Otataral, I believe, was born of sorcery. If we hold that magic feeds on hidden energies, then it follows that there are limits to those energies. Sufficient unveiling of power that subsequently cascades out of control could well drain those life-forces dry.
Further, it is said that the Elder warrens resist the deadening effect of otataral, suggesting that the world’s levels of energy are profoundly multilayered. One need only contemplate the life energy of corporeal flesh, compared to the undeniable energy within an inanimate object, such as rock. Careless examination might suggest that the former is alive, whilst the latter is not. In this manner, perhaps otataral is not quite as negating as it would first appear…
Musings on the Physical Properties of the World
THE 9TH, 11TH AND 12TH SQUADS, MEDIUM INFANTRY, HAD BEEN attached to the marines of the 9th Company. There were rumours, as well, that the 1st, 2nd and 3rd squads-the heavy infantry with their oversized muscles and sloping brows-would soon join them to form a discrete fighting unit.
None from the newly arrived squads were entirely strangers to Strings. He had made a point of learning names and memorizing faces throughout the 9th Company.
Footsore and weary from interrupted nights, the sergeant and his squad were sprawled around a cookfire, lulled by the incessant roar of the Whirlwind Wall a thousand paces north of the encamped army. Even rage could numb, it seemed.
Sergeant Balm of the 9th squad strode over after directing his soldiers into their new camp. Tall and wide-shouldered, the Dal Honese had impressed Strings with his cool indifference to pressure. Balm’s squad had already done its share of fighting, and the names of Corporal Deadsmell, Throatslitter, Widdershins, Gait and Lobe were already among the tales travelling through the legion. The same was true of some from the other two squads. Moak, Burnt and Stacker. Thorn Tissy, Tulip, Ramp and Able.
The heavy infantry were yet to wet their swords, but Strings had been impressed with their discipline-easier with slope-brows, of course. Tell ’em to stand firm and they take root down to the bedrock. A few of them were wandering in, he noted. Flashwit, Bowl, Shortnose and Uru Hela. Mean-looking one and all.
Sergeant Balm squatted down. ‘You’re the one named Strings, aren’t you? Heard it’s not your real name.’
Strings raised his brows. ‘And “Balm” is?’
The dark-skinned young man frowned, his heavy eyebrows meeting as he did so. ‘Why, yes, it is.’
Strings glanced over at another soldier from the 9th squad, a man standing nearby looking as if he wanted to kill something. ‘And what about him? What’s his name again, Throatslitter? Did his ma decide on that for her little one, do you think?’
‘Can’t say,’ Balm replied. ‘Give a toddler a knife and who knows what’ll happen.’
Strings studied the man for a moment, then grunted. ‘You wanted to see me about something?’
Balm shrugged. ‘Not really. Sort of. What do you think of the captain’s new units? Seems a little late to make changes like this…’
‘It’s not that new, actually. Greymane’s legions are sometimes set up in the same manner. In any case, our new Fist has approved it.’
‘Keneb. Not sure about him.’
‘And you are about our fresh-faced captain?’
‘Aye, I am. He’s nobleborn, is Ranal. Enough said.’
‘Meaning?’
Balm looked away, started tracking a distant bird in flight. ‘Oh, only that he’s likely to get us all killed.’
Ah. ‘Speak louder, not everyone heard that opinion.’
‘Don’t need to, Strings. They share it.’
‘Sharing it ain’t the same as saying it.’
Gesler, Borduke and the sergeants from the 11th and 12th squads came over and muttered introductions went round the group. Moak, of the 11th, was Falari, copper-haired and bearded like Strings. He’d taken a lance down his back, from shoulder to tailbone, and, despite the healer’s efforts, was clearly struggling with badly knitted muscles. The 11th’s sergeant, Thorn Tissy, was squat, with a face that might be handsome to a female toad, his cheeks pocked and the backs of his hands covered in warts. He was, the others saw when he removed his helm, virtually hairless.
