'You anticipated this,' Kallor hissed, 'didn't you?'
That you would win the day, yes, I think he did.
Whiskeyjack said nothing.
'And so, your forces reach Coral first, after all. Very clever, bastard. Very clever indeed.'
Korlat stepped up to Brood. 'Warlord, do you hold to your faith in the Tiste Andü?'
The huge man frowned. 'To you and your kin? Aye, of course I do.'
'Very well, then we will accompany Commander Whiskeyjack, Humbrall Taur and their forces. And so represent your interests. Orfantal and I are Soletaken—one of us can if need be bring swift word back to you, either of peril, or of betrayal. Further, our presence might well prove decisive should it be necessary to effect Dujek's withdrawal from an unwinnable engagement.'
Kallor laughed. 'The lovers rejoined, and we are asked to bow before false objectivity—'
Orfantal took a step towards Kallor. 'That was the last insult you will deliver to the Tiste Andü,' he said quietly.
'Stop!' bellowed Caladan Brood. 'Kallor, know this: I hold to my st in the Tiste Andü. Nothing you can say will shake that faith, for it was earned centuries ago, a hundredfold, and not once betrayed. 'our loyalty, on the other hand, I begin to doubt more and more…'
'Beware your fears, Warlord,' Kallor growled, 'lest you make them
Brood's response was so low Korlat barely heard it. 'You now taunt me Kallor?'
deliv
The warrior slowly paled. 'What would be the value of that?' he asked quietly, tonelessly.
'Indeed.'
Korlat turned to her brother. 'Call our kin, Orfantal. We shall accompany the commander and warchief.'
'As you say, sister.' The Tiste Andü pivoted, then paused and studied Kallor for a long moment, before saying, 'I think, old man, when all this is done…'
Kallor bared his teeth. 'You think what?'
'That I will come for you.'
Kallor held his smile in answer, but the strain of the effort was betrayed by a twitch along one lined cheek.
Orfantal set off towards the waiting horses.
Humbrall Taur's deep laugh broke the tense silence. 'And here we'd thought you'd be bickering when we arrived.'
Korlat faced the barge—and met Whiskeyjack's gaze. He managed a drawn smile, revealing to her the pressure he had been feeling. But it was what she saw in his eyes that quickened her heart. Love and relief, tenderness… and raw anticipation.
Mother Dark, but these mortals live!
Riding side by side at a gentle canter, Gruntle and Itkovian reached the causeway and approached the platform. The sky was paling to the east, the air cool and clear. A score of Rhivi herders were guiding the last of the first three hundred bhederin onto the railed ramp.
A few hundred paces behind the two men, the second three hundred were being driven towards the causeway. There were at least two thousand bhederin to follow, and it was clear to Gruntle and Itkovian that, if they wished to lead their companies across the river any time soon, they would have to cut in.
The Malazans had built well, each barge carrying broad, solid ramps that neatly joined bow to bow, while the sterns had been designed to fit flush once the backwash guards had been removed. The bridge they formed when linked was both flexible where required, and secure everywhere else, and it was surprisingly wide—capable of allowing two wagons to travel side by side.
Commander Whiskeyjack and his companies of the Host had crossed the river more than fifteen bells ago, followed by Humbrall Taur's three clans of Barghast. Gruntle knew that Itkovian had hoped to see and meet with both men once again, in particular Whiskeyjack, but by the time they'd come within sight of the river, Malazan and Barghast were both long gone.
Caladan Brood had encamped his forces for the night on this side of River Maurik, rousing his troops three bells before dawn. They had just completed their crossing. Gruntle wondered at the disparity of pace between the two allied armies.
They reined in among the Rhivi herders. A tall, awkward-looking man who was not Rhivi stood off to one side, watching the bhederin thump their way across the first barge to hoots and whistles from the drivers.
Gruntle dismounted and approached the lone man. 'Mott Irregulars?' he asked.
'High Marshal Sty,' the man replied with a lopsided, toothy grin. 'I'm glad you're here—I can't understand these little guys at all. I've been trying real hard, too. I guess they're speaking a different language.'
