The shadows lie on the field like the dead
From night’s battle as the sun lifts high its standard
Into the dew-softened air
The children rise like flowers on stalks
To sing unworded songs we long ago surrendered
And the bees dance with great care
You might touch this scene with blessing
Even as you settle the weight of weapon in hand
And gaze across this expanse
And vow to the sun another day of blood
Untitled Toc Anaster
askaral Traum was the first soldier in Atri-Preda Bivatt’s army to take a life that morning. A large man with faint threads of Tarthenal blood in his veins, he had pitched his tent the night before forty paces from the Tiste Edur encampment. Within it he had lit a small oil lamp and arranged his bedroll over bundles of clothing, spare boots and spare helm. Then he had lain down beside it, on the side nearest the Edur tents, and let the lamp devour the last slick of oil until the darkness within the tent matched that of outside.
With dawn’s false glow ebbing, Gaskaral Traum drew a knife and slit the side of the tent beside him, then silently edged out into the wet grasses, where he laid motionless for a time.
Then, seeing at last what he had been waiting for, he rose and, staying low, made his way across the sodden ground. The rain was still thrumming down on the old seabed of Q’uson Tapi-where waited the hated Awl-and the air smelled of sour mud. Although a large man, Gaskaral could move like a ghost. He reached the first row of Edur tents, paused with held breath for a moment, then edged into the camp.
The tent of Overseer Brohl Handar was centrally positioned, but otherwise unguarded. As Gaskaral came closer, he saw that the flap was untied, hanging loose. Water from the rain just past streamed down the oiled canvas like tears, pooling round the front pole and in the deep footprints crowding the entrance.
Gaskaral slipped his knife beneath his outer shirt and used the grimy undergarment to dry the handle and his left hand-palm and fingers-before withdrawing the weapon once more. Then he crept for that slitted opening.
Within was grainy darkness. The sound of breathing. And there, at the far end, the Overseer’s cot. Brohl Handar was sleeping on his back. The furs covering him had slipped down to the floor. Of his face and chest, Gaskaral could see naught but heavy shadow.
Blackened iron gleamed, betrayed by the honed edge.
Gaskaral Traum took one more step, then he surged forward in a blur.
The figure standing directly over Brohl Handar spun, but not in time, as Gaskaral’s knife sank deep, sliding between ribs, piercing the assassin’s heart.
The black dagger fell and stuck point-first into the floor, and Gaskaral took the body’s weight as, with a faint sigh, the killer slumped.
Atri-Preda Bivatt’s favoured bodyguard-chosen by her outside Drene to safeguard the Overseer against just this eventuality-froze for a moment, eyes fixed On Brohl Handat’s face, on the Edur’s breathing. No stirring awake. And that was good. Very good.
Angling beneath the dead assassin’s weight, Gaskaral slowly sheathed his knife, then reached down and retrieved the black dagger. This was. the last of the bastards, he was sure. Seven in all, although only two before this one had got close enough to attempt Brohl’s murder-and both of those had been in the midst of battle. Letur Anict was ever a thorough man, one prone to redundancy in assuring that his desires were satisfied. Alas, not this time.
Gaskaral lowered himself yet further until he could fold the body over one shoulder, then, rising into a bent-knee stance, he padded silently back to the tent-flap. Stepping to avoid the puddle and the upright pole, he carefully angled his burden through the opening.
Beneath overcast clouds with yet another fall of rain beginning, Gaskaral Traum quickly made his way back to the Letherii side of the camp. The body could remain in his tent-the day now approaching was going to be a day of battle, which meant plenty of chaos, plenty of opportunities to dispose of the corpse.
He was somewhat concerned, however. It was never a good thing to not sleep the night before a battle. But he was ever sensitive to his instincts, as if he could smell the approach of an assassin, as if he could slip into their minds. Certainly his uncanny timing proved the talent-another handful of heartbeats back there and he would have been too late-
Occasionally, of course, instincts failed.
The two figures that suddenly rushed him from the darkness caught Gaskaral Traum entirely by surprise. A shock blessedly short-lived, as it turned out. Gaskaral threw the body he had been carrying at the assassin on his right. With no time to draw out his knife, he simply charged to meet the other killer. Knocked aside the dagger stabbing for his throat, took the man’s head in both hands and twisted hard.
Hard enough to spin the assassin’s feet out from under him as the neck snapped.
The other killer had been thrown down by the corpse and was just rolling back into a crouch when, upon looking up, he met Gaskaral’s boot-under his chin. The impact lifted the man into the air, arms flung out to the sides, his head separated from his spine, and dead before he thumped back onto the ground.