Moak squinted at Strings for a long moment, as if seeking to conjure recognition, then he drew out a fish spine from his belt pouch and began picking his teeth. ‘Anybody else hear about that killer soldier? Heavy infantry, not sure what company, not even sure what legion. Named Neffarias Bredd. I heard he killed eighteen raiders all in one night.’
Strings lifted his gaze to meet Gesler’s, but neither man’s expression changed.
‘I heard it was eighteen one night, thirteen the next,’ Thorn Tissy said. ‘We’ll have to ask the slope-brows when they show.’
‘Well,’ Strings pointed out, ‘there’s one over there.’ He raised his voice. ‘Flashwit! Come join us for a moment, if you please.’
The ground seemed to tremble with the woman’s approach. She was Napan and Strings wondered if she knew she was female. The muscles of her arms were larger than his thighs. She had cut all her hair off, her round face devoid of ornament barring a bronze nose-ring. Yet her eyes were startlingly beautiful, emerald green.
‘Have you heard of another heavy, Flashwit? Neffarias Bredd?’
Those extraordinary eyes widened. ‘Killed fifty raiders, they say.’
‘Which legion?’ Moak asked.
She shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Not ours, though.’
‘Not sure.’
‘Well,’ Moak snapped, ‘what do you know?’
‘He killed fifty raiders. Can I go now? I have to pee.’
They watched her walk away.
‘Standing up, do you think?’ Thorn Tissy asked the others in general.
Moak snorted. ‘Why don’t you go ask her.’
‘Ain’t that eager to get killed. Why don’t you, Moak?’
‘Here come the heavy’s sergeants,’ Balm observed.
Mosel, Sobelone and Tugg could have been siblings. They all hailed from Malaz City, typical of the mixed breed prevalent on the island, and the air of threat around them had less to do with size than attitude. Sobelone was the oldest of the three, a severe-looking woman with streaks of grey in her shoulder-length black hair, her eyes the colour of the sky. Mosel was lean, the epicanthic folds of his eyes marking Kanese blood somewhere in his family line. His hair was braided and cut finger-length in the fashion of Jakatakan pirates. Tugg was the biggest of the three, armed with a short single-bladed axe. The shield strapped on his back was enormous, hardwood, sheathed in tin and rimmed in bronze.
‘Which one of you is Strings?’ Mosel asked.
‘Me. Why?’
The man shrugged. ‘Nothing. I was just wondering. And you’-he nodded at Gesler-‘you’re that coastal guard, Gesler.’
‘So I am. What of it?’
‘Nothing.’
There was a moment of awkward silence, then Tugg spoke, his voice thin, emerging from, Strings suspected, a damaged larynx. ‘We heard the Adjunct was going to the wall tomorrow. With that sword. Then what? She stabs it? It’s a storm of sand, there’s nothing to stab. And aren’t we already in Raraku? The Holy Desert? It don’t feel any different, don’t look any different, neither. Why didn’t we just wait for ’em? Or let ’em stay and rot here in this damned wasteland? Sha’ik wants an empire of sand, let her have it.’
That fractured voice was excruciating to listen to, and it seemed to Strings that Tugg would never stop. ‘Plenty of questions there,’ he said as soon as the man paused to draw a wheezing breath. ‘This empire of sand can’t be left here, Tugg, because it’s a rot, and it will spread-we’d lose Seven Cities, and far too much blood was spilled conquering it in the first place to just let it go. And, while we’re in Raraku, we’re on its very edge. It may be a Holy Desert, but it looks like any other. If it possesses a power, then that lies in what it does to you, after a while. Maybe not what it does, but what it gives. Not an easy thing to explain.’ He then shrugged, and coughed.
Gesler cleared his throat. ‘The Whirlwind Wall is sorcery, Tugg. The Adjunct’s sword is otataral. There will be a clash between the two. If the Adjunct’s sword fails, then we all go home… or back to Aren-’
‘Not what I heard,’ Moak said, pausing to spit before continuing. ‘We swing east then north if we can’t breach the wall. To G’danisban, or maybe Ehrlitan. To wait for Dujek Onearm and High Mage Tayschrenn. I’ve even heard that Greymane might be recalled from the Korelri campaign.’
