Kalyth sensed a presence at her side.
Bre’nigan. The J’an Sentinel’s milky eyes caught the deepening blue of the day’s end. ‘Against two Shi’gal, I could do nothing.’
The voice in her head shocked her. This ancient Che’Malle had seemed beyond any acknowledgement of her whatsoever. The voice trembled.
‘I have failed.’
As you said, you could do nothing against two Shi’gal, Bre’nigan.
‘The Matron is no more.’
That has been true for some time.
‘Destriant, the wisdom in your words is bitter, but I cannot deny what you say. Tell me, these two humans—they seem . . . wayward. But then, I know little of your kind.’
‘Wayward? Yes. I know nothing of these Malazans—I have never heard of any tribe by that name. They are . . . reckless.’
‘It does not matter. The battle shall be final.’
‘Then you think we are lost, too. If that is so, why fight at all?’ Why force me and these two men to our deaths. Let us go!
‘We cannot. You, Destriant, and the Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil, you are what remains of Gunth’an Acyl’s will. You are the legacy of her mind. Even now, how can we say she was wrong?’
‘You put too much upon us.’
‘Yes.’
She heard Gesler and Stormy arguing again, in their foreign tongue. The Furies were drawing closer, and now two Ve’Gath loped out ahead of the others. Their backs were strangely shaped. ‘There,’ said Kalyth, drawing the attention of the two Malazans. ‘Your mounts.’
‘We’re going to ride those?’
‘Yes, Mortal Sword. They were bred for you and for the Shield Anvil.’
‘The one for Stormy’s got the saddle around the wrong way. How’s he going to stick his head up the Ve’Gath’s ass, where he’ll feel at home?’
Kalyth’s eyes widened.
Stormy laughed. ‘With you in charge, Ges, I’ll hide anywhere. You barely managed a measly squad. Now you got thirty thousand lizards expectin’ you to take charge.’
Gesler looked sick. ‘Got any spare room up that butt hole, Stormy?’
‘I’ll let you know, but just so you’re clear on this, when I shut the door it stays shut.’
‘You always were a selfish bastard. Can’t figure why we ever ended up friends.’
The Ve’Gath lumbered up to them.
Gesler glanced at Stormy and spoke in Falari. ‘All right, I guess this is it.’
‘I can taste their thoughts—all of them,’ said Stormy. ‘Even these two.’
‘Aye.’
‘Gesler, these Ve’Gath—they ain’t nasty-looking horses—they’re smart. We’re the beasts of burden here.’
‘And we’re supposed to be commanding them. The Matron got it all wrong, didn’t she.’
Stormy shook his head. ‘No point in arguing, though. The One Daughter told me—’
‘Aye, me too. A bloody coup. I imagine those Assassins figured out—and rightly so—just how redundant we are. Kalyth too. Stormy, I can reach out to them all. I can see through the eyes of any one of them. Except Gunth Mach.’
‘Aye, she’s built thick walls. I wonder why. Listen, Ges, I really have no idea what it is a Shield Anvil’s supposed to do.’
‘You’re a giant pit everybody bleeds into, Stormy. Funny your dreams didn’t mention that bit. But for this battle, I need you to command the Ve’Gath directly—’
‘Me? What about you?’
‘The K’ell Hunters. They’re fast, they can get in and out and with their speed they will be the deadliest force on the field.’
‘Ges, this is a stupid war, you know. The world’s not big enough for Long-Tails and Short-Tails both? Stupid. There’s barely any left as it is. Like the last two scorpions busy killing each other, when the desert covers a whole damned continent.’
‘The slaves are loose,’ Gesler replied. ‘With a few hundred generations of repressed hate to feed off. They won’t be satisfied until the last Che’Malle is a chopped-up carcass.’
‘And then?’
Gesler met the man’s eyes. ‘That’s what scares me.’
‘We’re next, you mean.’
‘Why not? What’s to stop them? They fucking breed like ants. They’re laying waste to warrens. Gods below, they’re hunting down and killing dragons. Listen, Stormy, this is our chance. We’ve got to stop the Nah’ruk. Not for the Che’Malle—I don’t care a whit for the Che’Malle—but for everyone else.’
Stormy glanced over at the Che’Malle. ‘They don’t expect to survive this battle.’
‘Aye, bad attitude.’