Gaskaral Traum looked round, saw no more coming, then permitted himself a moment of self-directed anger. Of course they would have realized that someone was intercepting them. So in went one while the other two remained back to see who their unknown hunter was, and then they would deal with that hunter in the usual way.
‘Yeah? Like fuck they did.’
He studied the three bodies for a moment longer. Damn, it was going to be a crowded tent.
The sun would brook no obstacle in its singular observation of the Battle of Q’uson Tapi, and as it rose it burned away the clouds and drove spears of heat into the ground until the air steamed. Brohl Handar, awakening surprisingly refreshed, stood outside his tent and watched as his Arapay Tiste Edur readied their armour and weapons. The sudden, unrelieved humidity made iron slick and the shafts of spears oily, and already the ground underfoot was treacherous-the seabed would be a nightmare, he feared. In the evening before, he and his troop had watched the Awl preparations, and Brohl Handar well understood the advantages Redmask was seeking in secure footing, but the Overseer suspected that such efforts would fail in the end. Canvas and hide tarps would before long grow as muddy and slippery as the ground beyond. At the initial shock of contact, however, there would likely be a telling difference… but not enough.
I hope.
A Letherii soldier approached-an oversized man he’d seen before-with a pleasant smile on his innocuous, oddly gentle face. ‘The sun is most welcome, Overseer, is it not? I convey the Atri-Preda’s invitation to join her-be assured that you will have time to return to your warriors and lead them into battle.’
‘Very well. Proceed, then.’
The various companies were moving into positions all along the edge of the seabed opposite the Awl. Brohl saw that the Bluerose lancers were now dismounted, looking a little lost with their newly issued shields and spears. There were less than a thousand left and the Overseer saw that they had been placed as auxiliaries and would only be thrown into battle if things were going poorly. ‘Now there’s a miserable bunch,’ he said to his escort, nodding towards the Bluerose Battalion.
‘So they are, Overseer. Yet see how their horses are saddled and not too far away. This is because our scouts cannot see the Kechra in the Awl camp. The Atri-Preda expects another flanking attack from those two creatures, and this time she will see it met with mounted lancers. Who will then pursue.’
‘I wish them well-those Kechra ever remain the gravest threat and the sooner they are dead the better.’
Atri-Preda Bivatt stood in a position at the edge of the old shoreline that permitted her a view of what would be the field of battle. As was her habit, she had sent away all her messengers and aides-they hovered watchfully forty paces back-and was now alone with her thoughts, her observations, and would remain so-barring Brohl’s visit-until just before the engagement commenced.
His escort halted a short distance away from the Atri-Preda and waved Brohl Handar forward with an easy smile.
How can he be so calm? Unless he’s one of those who will be standing guarding horses. Big as he is, he hasn’t the look of a soldier-well, even horse-handlers are needed, after all.
‘Overseer, you look… well rested.’
‘I appear to be just that, Atri-Preda. As if the spirits of my ancestors held close vigil on me last night.’
‘Indeed. Are your Arapay ready?’
‘They are. Will you begin this battle with your mages?’
‘I must be honest in this matter. I cannot rely upon their staying alive throughout the engagement. Accordingly, yes, I will use them immediately. And if they are still with me later, then all the better.’
‘No sign of the Kechra, then.’
‘No. Observe, the enemy arrays itself.’
‘On dry purchase-’
‘To begin, yes, but we will win that purchase, Overseer. And that is the flaw in Redmask’s tactic. We will strike hard enough to knock them back, and then it will be the Awl who find themselves mired in the mud.’
Brohl Handar turned to study the Letherii forces. The various brigades, companies and battalion elements had been merged on the basis of function. On the front facing the Awl, three wedges of heavy infantry. Flanks of skirmishers mixed with medium infantry and archers. Blocks of archers between the wedges, who if they moved down onto the seabed would not go very far. Their flights of arrows would be intended to perforate the Awl line so that when the heavies struck they would drive back the enemy, one step, two, five, ten and into the mud.
‘I do not understand this Redmask,’ Brohl said, frowning back at the Awl lines.
‘He had no choice,’ Bivatt replied. ‘Not after Praedegar. And that was, for him, a failure of patience. Perhaps this is, as well, but as I said: no choice left. We have him, Overseer. Yet he will make this victory a painful one, given the chance.’
‘Your mages may well end it before it’s begun, Atri-Preda.’