Gruntle glanced back at Itkovian, expressionless, then faced the High Marshal once more. 'So they are. Have you been standing here long?'
'Since last night. Lots of people have crossed. Lots. I watched them put the barges together. They were fast. The Malazans know wood, all right. Did you know Whiskeyjack was apprenticed as a mason, before he became a soldier?'
'No, I didn't. What has that got to do with carpentry, High Marshal?'
'Nothing. I was just saying.'
'Are you waiting for the rest of your company?' Gruntle asked.
'Not really, though I suppose they'll show up sooner or later. They'll come after the bhederin, of course, so they can collect the dung. These little guys do that, too. We've had a few fights over that, you know. Tussles. Good-natured, usually. Look at them, what they're doing—kicking all that dung into a pile and guarding it. If I get any closer, they'll pull knives.'
'Well, then I'd suggest you not get any closer, High Marshal.'
Sty grinned again. 'There'd be no fun, then. I ain't waiting here for nothing, you know.'
Itkovian dismounted and joined them.
Gruntle swung to the herders, spoke in passable Rhivi, 'Which of you is in charge here?'
A wiry old man looked up, stepped forward. 'Tell him to go away!' he snapped, stabbing a finger at High Marshal Sty.
'Sorry,' Gruntle replied with a shrug, 'I can't order him to do anything, I'm afraid. I'm here for my legion and the Grey Swords. We'd like to cross… before the rest of your herd—'
'No. Can't do that. No. You have to wait. Wait. The bhederin don't like to be split up. They get nervous. Unhappy. We need them calm on the crossing. You see that, don't you? No, you have to wait.'
'Well, how long do you think that will take?'
The Rhivi shrugged. 'It will be done when it is done.'
The second three hundred bhederin rumbled their way up the causeway. The herders moved to meet them.
Gruntle heard a meaty thud, then the Rhivi were all shouting, racing back. The Daru turned in time to see High Marshal Sty, the front of his long shirt pulled up around a hefty pile of dung, run full tilt past, onto the ramp, then thump down the length of the barge.
A single Rhivi herder, who had clearly been left to guard the dung, lay sprawled beside the looted heap, unconscious, the red imprint of a large, bony fist on his jaw.
Gruntle grinned over at the old herder, who was jumping about, spitting with fury.
Itkovian moved up alongside him. 'Sir, did you see that?'
'No, alas, just the tail end.'
'That punch came out of nowhere—I did not even see him step close. The poor Rhivi dropped like a sack of… of—'
'Dung?'
After a long moment—so long that Gruntle thought it would never come—Itkovian smiled.
Rain clouds had rolled in from the sea, the rain driven on fierce winds, each drop striking iron helms, shields and leather rain-cloaks with enough force to shatter into mist. The abandoned farmland on all sides vanished behind a grey wall, the trader road churned to clinging mud beneath hooves, wagon wheels and boots.
Water sluicing down through his visor—which he had lowered in an only partially successful attempt to keep the rain from his eyes—Whiskeyjack struggled to make sense of the scene. A messenger had called him back from the vanguard, shouting barely heard words concerning a broken axle, the train halted in disarray, injured animals. At the moment, all he could make out was a mass of mud-covered soldiers scrambling, slipping, knotting ropes and shouting inaudib
ly to each other, and at least three wagons buried to their axles on what had once been the road but had since turned into a river of mud. Oxen were being pulled clear on the far side, the beasts bellowing.
He sat on his horse, watching. There was no point in cursing the fickle vagaries of nature, nor the failure of over-burdened wagons, nor even the pace which they all laboured under. His marines were doing what needed to be done, despite the apparent chaos. The squall was likely to be shortlived, given the season, and the sun's thirst was fierce. None the less, he wondered which gods had conspired against him, for since the crossing not a single day of this frantic march had passed without incident—and not one of those incidents had yielded mercy to their desires.
It would be two more days, at the very least, before they reached Coral. Whiskeyjack had received no communication from Quick Ben since before Maurik, and the wizard, Paran and the Bridgeburners had been still half a night's travel from Coral's environs at that time. He was sure they had reached the city by now, was equally certain that Dujek and his companies were even now closing in for the rendezvous. If a battle was to come, it would be very soon.