Strings stared at the man. ‘Whose shadow have you been standing in, Moak?’
‘Well, it makes sense, don’t it?’
Sighing, Strings straightened. ‘It’s all a waste of breath, soldiers. Sooner or later, we’re all marching in wide-eyed stupid.’ He strode over to where his squad had set up the tents.
His soldiers, Cuttle included, were gathered around Bottle, who sat cross-legged and seemed to be playing with twigs and sticks.
Strings halted in his tracks, an uncanny chill creeping through him. Gods below, for a moment there I thought I was seeing Quick Ben, with Whiskeyjack’s squad crowding round some damned risky ritual… He could hear faint singing from somewhere in the desert beyond the camp, singing that sliced like a sword’s edge through the roar of the Whirlwind Wall. The sergeant shook his head and approached.
‘What are you doing, Bottle?’
The young man looked up guiltily. ‘Uh, not much, Sergeant-’
‘Trying a divination,’ Cuttle growled, ‘and as far as I can tell, getting nowhere.’
Strings slowly crouched down in the circle, opposite Bottle. ‘Interesting style there, lad. Sticks and twigs. Where did you pick that up?’
‘Grandmother,’ he muttered.
‘She was a witch?’
‘More or less. So was my mother.’
‘And your father? What was he?’
‘Don’t know. There were rumours…’ He ducked his head, clearly uncomfortable.
‘Never mind,’ Strings said. ‘That’s earth-aspected, the pattern you have there. You need more than just what anchors the power…’
All the others were staring at Strings now.
Bottle nodded, then drew out a small doll made of woven grasses, a dark, purple-bladed variety. Strips of black cloth were wrapped about it.
The sergeant’s eyes widened. ‘Who in Hood’s name is that supposed to be?’
‘Well, the hand of death, sort of, or so I wanted it to be. You know, where it’s going. But it’s not co-operating.’
‘You drawing from Hood’s warren?’
‘A little…’
Well, there’s more to this lad than I’d first thought. ‘Never mind Hood. He may hover, but won’t stride forward until after the fact, and even then, he’s an indiscriminate bastard. For that figure you’ve made, try the Patron of Assassins.’
Bottle flinched. ‘The Rope? That’s too, uh, close…’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Smiles demanded. ‘You said you knew Meanas. And now it turns out you know Hood, too. And witchery. I’m starting to think you’re just making it all up.’
The mage scowled. ‘Fine, then. Now stop flapping your lips. I’ve got to concentrate.’
The squad settled down once more. Strings fixed his gaze on the various sticks and twigs that had been thrust into the sand before Bottle. After a long moment, the mage slowly set the doll down in their midst, pushing the legs into the sand until the doll stood on its own, then carefully withdrew his hand.
The pattern of sticks on one side ran in a row. Strings assumed that was the Whirlwind Wall, since those sticks began waving, like reeds in the wind.
Bottle was mumbling under his breath, with a growing note of urgency, then frustration. After a moment the breath gusted from him and he sat back, eyes blinking open. ‘It’s no use-’
The sticks had ceased moving.
‘Is it safe to reach in there?’ Strings asked.
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
Strings reached out and picked up the doll. Then he set it back down… on the other side of the Whirlwind Wall. ‘Try it now.’
Bottle stared across at him for a moment, then leaned forward and closed his eyes once more.
The Whirlwind Wall began wavering again. Then a number of the sticks along that row toppled.
A gasp from the circle, but Bottle’s scowl deepened. ‘It’s not moving. The doll. I can feel the Rope… close, way too close. There’s power, pouring into or maybe out of that doll, only it’s not moving-’
‘You’re right,’ Strings said, a grin slowly spreading across his features. ‘It’s not moving. But its shadow is…’
Cuttle grunted. ‘Queen take me, he’s right. That’s a damn strange thing-I’ve seen enough.’ He rose suddenly, looking nervous and shaken. ‘Magic’s creepy. I’m going to bed.’