‘We will see,’
Overhead, the sun continued its inexorable climb, heating the day with baleful intent. On the seabed lighter patches had begun appearing as the topmost surface dried. But immediately beneath, of course, the mud would remain soft and deep enough to cause trouble.
Bivatt had two mages left-the third had died two days past, fatally weakened by the disaster at Praedegar-one lone mounted archer had succeeded in killing three mages with one damned arrow. Brohl Handar now saw those two figures hobbling like ancients out to the old shoreline’s edge. One at each end of the outermost heavy infantry wedge. They would launch their terrible wave of magic at angles intended to converge a dozen or so ranks deep in the centre formation of Awl, so as to maximize the path of destruction.
The Atri-Preda evidently made some gesture that Brohl did not see, for all at once her messengers had arrived. She turned to him. ‘It is time. Best return to your warriors, Overseer.’
Brohl Handar grimaced. ‘Rearguard again.’
‘You will see a fight this day, Overseer. I am sure of that.’
He was not convinced, but he turned away then. Two strides along and he paused and said, ‘May this day announce the end of this war.’
The Atri-Preda did not reply. It was not even certain she had heard him, as she was speaking quietly to the soldier who had been his escort. He saw surprise flit across her features beneath the helm, then she nodded.
Brohl Handar glared up at the sun, and longed for the shadowed forests of home. Then he set out for his Arapay.
Sitting on a boulder, Toc Anaster watched the children play for a moment longer, then he rolled the thinned flat of hide into a scroll and slipped it into his satchel, and added the brush of softened wood and the now-resealed bowl of charcoal, marrow and gaenth-berry ink. He rose, squinted skyward for a moment, then walked over to his horse. Seven paces, and by the time he arrived his moccasins were oversized clumps of mud. He tied the satchel to the saddle, drew a knife and bent down to scrape away as much of the mud as he could.
The Awl were gathered in their ranks off to his left, standing, waiting as the Letherii forces five hundred paces away jostled into the formations they would seek to main-lain in the advance. Redmask’s warriors seemed strangely silent-of course, this was not their kind of battle. ‘No,’ Toc muttered. ‘This is the Letherii kind.’ He looked across at the enemy.
Classic wedges in sawtooth, Toc observed. Three arrow
heads of heavy infantry. Those formations would be rather messy by the time they reached the Awl. Moving slow, with soldiers falling, stumbling and slipping with every stride they attempted. All to the good. There would be no heaving push at the moment of contact, not without entire front ranks of heavily armoured soldiers falling flat on their
faces.
‘You will ride away,’ Torrent said behind him. ‘Or so you think. But I will be watching you, Mezla-’
‘Oh, put it to rest,’ Toe said. ‘It’s hardly my fault Redmask doesn’t think you’re worth much, Torrent. Besides,’ he added, ‘it’s not as if a horse could do much more than walk in this. And finally, Redmask has said he might want me close to hand-with my arrows-in case the K’Chain Che’Malle fail.’
‘They will not fail.’
‘Oh, and what do you know of K’Chain Che’Malle, Torrent?’
‘I know what Redmask tells us.’
‘And what does he know? More to the point, how does he know? Have you not wondered that? Not even once? The K’Chain Che’Malle are this world’s demons. Creatures of the far past. Virtually everywhere else they are extinct. So what in Hood’s name are they doing here? And why are they at Redmask’s side, seemingly eager to do as he bids?’
‘Because he is Redmask, Mezla. He is not as we are and yes, I see how the envy burns in your eye. You will ever despise those who are better than you.’
Toc leaned his forearms across the back of his horse. ‘Come closer, Torrent. Look into the eyes of this mare here. Tell me, do you see envy?’
‘A mindless beast.’
‘That will probably die today.’
‘I do not understand you, Mezla.’
‘I know. Anyway, I see that same look in your eyes, Torrent. That same blind willingness. To believe everything you need to believe. Redmask is to you as I am to this poor horse.’
‘I will listen to you no longer.’
The young warrior headed off, the stiffness of his strides soon deteriorating in the conglomeration of mud on his feet.
Nearby the children were flinging clumps of the stuff at each other and laughing. The younger ones, that is. Those carrying a few more years were silent, staring over at the enemy forces, where horns had begun sounding, and now, two well-guarded groups edging out to the very edge of the ancient shore. The mages.
We begin, then.