‘So fix it.’
Gesler glared, and then looked away.
The two Ve’Gath waited. Their backs were malformed, the bones twisted and lifted taut beneath the hide to form high saddles. Something like elongated fingers—or the stretched wings of a bat—slung down the beast’s flanks, the finger-ends and talons curling to form stirrups. Plates of armour ridged the shoulders. Lobster-tail scales encased the forward-thrusting necks. Their helms wrapped about the flattened skulls, leaving only the snouts free. They could look down upon a Toblakai. The damned things were grinning at their riders.
Gesler faced Gunth Mach. ‘One Daughter. The last Assassin—the one that escaped—I need him.’
Kalyth said, ‘We do not know if Gu’Rull even lives—’
Gesler’s eyes remained on Gunth Mach. ‘She knows. One Daughter, I ain’t going to fight a battle I can’t win. If you want us leading you, well, one thing us humans don’t understand, and that’s giving up. We fight when the fight’s been thumped out of us. We rebel when all we got left that’s not in chains is inside our skulls. We defy when the only defiance we got left is up and dying. Aye, I seen people bow their heads, waiting for the axe. I seen people standing in a row in front of fifty crossbows, and doing nothing. But they’ve all made dying their weapon, the last one left, and they are nightmare’s soldiers for ever afterwards. Is this getting through to you? I’m not one for inspiring crap. I need that Assassin, Gunth Mach, because I need his eyes. Up there, high overhead. With those eyes, I can win this battle.
‘You say Matrons never produce more than a hundred Ve’Gath. But your mother made fifteen thousand. Do you really think the Nah’ruk have any idea of what they’re getting into? You’ve filled my head with scenes of past battles—all your pathetic losses—and it’s no wonder you’re all ready to give up. But you’re wrong. The Matron—was she insane? Maybe. Aye. Insane enough to think she could win. And to plan for it. Mad? Mad genius, I’d say. Gunth Mach, One Daughter, summon your Shi’gal—he is yours now, isn’t he? Not ready to give up, not ready to surrender to the fatalism of his brothers. Summon him.’
Silence.
Gesler stared up into the Che’Malle’s eyes. Like staring into a crocodile’s. It’s the game of seeing all but reacting to nothing. Until necessity forces the issue. It’s the game of cold thoughts, if thoughts there are. It’s what makes a man’s balls crawl up looking for somewhere to hide.
She spoke in his mind. ‘Mortal Sword. Your words have been heard. By all. We shall obey.’
‘Gods below,’ Stormy muttered.
Kalyth stepped close to Gesler. Her eyes were wide. ‘A darkness lifts from the K’Chain Che’Malle.’ But in those eyes, beyond the wonder, he saw a flittering fear. She sees me sowing false hope. Gods, woman, what do you think a commander does? He walked up to one of the Ve’Gath, gripped what passed for a saddle horn, set one boot into a stirrup that suddenly clasped tight round his foot, and then swung himself astride the enormous beast.
‘Get ready to march,’ he said, knowing his words were heard by all. ‘We’re not waiting for the Nah’ruk to come to us. We’re heading straight for them, and straight down their damned throats. Kalyth! Does anyone know—will that sky keep follow? Will they fight?’
‘We don’t know, Mortal Sword. We think so. What else is left?’
Stormy was struggling to cli
mb on to his beast. ‘Trying to crush my damned foot!’
‘Relax into it,’ Gesler advised.
The One Daughter spoke in his mind. ‘The Shi’gal comes.’
‘Good. Let’s get this mess started.’
Gu’Rull tilted his wings, swept close round the towering cliff-face of Ampelas Uprooted. There was but one Shi’gal left inside—he’d managed to deliver fatal wounds to the other before he’d been driven from the Nest, and then the city. Deep slashes wept thick blood down his chest, but none of these threatened his life. Already he had begun to heal.
Before him on the plain the massed Furies had resumed their ground-eating march. Thousands of K’ell Hunters spread out to form a vast screen in a crescent as they struck southward, where dark clouds boiled on the horizon, slowly disappearing as the sun finally sank beneath the western hills. The Nah’ruk had fed this day, but the quarry had proved deadlier than they could have anticipated.