The divination ended abruptly. Bottle opened his eyes and looked around at the others, his face glistening with sweat. ‘Why didn’t he move? Why only his shadow?’
Strings stood. ‘Because, lad, he isn’t ready yet.’
Smiles glared up at the sergeant. ‘So, who is he? The Rope himself?’
‘No,’ Bottle answered. ‘No, I’m sure of that.’
Saying nothing, Strings strode from the circle. No, not the Rope. Someone even better, as far as I am concerned. As far as every Malazan is concerned, for that matter. He’s here. And he’s on the other side of the Whirlwind Wall. And I know precisely who he’s sharpened his knives for.
Now, if only that damned singing would stop…
He stood in the darkness, under siege. Voices assaulted him from all sides, pounding at his skull. It wasn’t enough that he had been responsible for the death of soldiers; now they would not leave him alone. Now their spirits screamed at him, ghostly hands reaching out through Hood’s Gate, fingers clawing through his brain.
Gamet wanted to die. He had been worse than useless. He had been a liability, joined now to the multitude of incompetent commanders who had left a river of blood in their wake, another name in that sullied, degrading history that fuelled the worst fears of the common soldier.
And it had driven him mad. He understood that now. The voices, the paralysing uncertainty, the way he was always cold, shivering, no matter how hot the daytime sun or how highly banked the nightly hearths. And the weakness, stealing through his limbs, thinning the blood in his veins, until it felt as if his heart was pumping muddy water. I have been broken. I failed the Adjunct with my very first test of mettle.
Keneb would be all right. Keneb was a good choice as the legion’s new Fist. He was not too old, and he had a family-people to fight for, to return to, people that mattered in his life. Those were important things. A necessary pressure, fire for the blood. None of which existed in Gamet’s life.
She has certainly never needed me, has she? The family tore itself apart, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was only a castellan, a glorified house guard. Taking orders. Even when a word from me could have changed Felisin’s fate, I just saluted and said, ‘Yes, mistress.’
But he had always known his own weakness of spirit. And there had been no shortage of opportunities in which he could demonstrate his flaws, his failures. No shortage at all, even if she saw those moments as ones displaying loyalty, as disciplined acceptance of orders no matter how horrendous their outcome.
‘Loud.’
A new voice. Blinking, he looked around, then down, to see Keneb’s adopted whelp, Grub. Half naked, sun-darkened skin smeared with dirt, his hair a wild tangle, his eyes glittering in the starlight.
‘Loud.’
‘Yes, they are.’ The child was feral. It was late, maybe even nearing dawn. What was he doing up? What was he doing out here, beyond the camp’s pickets, inviting butchery by a desert raider?
‘Not they. It.’
Gamet frowned down at him. ‘What are you talking about? What’s loud?’ All I hear is voices-you can’t hear them. Of course you can’t.
‘The sandstorm. Roars. Very… very… very very very LOUD!’
The storm? Gamet wiped grit from his eyes and looked around-to find himself not fifty paces from the Whirlwind Wall. And the sound of sand, racing between rocks on the ground, hissing skyward in wild, cavorting loops, the pebbles clattering here and there, the wind itself whirling through sculpted folds in the limestone-the sound was like… like voices. Screaming, angry voices. ‘I am not mad.’
‘Me neither. I’m happy. Father has a new shiny ring. Around his arm. It’s all carved. He’s supposed to give more orders, but he gives less. But I’m still happy. It’s very shiny. Do you like shiny things? I do, even though they hurt my eyes. Maybe it’s because they hurt my eyes. What do you think?’
‘I don’t think much of anything any more, lad.’
‘I think you do too much.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Father thinks the same. You think about things there’s no point in thinking about. It makes no difference. But I know why you do.’