Whiskeyjack swung his horse round, nudged the weary beast along the track's edge to return to the vanguard. Night was fast approaching, and they would have to stop, at least for a few bells. He would then have some precious time alone with Korlat—the rigours of this march had kept them apart far too often, and while he and Korlat held to the belief that her Lord, Anomander Rake, could not yet be counted out, she had assumed the role of commander among her Tiste Andü kin in all respects—cold, remote, focused exclusively on the disposition of her brothers and sisters.
They were, under her direction, exploring Kurald Galain, their Warren of Darkness, drawing upon its power in an effort to purge it of the Crippled God's infection. Whiskeyjack had seen, upon their short-lived, infrequent reappearances, the cost borne by Orfantal and the other Tiste Andü. But Korlat wanted Kurald Galain's power within reach—without fear of corruption—by the time battle was joined at Coral.
A change had come to her, he sensed. Some bleak resolve had hardened all that was within her. Perhaps it was the possible death of Anomander Rake that had forced such induration upon her spirit. Or, perhaps, it was their future paths they had so naively entwined without regard for the harsh demands of the real world. The past was ever restless, for them both.
Whiskeyjack, in his heart, was certain that Anomander Rake was not dead. Nor even lost. In the half-dozen late-night conversations he had shared with the Lord of Moon's Spawn, the Malazan had acquired a sense of the Tiste Andü: despite the alliances, including the long-term partnership with Caladan Brood, Anomander Rake was a man of )litude—an almost pathological independence. He was indifferent to the needs of others, for whatever reassurance or confirmation they might expect or demand. He said he would be there for the assault on Coral, and so he will.
Through the grey murk ahead he could make out the vanguard, a knotted clump of mounted officers surrounding the fivesome of Humbrall Taur, Hetan, Cafal, Kruppe and Korlat on the road. Beyond them, he saw as he approached, the sky was lighter. They were about to fight their way clear of the squall, with Oponn's luck in time to halt and prepare a warm meal by sunset's warm glow before continuing on. He was pushing his four thousand soldiers too hard. They were the finest he had ever commanded, yet he was demanding the impossible from them. Though the Malazan understood it, Caladan Brood's sudden loss of faith had shaken Whiskeyjack, more than he would admit to anyone, even Korlat. A fast march by the combined forces might well have given the Seer pause—seeing the arrival of legion upon legion would give any enemy commander incentive to withdraw from an ongoing engagement with Dujek. Exhausted or not, sometimes numbers alone proved sufficient intimidation. The Pannion resources were limited: the Seer would not risk persisting in battle beyond the city's walls if it endangered his main army.
The appearance of four thousand mud-coated, stumbling soldiers was more likely to bring a smile to the Seer's lips. Whiskeyjack would have to make his few numbers count—the twelve Tiste Andü, the Ilgres Clan and Humbrall Taur's elite clans of the White Face would most likely prove crucial, though the combined Barghast support was less than two thousand.
We threw ourselves into the sprint too soon, too far from our prey. In our senseless haste, we've left fifty thousand White Face Barghast far behind. This decision may be a fatal one…
Feeling old beyond his years, burdened by flaws born of a spirit mired deep in exhaustion, Whiskeyjack rejoined the vanguard.
Water streamed down the full-length chain surcoat, left long grey hair plastered against it down the back and across the wide but gaunt shoulders. Dull grey helmet gleamed, reflecting the pewter sky with milky indistinction. He stood motionless, head lowered, at the base of a shallow basin, his horse waiting a dozen paces behind him.
Flat, lifeless eyes studied the saturated prairie ground through his great-helm's fixed, slitted visor. Unblinking, narrowed eyes. Watching the flow of muddy water slashed by the frenzied rain, tiny rivulets, broader sweeps, a ceaseless flow through minute channels, over exposed stone, between the knotted roots of tufted grasses.
The water wended southward.
And here, in this basin, carrying oddly-coloured silts in racing streams, it flowed uphill.
From dust… to mud. So you march with us after all. No, understand, I am pleased.
Kallor swung round, strode back to his horse.