Far to the west the sun had yet to rise. In a nondescript village a day’s fast march from Letheras, where too many had died in the past two days, three Falari heavy infantry from 3rd Company sat on one edge of a horse trough out’ side the only tavern. Lookback, Drawfirst and Shoaly were cousins, or so the others thought of them, given their shared Falar traits of fiery red hair and blue eyes, and the olive-hued skin of the main island’s indigenous people, who called themselves the Walk. The idea seemed convenient enough, although none had known the others before enlisting in the Malazan Army.
The Walk civilization had thrived long ago, before the coming of iron, in fact, and as miners of tin, copper and lead it had once dominated all the isles of the archipelago in the trade of bronze weapons and ornamentation. Had they been of pure Walk blood, the soldiers would have been squatter, black-haired and reputedly laconic to the point of somnolent; as it was, they all possessed the harder, fiercer blood of the Falari invaders who had conquered most of the islands generations past. The combination, oddly enough, made for superb marines.
At the moment, amidst darkness and a pleasantly cool breeze coming in from the river to the south, the three were having a conversation, the subjects of which were Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy. Those two names-if not their pathetic ranks-were well known to all natives of Falar.
‘But they’ve changed,’ Lookback said. ‘That gold skin, it’s not natural at all. I think we should kill them.’
Drawfirst, who possessed the unfortunate combination of large breasts and a tendency to perspire profusely, had taken advantage of the darkness to divest herself of her upper armour and was now mopping beneath her breasts with a cloth. Now she said, ‘But what’s the point of that, Look? The cult is dead. It’s been dead for years.’
‘Ain’t dead for us, though, is it?’
‘Mostly,’ answered Shoaly.
‘That’s you all right, Shoaly,’ Lookback said. Always seeing the dying and dead side of things.’
‘So go ask ‘em, Look. And they’ll tell you the same. Fener cult’s finished.’
‘That’s why I think we should kill them. For betraying the cult. For betraying us. And what’s with that gold skin anyway? It’s creepy.’
‘Listen,’ Shoaly said, ‘we just partnered with these squads. In case you forgot, Lookback, this is the company that crawled out from under Y’Ghatan. And then there’s Fiddler. A Hood-damned Bridgeburner and maybe the only one left. Gesler was once high-ranked and so was Stormy, but just like Whiskeyjack they got busted down and down, and down, and now here you are wanting to stick ‘em. The cult got outlawed and now Fener ain’t nowhere a god’s supposed to be but that ain’t Gesler’s fault. Not Stormy’s neither.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Lookback retorted. ‘We should just leave ‘em and that’s that?’
‘Leave ‘em? Drawfirst, explain it to this fool.’
She had pushed her breasts back into their harness and was making some final adjustments. ‘It’s simple, Look. Not only are we stuck here, with Fid and the rest. We’re all gonna die with ‘em, too. Now, as for me-and probably Shoaly here-we’re gonna stand and fight, right at their sides. Gesler, Stormy, those cute heavies they got. And when we finally fall, nobody’s gonna be able to say we wasn’t worth that standing there beside ‘em. Now, maybe it’s because you’re the last heavy in Primly’s squad. Maybe if Masker was still with you, you’d not be talking the way you’re talking. So now you gotta choose, Lookback. Fight with us, fight with Reliko and Vastly Blank in Badan Gruk’s squad, or fight on your own as the sole fist in Primly’s. But every one of those choices is still fighting. Creep up behind Ges or Stormy and I’ll lop your head off myself.’
‘All right all right, I was just making conversation-’
Sounds from their left drew the heavies upright, reaching for weapons. Three figures padding down the main street towards them. Strap Mull, Skim and Neller.
Skim called out in a low voice, ‘Soldiers on the way. Look sharp.’
‘Letherii?’ Shoaly asked.
‘No,’ she replied, halting opposite them while the other two marines continued on into the tavern. ‘Picture in your heads the ugliest faces you ever seen, and you then kissin’ them big and wet.’
‘Finally,’ Drawfirst sighed, ‘some good news for a change.’
Beak and the captain made their way back to where Fist Keneb waited at the head of the column. There had been Tiste Edur ahead of them for some time, unwilling to engage, but now they were gone, at least between here and yon village.
The captain drew close to the Fist. ‘Beak says they’re marines, Fist. Seems we found some of them.’
‘All of them,’ Beak said. ‘The ones who got far ahead of the rest. They’re in the village and they’ve been killing Tiste Edur. Lots of Tiste Edur.’
‘The munitions we heard yesterday.’
‘Just so, Fist,’ Beak said, nodding.
‘All right, finally some good news. How many?’