‘You do?’
The lad nodded. ‘The same reason I like shiny things. Father’s looking for you. I’m going to go tell him I found you.’
Grub ambled away, quickly vanishing in the darkness.
Gamet turned and stared up at the Whirlwind Wall. Its rage buffeted him. The whirling sand tore at his eyes, snatched at his breath. It was hungry, had always been hungry, but something new had arrived, altering its shrill timbre. What is it? An urgency, a tone fraught with… something.
What am I doing here?
Now he remembered. He had come looking for death. A raider’s blade across his throat. Quick and sudden, if not entirely random.
An end to thinking all those thoughts… that so hurt my eyes.
The growing thunder of horse hoofs roused him once more, and he turned to see two riders emerge from the gloom, leading a third horse.
‘We’ve been searching half the night,’ Fist Keneb said as they reined in. ‘Temul has a third of his Wickans out-all looking for you, sir.’
Sir? That’s inappropriate. ‘Your child had no difficulty in finding me.’
Keneb frowned beneath the rim of his helm. ‘Grub? He came here?’
‘He said he was off to tell you he’d found me.’
The man snorted. ‘Unlikely. He’s yet to say a word to me. Not even in Aren. I’ve heard he talks to others, when the mood takes him, and that’s rare enough. But not me. And no, I don’t know why. In any case, we’ve brought your horse. The Adjunct is ready.’
‘Ready for what?’
To unsheathe her sword, sir. To breach the Whirlwind Wall.’
‘She need not wait for me, Fist.’
‘True, but she chooses to none the less.’
I don’t want to.
‘She has commanded it, sir.’
Gamet sighed, walked over to the horse. He was so weak, he had trouble pulling himself onto the saddle. The others waited with maddening patience. Face burning with both effort and shame, Gamet finally clambered onto the horse, spent a moment searching for the stirrups, then took the reins from Temul. ‘Lead on,’ he growled to Keneb.
They rode parallel to the wall of roaring sand, eastward, maintaining a respectable distance. Two hundred paces along they rode up to a party of five sitting motionless on their horses. The Adjunct, Tene Baralta, Blistig, Nil and Nether.
Sudden fear gripped Gamet. ‘Adjunct! A thousand warriors could be waiting on the other side! We need the army drawn up. We need heavy infantry on the flanks. Outriders-archers-marines-’
‘That will be enough, Gamet. We ride forward now-the sun already lights the wall. Besides, can you not hear it? Its shriek is filled with fear. A new sound. A pleasing sound.’
He stared up at the swirling barrier of sand. Yes, that is what I could sense earlier. ‘Then it knows its barrier shall fail.’
‘The goddess knows,’ Nether agreed.
Gamet glanced at the two Wickans. They looked miserable, a state that seemed more or less permanent with them these days. ‘What will happen when the Whirlwind falls?’
The young woman shook her head, but it was her brother who answered, ‘The Whirlwind Wall encloses a warren. Destroy the wall, and the warren is breached. Making the goddess vulnerable-had we a battalion of Claw and a half-dozen High Mages, we could hunt her down and kill her. But we can achieve no such thing.’ He threw up his hands in an odd gesture. ‘The Army of the Apocalypse will remain strengthened by her power. Those soldiers will never break, will fight on to the bitter end. Especially given the likelihood that that end will be ours, not theirs.’
‘Your predictions of disaster are unhelpful, Nil,’ the Adjunct murmured. ‘Accompany me, all of you, until I say otherwise.’
They rode closer to the Whirlwind Wall, leaning in the face of the fierce, battering wind and sand. Fifteen paces from its edge, the Adjunct raised a hand. Then she dismounted, one gloved hand closing on the grip of her sword as she strode forward.
The rust-hued otataral blade was halfway out of its scabbard when a sudden silence descended, and before them the Whirlwind Wall’s stentorian violence died, in tumbling clouds of sand and dust. The hiss of sifting rose into the storm’s mute wake. A whisper. Burgeoning light. And, then, silence.