He rode along his own trail, and, with dusk gathering quickly beneath the leaden clouds and driving rain, came at last to the encampment. There were no fires outside the rows of tents, and the glow of lanterns was dull through patchy canvas. The muddy aisles were crowded with Great Ravens, hunched and motionless under the deluge.
Reining in before Caladan Brood's command tent, Kallor dismounted and strode within.
The outrider, Hurlochel, stood just within the flap, present as Brood's messenger should such need arise. The young man was wan, half asleep at his station. Ignoring him, Kallor raised his visor and stepped past.
The warlord was uncharacteristically slumped in a camp chair, his hammer resting across his thighs. He had not bothered to clean the mud from his armour or boots. His strangely bestial eyes lifted, took in Kallor, then dropped once more. 'I have made a mistake,' he rumbled.
'I agree, Warlord.'
That earned Brood's sharpened attention. 'You must have misunderstood…'
'I have not. We should have joined Whiskeyjack. The annihilation of Onearm's Host—no matter how much that might please me personally—will be a tactical disaster for this campaign.'
'All very well, Kallor,' Brood rumbled, 'but there is little we can do about it, now.'
'This storm will pass, Warlord. You can increase our pace come the morning—we can perhaps shave off a day. I am here for another reason, however. One that is, conveniently, related to our change of heart.'
'Spit it out short and sweet, Kallor, or not at all.'
'I would ride to join Whiskeyjack and Korlat.'
'To what end? An apology?'
Kallor shrugged. 'If that would help. More directly, however, you seem to forget my… experience. For all that I seem to grate upon all of you, I have walked this land when the T'lan Imass were but children. I have commanded armies a hundred thousand strong. I have spread the fire of my wrath across entire continents, and sat alone upon tall thrones. Do you grasp the meaning of this?'
'Yes. You never learn, Kallor.'
'Clearly,' he snapped, 'you do not grasp the meaning. I know a field of battle better than any man alive, including you.'
The Malazans seem to have done very well on this continent with
The trenches and tunnel entrances had been well disguised, beneath cedar branches and piles of moss, and without the preternatural skills of the mages the Bridgeburners might not have found them.
Paran made his way down what he had mentally labelled the command tunnel, passing racks of weapo
ns—pikes, halberds, lances, longbows and bundles of arrows—and alcoves packed solid with food, water and other supplies, until he came to the large, fortified chamber which the Septarch had clearly intended to be his headquarters.
Quick Ben and his motley cadre of mages sat, squatted or sprawled in a rough half-circle near the far end, beyond the map table, looking like a pack of water-rats who'd just taken over a beaver's lodge.
The captain glanced down at the large painted hide pinned to the tabletop as he strode past, on which the Pannions had conveniently mapped out the entire maze of tunnels and entrenchments, the location of supplies and what kind, the approaches and retreats.
'All right,' Paran said as he joined the mages, 'what do you have?'
'Someone's got wise in Coral,' Quick Ben said, 'and realized that this place should have a company holed up here, as a guard—Trotts was keeping an eye on the city and watched them file out. They'll reach us in a bell.'
'A company,' Paran scowled. 'What's that in Pannion terms?'
'Four hundred Beklites, twenty Urdomen, four Seerdomin, one of them ranking and likely a sorceror.'
'And which approaches do you think they'll use?'
'The three stepped ones,' Spindle replied, reaching to scratch under his hairshirt. 'They go under trees all the way, lots of switchbacks, meaning the poor bastards will have a hard time rushing our positions once we let loose.'
Paran turned back to study the map. 'Assuming they're flexible, what will they choose as an alternative?'
'The main ramp,' Quick Ben said, rising to join the captain. He tapped a finger on the map. 'The one they'd planned on using for the downward march to launch the ambush. No cover for them, but if they can lock shields out front and turtle… well, there's only forty of us
'Munitions?'
The wizard looked back at Spindle, who made a sour face and said, 'We're short. Maybe if we use 'em right, we'll squash this company—but then the Seer will know what's up, and he'll send twenty thousand up this mountainside. If Dujek doesn't show soon, we'll have to pull out, Captain.'
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