‘Seven, eight squads,’ Beak replied. He delighted in being able to talk, in person, with a real Fist. Oh, he’d imagined scenes like this, of course, with Beak there providing all kinds of information to make the Fist do all the heroic things that needed doing, and then at last Beak himself being the biggest hero of all. He was sure everyone had dreams like that, the sudden revealing of some hidden, shy side that no-one else knew anything about and couldn’t ever have guessed was even there. Shy, until it was needed, and then out it came, amazing everyone!
‘Beak?’
‘Fist?’
‘I was asking, do they know we’re here?’
‘Yes sir, I think so. They’ve got some interesting mages, including an old style warlock from the Jakata people who were the first people on Malaz Island after the Stormriders retreated. He can see through the eyes of all sorts of creatures and that must have been helpful since the coast. There’s also a Dal Honese bush shamari and a Dal Honese Grass Dancer. And a Nathii swamp necromancer.’
‘Beak,’ said Keneb, ‘do these squads include Fiddler? Gesler and Stormy?’
‘Fiddler’s the one with the fiddle who played so sadly in Malaz City? The one with the Deck games in his head? Yes sir, he’s there. Gesler and Stormy, they’re the Falari ones, but with skins of gold and muscles and all that, the ones who were reforged in the fires of Tellann. Telas, Kurald Liosan, the fires, the ones dragons fly through to gain immunities and other proofs against magic and worse. Yes, they’re there, too.’
See how they stared at him in wonder! Oh, just like the dream!
And he knew, all too well, how all this was going to turn out and even that couldn’t make him anything but proud. He squinted up at the darkness overhead. ‘It’ll be dawn in a bell or so.’
Keneb turned to Faradan Sort. ‘Captain, take Beak with you and head into the village. I’d like to see these squads presented-barring whatever pickets they’ve set out.’
‘Yes, Fist. Plan on dressing ‘em down, sir?’
Keneb’s brows lifted. ‘Not at all, Faradan. No. I might end up kissing every damned one of them, though.’
So once more Beak walked alongside Captain Faradan Sort, and that felt good and proper now, as if he’d always belonged with her, always being useful when that was what she needed. False dawn was just beginning and the air smelled wonderfully fresh-at least until they came to the pits where the Edur bodies had been dumped. That didn’t smell good at all.
‘Gods below,’ the captain muttered as they skirted one of the shallow pits.
Beak nodded. ‘Moranth munitions do that. Just… parts of people, and everything chewed up.’
‘Not in this pit,’ she said, pointing as they passed another mass grave. ‘These ones were cut down. Swords, quarrels…’
‘Aye, Captain, we’re good at that, too, aren’t we? But that’s not why the Edur left-there was almost a thousand of them gathered here, planning on one more push. But then orders came to withdraw and so they did. They’re now a league behind us, joining up with still more Edur.’
‘The hammer,’ Faradan Sort said, ‘and somewhere ahead, the anvil’
He nodded again.
She paused to search his face in the gloom. ‘And the Adjunct and the fleet? Beak?’
‘Don’t know, sir. If you’re wondering if they’ll get to us in time to relieve us, then no. Not a chance. We’re going to have to hold out, Captain, for so long it’s impossible.’
She scowled at that. ‘And if we just squat here? Right in this village?’
‘They’ll start pushing. There’ll be four or five thousand Edur by then. That many can push us, sir, whether we want them to or not. Besides, didn’t the Fist say he wanted to engage and hold down as many of the enemy as possible? To keep them from going anywhere else, like back behind the city walls which would mean the Adjunct’s got to deal with another siege and nobody wants that.’
She glared at him for a moment longer, then set out again. Beak fell in step behind her.
From just behind a black heap of tailings at the edge of the village a voice called out, ‘Nice seeing you again, Captain.’
Faradan Sort went on.
Beak saw Corporal Tarr rise from behind the tailings, slinging his crossbow back over a shoulder then dusting himself off before approaching on an intercept course.
‘Fist wants to knock before coming in, does he?’
The captain halted in front of the stolid corporal. ‘We’ve been fast-marching for a while now,’ she said. ‘We’re damned tired, but if we’re going to march into this village, we’re not going to drag our boots. So the Fist called a short halt. That’s all.’
Tarr scratched at his beard, making the various depending bones and such rustle and click. ‘Fair enough,’ he said.
‘I am so relieved that you approve, Corporal. Now, the Fist wants the squads here all out in the main street.’
‘We can do that,’ Tarr replied, grinning. ‘Been fighting for a while now and we’re damned tired, Captain. So the sergeants got most of us resting up in the, uh, the tavern. But when the Fist sees us, well, we’ll be looking smart as can be, I’m sure.’