The Adjunct wheeled, shock writ on her features.
‘She withdrew!’ Nil shouted, stumbling forward. ‘Our path is clear!’
Tavore threw up a hand to halt the Wickan. ‘In answer to my sword, Warlock? Or is this some strategic ploy?’
‘Both, I think. She would not willingly take such a wounding, I think. Now, she will rely upon her mortal army.’
The dust was falling like rain, in waves lit gold by the rising sun. And the Holy Desert’s heartland was gradually becoming visible through gaps in the dying storm. There was no waiting horde, Gamet saw with a flood of relief. Naught but more wastes, with something like an escarpment on the northeast horizon, falling away as it proceeded west, where strangely broken hills ran in a natural barrier.
The Adjunct climbed back onto her horse. ‘Temul. I want scouts out far ahead. I do not believe there will be any more raids. Now, they wait for us, at a place of their own choosing. It falls to us to find it.’
And then will come the battle. The death of hundreds, perhaps thousands of soldiers. The Adjunct, as the fist of the Empress. And Sha’ik, Chosen servant of the goddess. A clash of wills, nothing more. Yet it will decide the fate of hundreds of thousands.
I want nothing to do with this.
Tene Baralta had drawn his horse alongside Gamet. ‘We need you now more than ever,’ the Red Blade murmured as the Adjunct, with renewed energy, continued conveying orders to the officers now riding up from the main camp.
‘You do not need me at all,’ Gamet replied.
‘You are wrong. She needs a cautious voice-’
‘A coward’s voice, is the truth of it, and no, she does not need that.’
‘There is a fog that comes in battle-’
‘I know. I was a soldier, once. And I did well enough at that. Taking orders, commanding no-one but myself. Occasionally a handful, but not thousands. I was at my level of competence, all those years ago.’
‘Very well then, Gamet. Become a soldier once more. One who just happens to be attached to the Adjunct’s retinue. Give her the perspective of the common soldier. Whatever weakness you feel is not unique-realize that it is shared, by hundreds or even thousands, there in our legions.’
Blistig had come up on the other side, and he now added, ‘She remains too remote from us, Gamet. She is without our advice because we have no chance to give it. Worse, we don’t know her strategy-’
‘Assuming she has one,’ Tene Baralta muttered.
‘Nor her tactics for this upcoming battle,’ Blistig continued. ‘It’s dangerous, against Malazan military doctrine. She’s made this war personal, Gamet.’
Gamet studied the Adjunct, who had now ridden ahead, flanked by Nil and Nether, and seemed to be studying the broken hills beyond which, they all knew, waited Sha’ik and her Army of the Apocalypse. Personal? Yes, she would do that. Because it is what she has always done. ‘It is how she is. The Empress would not have been ignorant of her character.’
‘We will be walking into a carefully constructed trap,’ Tene Baralta growled. ‘Korbolo Dom will see to that. He’ll hold every piece of high ground, he’ll command every approach. He might as well paint a big red spot on the ground where he wants us to stand while he kills us.’
‘She is not unaware of those possibilities,’ Gamet said. Leave me alone, Tene Baralta. You as well, Blistig. We are not three any more. We are two and one. Talk to Keneb, not me. He can shoulder your expectations. I cannot. ‘We must march to meet them. What else would you have her do?’
‘Listen to us, that’s what,’ Blistig answered. ‘We need to find another approach. Come up from the south, perhaps-’
‘And spend more weeks on this march? Don’t you think Korbolo would have thought the same? Every waterhole and spring will be fouled. We would wander until Raraku killed us all, with not a single sword raised against us.’
He caught the momentary locking of gazes between Blistig and Tene Baralta. Gamet scowled. ‘Conversations like this one will not mend what is broken, sirs. Save your breaths. I have no doubt the Adjunct will call a council of war at the appropriate time.’
‘She’d better,’ Tene Baralta snapped, gathering his reins and wheeling his horse round.