This Mortal Sword and his words impressed Gu’Rull, in so far as these soft humans could do so; but then, neither the one named Gesler nor the one named Stormy were truly human. Not any more. The aura of their presence was almost blinding to the Shi’gal’s eyes. Ancient fires had forged them. Thyrllan, Tellann, perhaps even the breath and blood of the Eleint.
The K’Chain Che’Malle did not bow in worship, but when it came to the Eleint, this abhorrence weakened. Children of the Eleint. But we are nothing of the sort. We simply claim the honour. But then, is this not what all mortals do? In grasping their gods, in carving the vicious rules of worship and obedience? Children of the Eleint. We name our cities for the First Born Dragons, those who once sailed the skies of this world.
As if they cared.
As if they even noticed.
This Mortal Sword spoke of a refusal, a defiance of the fate awaiting them. He possessed courage, and stubborn will. Laudable conceits. I answer his summons. I give him my eyes, for as long as I remain in the skies. I do not warn him that such time shall not long survive the commencement of battle. The Nah’ruk will see to that.
Even so. In Gunth’an Acyl’s memory, I shall abide.
Doubts swirled round the red-bearded one, the Shield Anvil. His heart was vast, it was true. He was a thing of sentimentality and compassion, so contrary to his bestial appearance, his simian fire. But such creatures were vulnerable. Their hearts bled too freely, and the scars never knitted true. It was madness to embrace the pain and suffering of the K’Chain Che’Malle—not even a Matron would yield to such a thing. The mind would howl. The mind would die.
No matter, he was but one mortal, a human at that. He would take what he could, and then fail. Falchions would descend, an instant of purest mercy—
‘Enough of that—and I don’t give a flying fuck for all your miserable thoughts. Assassin, I am Gesler. Your Mortal Sword. On the morning to come, on the dawn of battle, you will be my eyes. You will not flee. I don’t care how nasty it gets up there. If you ain’t looking like a pigeon that’s gone through a windmill by the time we’re all done, you’ll have failed me—and your kin, too. So don’t even think—’
I hear your words, Mortal Sword. You shall have my eyes, more’s the pity.
‘So long as we’re understood. Now, what should I be expecting when we sight the Nah’ruk?’
And so Gu’Rull told him. The human interrupted again and again with sharp, percipient questions. And, as the shock of his power—which had so easily torn through his defences to plunder Gu’Rull’s mind—slowly faded to a welt of indignation, the Shi’gal’s esteem for the Mortal Sword grew, grudgingly, half in disbelief, half in resentment. The Assassin would not permit himself the delusion of hope. But, this man was a warrior in the truest sense.
And what is that true sense? Why, it is the insanity of belief. And now you make us believe. With you. In you. And in your madness, which you so insist upon sharing.
You taste bitter, human. You taste of your world.
Cursing, Stormy forced his mount up alongside Gesler. ‘I’m picking up a stink of something. It’s hiding in back thoughts, at the bottom of deep pools—’
‘What in Hood’s name are you talking about?’ Gesler demanded. ‘And be quick, that Assassin’s even now winging towards the enemy—they’re camped, I can see them—there are fires and one big one—lots of smoke. Gods, my head’s ready to explode—’
‘You ain’t listening,’ Stormy said. ‘That stink—they know something. Gunth Mach—she knows something and she’s hiding it from us. I got this—’
Gesler snapped out a hand, and Stormy could see a distant look in his friend’s battered face, and as he watched, he saw horror filling the man’s eyes. ‘Beru fend . . . Stormy. I’m seeing wreckage—heaps of armour and weapons. Stormy—’
‘Those Nah’ruk—they—’
‘The Bonehunters—they found ’em, they . . . gods, there’s piles of bones! They fucking ate them!’ As Gesler reeled Stormy reached out to steady him.
‘Ges! Just tell me what you’re seeing!’
‘What do you think I’m doing! Gods below!’
But all at once words dried up, and Gesler could only stare downward as the Assassin wheeled over the battlefield, the massive encampment, a crater that could swallow a palace, and the vast stain of what looked like coals amidst flame-licked tree-stumps—no, not stumps. Limbs. Scorched Nah’ruk, still burning. Was it magic that hit them? Gesler could not believe that. A single release of a warren, torching thousands? And that crater—a hundred cussers maybe . . . but we didn’t have a hundred cussers.
