struck began writhing as the liquid ate through their armour, and then their hides.

  One of the nodes exploded, flinging bodies back. Then another and another. All at once the front ranks of the phalanx were a chaotic mess.

  Brys turned to his signaller. ‘Sound the charge! Sound the charge!’

  Horns blared.

  The legions broke into a dog-trot, pikes levelled.

  The sappers were running, swinging to the left and out from the gap between the two forces. They might just make it clear in time.

  At six paces, the Letherii ranks surged forward, voices lifting in a savage roar.

  The teeth of the saw bit deep, one, three rows, four. The Nah’ruk phalanx buckled. And then the two forces ground to a halt. Pikes were held in place, infighters armed with axes and stabbing swords pushing between the front line to begin their vicious close work. Falchions flashed high, and then descended.

  Brys gestured. Another messenger came up alongside him.

  ‘The onager and arbalest units are to draw up on the hill to the east. Begin enfilade. Cavalry to provide initial screen until they commence firing.’

  The man saluted and rode off.

  Brys looked southeastward. Miraculously, some remnant of the mounted horse-warriors had survived the sorcerous salvos—he could see riders emerging from the dust and smoke, hammering wildly into the front ranks of the Nah’ruk. They struck with inhuman ferocity and Brys was not surprised—to have come through that would have stripped the sanity of any warrior.

  He breathed a soft prayer for them in the name of a dozen long-lost gods.

  A messenger reined in on his right. ‘Commander! The west legions have engaged the enemy.’

  ‘And?’

  The man wiped the sweat from his face. ‘Knocked ’em back a step or two, but now . . .’

  Seeing that he could not go on, seeing that he was near tears, Brys simply nodded. He turned to study what he could see of the Malazan position.

  Nothing but armoured lizards, weapons lifting and descending, blood rising in a mist.

  But, as he stared, he noticed
something.

  The Nah’ruk were no longer advancing.

  You stopped them? Blood of the gods, what manner of soldiers are you?

  The heavy infantry stood. The heavy infantry held the trench. Even as they died, they backed not a single step. The Nah’ruk clawed for purchase on the blood-soaked mud of the berm. Iron chewed into them. Halberds slammed down, rebounded from shields. Reptilian bodies reeled back, blocking the advance of rear ranks. Arrows and quarrels poured into the foe from positions behind the trench.

  And from above, Locqui Wyval descended by the score, in a frenzy, to tear and rend the helmed heads of the lizard warriors. Others quickly closed to do battle with their kin, and the sky rained blood.

  Bottle’s soul leapt from body to body, grasped tight the souls of Locqui Wyval, and flung them down upon the Nah’ruk. As each one was pulled down to the slaughter, he tore himself free to enslave yet another. He had reached out, taking as many as he could—dozens of the creatures—the stench of blood and all that they saw had driven them mad. He needed only crush the tatters of their restraint, loose them upon the nearest beasts that were not wyval.

  When kin attacked, he did not resist—the more dead and dying wyval, the better.

  But he felt himself being torn apart. He felt his mind shredding away. He could not do much more of this. Yet Bottle did not relent.

  Tarr stumbled into a knot of marines. Glared round. ‘Limp—where’s your—’

  ‘Dead,’ Limp said. ‘Just me an’ Crump—’

  ‘Ruffle?’

  The round-faced woman shook her head. ‘Got separated. Saw Skim die, that’s all—’

  ‘So what are you doing sitting here? On your feet, marine—those heavies are dying where they stand. And we’re going to join them. You, Reliko! Pull Vastly on his feet there—you’re all coming with me!’