As he cantered off, Blistig leaned forward and spat. ‘Gamet, when that council is called, be there.’
‘And if I’m not?’
‘We have enough baggage on this train, with all those nobleborn officers and their endless lists of grievances. Soldiers up from the ranks are rare enough in this army-too rare to see even one throw himself away. Granted, I didn’t think much of you at first. You were the Adjunct’s pet. But you managed your legion well enough-’
‘Until the first night we fought the enemy.’
‘Where a cusser killed your horse and nearly took your head off.’
‘I was addled before then, Blistig.’
‘Only because you rode into the skirmish. A Fist should not do that. You stay back, surrounded by messengers and guards. You may find yourself not issuing a single order, but you are the core position none the less, the immovable core. Just being there is enough. They can get word to you, you can get word to them. You can shore up, relieve units, and respond to developments. It’s what an officer of high rank does. If you find yourself in the midst of a fight, you are useless, a liability to the soldiers around you, because they’re obliged to save your skin. Even worse, you can see nothing, your messengers can’t find you. You’ve lost perspective. If the core wavers or vanishes, the legion falls.’
Gamet considered Blistig’s words for a long moment, then he sighed and shrugged. ‘None of that matters any more. I am no longer a Fist. Keneb is, and he knows what to do-’
‘He’s acting Fist. The Adjunct made that clear. It’s temporary. And it now falls to you to resume your title, and your command.’
‘I will not.’
‘You have to, you stubborn bastard. Keneb’s a damned good captain. Now, there’s a nobleborn in that role, replacing him. The man’s a damned fool. So long as he was under Keneb’s heel he wasn’t a problem. You need to return things to their proper order, Gamet. And you need to do it today.’
‘How do you know about this new captain? It’s not even your legion.’
‘Keneb told me. He would rather have promoted one of the sergeants-there’s a few with more experience than anyone else in the entire army. They’re lying low, but it shows anyway. But the officer corps the Adjunct had to draw from was filled with nobleborn-the whole system was its own private enterprise, exclusionary and corrupt. Despite the Cull, it persists, right here in this army.’
‘Besides,’ Gamet nodded, ‘those sergeants are most useful right where they are.’
‘Aye. So cease your selfish sulking, old man, and step back in line.’ The back of Gamet’s gloved hand struck Blistig’s face hard enough to break his nose and send him pitching backward off the rump of his horse.
He heard another horse reining in nearby and turned to see the Adjunct, a cloud of dust rolling out from under her mount’s stamping hoofs. She was staring at him.
Spitting blood, Blistig slowly climbed to his feet.
Grimacing, Gamet walked his horse over to where the Adjunct waited. ‘I am ready,’ he said, ‘to return to duty, Adjunct.’
One brow arched slightly. ‘Very good. I feel the need to advise you, however, to give vent to your disagreements with your fellow Fists in more private locations in the future.’
Gamet glanced back. Blistig was busy dusting himself off, but there was a grim smile on his bloodied face.
The bastard. Even so, I owe him a free shot at me, don’t I?
‘Inform Keneb,’ the Adjunct said.
Gamet nodded. ‘With your leave, Adjunct, I’d like another word with Fist Blistig.’
‘Less dramatic than the last one, I would hope, Fist Gamet.’
‘We’ll see, Adjunct.’
‘Oh?’
‘Depends on how patient he is, I suppose.’
‘Be on your way then, Fist.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’
Strings and a few other sergeants had climbed up onto a hill-everyone else being busy with breaking camp and preparing for the march-for a clearer view of the collapsed Whirlwind Wall. Sheets of dust were still cascading down, though the freshening wind was quickly tearing through them.
‘Not even a whimper,’ Gesler sighed behind him.
‘The goddess withdrew, is my guess,’ Strings said. ‘I would bet the Adjunct didn’t even draw her sword.’
‘Then why raise the wall in the first place?’ Borduke wondered.