‘Get your arse into that tavern, Corporal, and wake the bastards up. We’ll wait right here-but not for long, understood?’
A quick, unobtrusive salute and Tarr headed off.
‘See what happens when an officer’s not around enough? They get damned full of themselves, that’s what happens, Beak.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Well, when they hear all the bad news they won’t be anywhere near as arrogant.’
‘Oh, they know, sir. Better than we do.’ But that’s not com.’ pletely true. They don’t know what I know, and neither, Captain my love, do you.
They both turned at the sound of the column, coming up fast. Faster than it should be, in fact.
The captain’s comment was succinct. ‘Shit.’ Then she added, ‘Go on ahead, Beak-get ‘em ready to move!’
‘Yes sir!’
The problem with owls was that, even as far as birds went, they were profoundly stupid. Getting them to even so much as turn their damned heads was a struggle, no matter how tightly Bottle gripped their tiny squirming souls.
He was locked in such a battle at the moment, so far past the notion of sleep that it seemed it belonged exclusively to other people and would for ever remain beyond his reach.
But all at once it did not matter where the owl was looking, nor even where it wanted to look. Because there were figures moving across the land, through the copses, the tilled grounds, swarming the slopes of the old quarry pits and on the road and all its converging tracks. Hundreds, thousands. Moving quiet, weapons readied. And less than half a league behind Keneb’s column.
Bottle shook himself, eyes blinking rapidly as he refocused-the pitted wall of the tavern, plaster chipped where daggers had been thrown against it, the yellow runnels of leakage from the thatched roof above the common room. Around him, marines pulling on their gear. Someone, probably Hellian, spitting and gagging somewhere behind the bar.
One of the newly arrived marines appeared in front of him, pulling up a chair and sitting down. The Dal Honese mage, the one with the jungle still in his eyes.
‘Nep Furrow,’ he now growled. ‘Mimber me?’
‘Mimber what?’
‘Me!’
‘Yes. Nep Furrow. Like you just said. Listen, I’ve got no time to talk-’
A fluttering wave of one gnarled hand. ‘We’en know! Bit the Edur! We’en know all’at.’ A bent finger stabbed at Bottle. ‘Issn this. You. Used dup! An’thas be-ad! Be-ad! We all die! Cuzzin you!’
‘Oh, thanks for that, you chewed-up root! We weren’t taking the scenic leg like you bastards, you know. In fact, we only got this far because of me!’
‘Vlah! Iss th’feedle! The feedle orn your sergeant! Issn the song, yeseen-it ain’t done-done yeet. Ain’t yeet done-done! Hah!’
Bottle stared at the mage. ‘So this is what happens when you pick your nose but never put anything back, right?’
‘Pick’n back! Hee hee! Een so, Bauble, yeen the cause alia us dyin, s’long as yeen know.’
And what about the unfinished song?’
An elaborate shrug. ‘Oonoes when, eh? Oonoes?’
Then Fiddler was at the table. ‘Bottle, now’s not the time for a Hood-damned conversation. Out into the street and look awake, damn you-we’re all about to charge out of this village like a herd of bhederin.’
Yeah, and right over a cliff we go. ‘Wasn’t me started this ‘ conversation, Sergeant-’
‘Grab your gear, soldier.’
Koryk stood with the others of the squad, barring Bottle who clearly thought he was unique or something, and watched as the leading elements of the column appeared at I the end of the main street, a darker mass amidst night’s last, stubborn grip. No-one on horses, he saw, which wasn’t too surprising. Food for Keneb and his tail-end company must have been hard to find, so horses went into the stew-there, a few left, but loaded down with gear. Soon there’d j be stringy, lean meat to add flavour to the local grain that tasted the way goat shit smelled.
He could feel his heart thumping strong in his chest. Oh, there would be fighting today. The Edur to the west were rolling them up all right. And ahead, on this side of the great capital city, there’d be an army or two. Waiting just for us and isn’t that nice of ‘em.
Fiddler loomed directly in front of Koryk and slapped the half-blood on the side of his helm. ‘Wake up, damn you!’
‘I was awake, Sergeant!’
But that was all right. Understandable, even, as Fiddler went down the line snapping at everyone. Aye, there’d been way too much drinking in this village and wits were anything but sharp. Of course, Koryk felt fine enough. He’d mostly slept when the others were draining the last casks of ale. Slept, aye, knowing what was coming.