He could hear Stormy shouting at him, but the voice seemed impossibly distant, too far away to be of any concern. Trenches ribboned a ridge, some of them filled with shattered armour and weapons. Lesser craters pocked the summit, crowded with bones. Off to one side, hundreds of Nah’ruk were moving through the carcasses of horses and blackened bodies. Heavy wagons trailed them, slabs of meat heaped on their beds. Dozens of Nah’ruk were harnessed to them, straining in their yokes.
That was a Khundryl charge. Wiped out. At least some of the allies arrived in time—in time for what? Dying. Gods, this was the Lord’s cruellest push. They weren’t looking for a fight—not with damned lizards, anyway. Not here in the useless Wastelands.
The Shi’gal Assassin’s voice intruded. ‘Your kin have damaged the Nah’ruk. This harvest was paid for, Mortal Sword. At least three Furies have been destroyed.’
Those were my friends. This wasn’t their fight.
‘They were brave. They did not surrender.’
Gesler frowned. Was surrender possible?
‘I do not know. I doubt it. The matter is irrelevant. Against us, tomorrow, there will be no quarter.’
‘You got that right,’ Gesler said in a growl.
‘Gesler!’
Blinking, the scene spinning away from his mind, he turned to Stormy. Wiping his eyes, he said, ‘It’s bad. Bad as it can get. The Nah’ruk were marching to meet these K’Chain Che’Malle. They slammed like a fist right into the Bonehunters. Stormy, there was slaughter, but only one army remains—’
Gu’Rull spoke once again in his mind. ‘I have found a trail, Mortal Sword. Signs of retreat. Shall we pursue it? The Nah’ruk can feel our approach—our Ve’Gath are as thunder in the earth. They prepare to march to meet us—the sky is a place of no light, there are alien winds—I cannot—’
Lightning flashed to the south, cracking through the night. Gesler grunted as the concussion reverberated through his skull. Assassin? Where are you? Answer me—what’s happened?
But he could not reach out to the winged lizard; he could not find Gu’Rull anywhere. Shit.
‘Is that a damned storm cloud up ahead, Gesler? Is that blood on your face? Tell me what the Hood’s going on!’
‘You really that curious?’ Gesler said, baring his teeth. He then spat. ‘The Nah’ruk have dropped everything. They’re coming for us. We’re on our own.’
‘And the Bonehunters?’
‘We�
�re on our own.’
The scouts emerged from the unforgiving darkness. On this night the Slashes had vanished, taking the stars and the jade glow with them. Even the swollen haze that was the moon did not dare the sky. Shivering in the sudden chill, Warleader Strahl waited for the scouts to reach him.
The two Senan warriors were hunched over, as if fearful, or perhaps wounded. When they halted before him, both knelt. They were exhausted, he saw, their chests heaving.
Look at them. Look at this darkness. Has the world ended this night?
He would not rush them, demanding words they would struggle to feed. The dread was thick enough in their harsh breaths.
Behind the Warleader the Senan Barghast waited. Some slept, but for most sleep would not come. Hunger. Thirst. The famine of loss, a song of soft weeping. He could feel scores of eyes fixed upon him, seeing, he knew, little more than a vague, smudged silhouette. Seeing the truth of him, and before them he had nowhere to hide.
One of the scouts had recovered his wind. ‘Warleader. Two armies on the plain.’
‘The Malazans—’
‘No, Warleader—these are demons—’
The other hissed, ‘There are thousands!’
‘Two armies, you said.’
‘They march towards each other—through the night—we are almost between them! Warleader, we must retreat—we must flee from here!’
‘Go into the camp, both of you. Rest. Leave me. Say nothing.’
Once they’d staggered off, he drew his furs closer about his shoulders. This dusk, they’d sighted a Moon’s Spawn, but one of hard angles and planes—his sharper-eyed warriors claimed it was carved in the shape of a dragon. Two demon armies—what better place to clash than on the Wastelands? Kill each other. Yours is not our war. We mean to find the Malazans . . . do we not? Our old enemy, a worthy one.
Did they not betray the alliance at Coral? Did they not try to cheat Caladan Brood and steal that city in the name of the cursed Empress? If not for Anomander Rake, they would have succeeded. These Bonehunters claim to be renegades, but then, did not Dujek Onearm say the same? No, this is the usual nest of lies. Whatever they seek, whatever they conquer, they will claim for the Empress.
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