Strings shrugged. ‘Who can say? There are other things going on here in Raraku, things we know nothing about. The world didn’t sit still during the months we spent marching here.’
‘It was there to keep the Claw out,’ Gesler pronounced. ‘Both Sha’ik and her goddess want this battle. They want it clean. Soldier against soldier, mage against mage, commander against commander.’
‘Too bad for them,’ Strings muttered.
‘So you’ve been hinting at. Out with it, Fid.’
‘Just a hunch, Gesler. I get those sometimes. They’ve been infiltrated. That’s what I saw from Bottle’s divination. The night before the battle, that oasis will get hairy. Wish I could be there to see it. Damn, wish I could be there to help.’
‘We’ll have our turn being busy, I think,’ Gesler muttered.
The last sergeant who had accompanied them sighed, then said in a rasp, ‘Moak thinks we won’t be busy. Unless the new captain does something stupid. The Adjunct’s going to do something unexpected. We may not get a fight at all.’
Strings coughed. ‘Where does Moak get all this, Tugg?’
‘Squatting over the latrine, is my guess,’ Borduke grunted, then spat.
The heavy infantry sergeant shrugged. ‘Moak knows things, that’s all.’
‘And how many times does he get it wrong?’ Gesler asked, clearing his throat.
‘Hard to say. He says so many things I can’t remember them all. He’s been right plenty of times, I think. I’m sure of it, in fact. Almost sure.’ Tugg faced Strings. ‘He says you were in Onearm’s Host. And the Empress wants your head on a spike, because you’ve been outlawed.’ The man then turned to Gesler. ‘And he says you and your corporal, Stormy, are Old Guard. Underage marines serving Dassem Ultor, or maybe Cartheron Crust or his brother Urko. That you were the ones who brought that old Quon dromon into Aren Harbour with all the wounded from the Chain of Dogs. And you, Borduke, you once threw a nobleborn officer off a cliff, near Karashimesh, only they couldn’t prove it, of course.’
The three other men stared at Tugg, saying nothing.
Tugg rubbed his neck. ‘Well, that’s what he says, anyway.’
‘Amazing how wrong he got it all,’ Gesler said drily.
‘And I take it he’s been spreading these tales around?’ Strings asked.
‘Oh no. Just me and Sobelone. He told us to keep our mouths shut.’ Tugg blinked, then added, ‘But not with you, obviously, since you already know. I was just making conversation. Just being friendly. Amazing how that Whirlwind Wall just collapsed like that, isn’t it?’
Horns sounded in the distance.
‘Time to march,’ Gesler muttered, ‘praise Hood and all…’
Keneb rode up alongside Gamet. Their legion had been positioned as rearguard for this day of travel and the dust was thick in the hot air.
‘I’m starting to doubt the Whirlwind Wall ever vanished,’ Keneb said.
‘Aye, there’s less we’re kicking up than is still coming down,’ Gamet replied. He hesitated, then said, ‘My apologies, Captain-’
‘No need, sir. I am in fact relieved-if you’ll excuse the pun. Not just from the pressure of being a Fist, but also because Ranal’s promotion was rescinded. It was a pleasure informing him of that. Were you aware he had restructured the units? Using Greymane’s arrangements? Of course, Greymane was fighting a protracted war over a huge territory with no defined front. He needed self-contained fighting units, ready for any contingency. Even more irritating, he neglected to inform anyone else.’
‘Are you returning the squads to their original placement, Captain?’
‘Not yet, sir. Waiting for your word.’
Gamet thought about it for a time. ‘I will inform the Adjunct of our legion’s new structure.’
‘Sir?’
‘It might prove useful. We are to hold the rear at the battle, on a broken landscape. Ranal’s decision, no doubt made in ignorance, is none the less suitable.’
Keneb sighed, but said nothing, and Gamet well understood. I may have returned as Fist with the Adjunct’s confirmation, but her decision on our positioning has made it clear she’s lost confidence in me.
They rode on in silence, but it was not a comfortable one.