The new marines from 3rd Company had provided some novelty but not for long. They’d taken the easy route and they knew it and now so did everyone else, and it gave them all a look in the eyes, one that said they still had something to prove and this little help-out here in this village hadn’t been nearly enough. Gonna have to dive across a few hundred more Edur, sweetie, before any of us but Smiles gives you a nod or two.
At the head of the column, which had now arrived, there was Fist Keneb and the sergeant, Thorn Tissy, along with Captain Sort and her brainless mage, Beak.
Keneb eyed the squads then said, ‘Sergeants, to me, please.’
Koryk watched Fiddler, Hellian, Gesler, Badan Gruk and Primly all head over to gather in a half-circle in front of the Fist.
‘Typical,’ muttered Smiles beside him. ‘Now we all go up on report. Especially you, Koryk. You don’t think anybody’s forgotten you murdering that official in Malaz City-so they know you’re the one to watch for.’
‘Oh, be quiet,’ Koryk muttered. ‘They’re just deciding now which squad dies first.’
That shut her up quick enough.
‘You’ve all done damned well,’ Keneb said in a low voice, ‘but now the serious work begins.’ Gesler snorted. ‘Think we didn’t know that, Fist?’
‘Still in the habit of irritating your superiors, I see.’ Gesler flashed his typical grin. ‘How many you bring with you, sir, if I might ask? Because, you see, I’m starting to smell something and it’s a bad smell. We can handle two to one odds. Three to one, even. But I’ve got a feeling we’re about to find. ourselves outnumbered what, ten to one? Twenty? Now, maybe you’ve brought us some more munitions, but unless you’ve got four or five wagons full hidden back of the column, it won’t be enough-’
‘That’s not our problem,’ Fiddler said, pulling a nit from his beard and cracking it between his teeth. ‘There’ll be mages and I know for a fact, Fist, that ours are used up. Even Bottle, and that’s saying a lot.’ Fiddler then scowled at Beak. ‘What in Hood’s name are you smiling about?’ Beak wilted, moved to hide behind Fafadan Sort. The captain seemed to bridle. ‘Listen, Fiddler, maybe you know nothing about this mage here, but I assure you he has combat magicks. Beak, can you hold your own in what’s to come?’
A low murmuring reply: ‘Yes sir. You’ll see. Everyone will because you’re all my friends and friends are important. The most important thing in the world. And I’ll show you.’
Fiddler winced and looked away, then squinted. ‘Shit, we’re losing the night.’
‘Form up for the march,’ Keneb ordered and damn, Fiddler observed, the Fist was looking old right now. ‘We’ll alternate to double-time every hundred paces-from what I understand, we don’t have very far to go.’
‘Until the way ahead is full of enemy,’ Gesler said. ‘Hope at least it’s within sight of Letheras. I’d like to see the damned walls before I feed the weeds.’
‘Enough of that, Sergeant. Dismissed.’
Fiddler didn’t respond to Gesler’s grin when they headed back to their squads.
‘Come on, Fid, all those talents of yours got to be all screaming the same thing right now, aren’t they?’
‘Aye, they’re all screaming at you to shut your damned mouth, Ges.’
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas had collected almost more weapons than he could carry. Four of the better spears, two javelins. A single-edged sword something like a scimitar; a nice long, straight Letherii longsword with a sharply tapered point, filed down from what had been a blunted end; two sticker knives and a brace of gutters as well. Strapped to his back was a Letherii shield, wood, leather and bronze. He also carried a crossbow and twenty-seven quarrels. And one sharper.
They were headed, he well knew, to their last stand, and it would be heroic. Glorious. It would be as it should have been with Leoman of the Flails. They would stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, until not one was left alive. And years from now, songs would be sung of this dawning day. And there would be, among the details, a tale of one soldier, wielding spears and javelins and swords and knives and heaps of bodies at his feet. A warrior who had come from Seven Cities, yes, from thousands of leagues away, to finally give the proper ending to the Great Uprising of his homeland. A rebel once more, in the outlawed, homeless Fourteenth Army who were now called the Bonehunters, and whose own bones would be hunted, yes, for their magical properties, and sold for stacks of gold in markets. Especially Corabb’s own skull, larger than all the others, once home to a vast brain filled with genius and other brilliant thoughts. A skull not even a king could afford, yes, especially with the sword blade or spear clove right through it as lasting memento to Corabb’s spectacular death, the last marine standing-
‘For Hood’s sake, Corabb,’ snapped Cuttle behind him, ‘I’m dodging more spear butts now than I will in a bell’s time! Get rid of some of them, will you?’
‘I cannot,’ Corabb replied. ‘I shall need them all.’
‘Now that doesn’t surprise me, the way you treat your weapons.’
‘There will be many enemy that need killing, yes.’
‘That Letherii shield is next to useless,’ Cuttle said. ‘You should know that by now, Corabb.’
‘When it breaks I shall find another.’
He so looked forward to the imminent battle. The screams, the shrieks of the dying, the shock of the enemy as it reeled back, repulsed again and again. The marines had earned it, oh yes. The fight they had all been waiting for, outside the very walls of Letheras-and the citizens would line them to watch, with wonder, with astonishment, with awe, as Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas unleashed such ferocity as to sear the souls of every witness…
Hellian was never drinking that stuff again. Imagine, sick, still drunk, thirsty and hallucinating all at once. Almost as bad as that night of the Paralt Festival in Kartool, with all those people wearing giant spider costumes and Hellian, in a screaming frenzy, trying to stamp on all of them.
Now, she was trudging at the head of her paltry squad in the grainy half-light of dawn, and from the snatches of conversation that penetrated her present state of disrepair she gathered that the Edur were right behind them, like ten thousand giant spiders with fangs that could shoot out and skewer innocent seagulls and terrified women. And even worse, this damned column was marching straight for a giant web eager to ensnare them all.
Meanwhile, there were the hallucinations. Her corporal splitting in two, for example. One here, one there, both talking at once but not the same thing and not even in the same voice. And what about that doe-eyed fool with the stupid name who was now always hovering close? Scab Breath? Skulldent? Whatever, she had ten years on him easy, maybe more, or that’s how it seemed since he had that smooth baby-skin-Babyskin?-face that made him look, gods, fourteen or so. All breathless with some bizarre story about being a prince and the last of a royal line and saving seeds to plant in perfect soil where cacti don’t grow and now he wanted… wanted what? She couldn’t be sure, but he was triggering all sorts of nasty thoughts in her head, above all an overwhelming desire to corrupt the boy so bad he’d never see straight ever again, just to prove that she wasn’t someone anybody messed with without getting all messed up themselves. So maybe it all came down to power. The power to crush innocence and that was something even a terrified woman could do, couldn’t she?
Passing through another village and oh, this wasn’t a good sign. It’d been systematically flattened. Every building nothing but rubble. Armies did things like that to remove cover, to eliminate the chance of establishing redoubts and all that sort of thing. No trees beyond, either, just a level stretch of ploughed fields with the hedgerows cut down to stumps and the crops all burnt to blackened stubble an already the morning sun was lancing deadly darts into he skull, forcing her to down a few mouthfuls of her dwindlin supply of Falari rum from the transports.
Steadying her some, thank Hood.
Her corporal merged back into one, which was a good sign, and he was pointing ahead and talking about something-
‘What? Wait, Touchy Breath, wha’s that you’re saying?’
‘The rise opposite, Sergeant! See the army waiting for us? See it? Gods above, we’re finished! Thousands! No, worse than thousands-’
‘Be quiet! I can see ‘em well enough-’
‘But you’re looking the wrong way!’
That’s no matter either way, Corporal. I still see ‘em, don’t I? Now stop crowding me and go find Urb-got to keep ‘im close to keep ‘im alive, the clumsy fool.’
‘He won’t come, Sergeant.’
‘Wha’ you talkin’
‘bout?’
‘It’s Skulldeath, you see. He’s announced that he’s given his heart to you-’
‘His what? Listen, you go an’ tell Hearty Death that he can have his skull back cause I don’t wannit, but I’ll take his cock once we’re done killing all these bassards or maybe even before then if there’s a chance, but in the meantime, drag Urb here because I’m ‘sponsible for ‘im, you see, for letting’
‘im kick in that temple door.’
‘Sergeant, he won’t-’
‘How come your voice keeps changin’?’
‘So,’ said the commander of the Letherii forces arrayed along the ridge, ‘there they are. What do you judge, Sirryn Kanar? Under a thousand? I would believe so. All the way from the coast. Extraordinary.’
‘They have survived thus far,’ Sirryn said, scowling, ‘because they are unwilling to stand and fight.’
‘Rubbish,’ the veteran officer replied. ‘They fought the way they needed to, and they did it exceptionally well, as Hanradi and his Edur would attest. Under a thousand, by the Errant. What I could do with ten thousand such soldiers, Finadd. Pilott, Korshenn, Descent, T’roos, Isthmus
– we could conquer them all. Two campaign seasons, no more than that.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Sirryn said, ‘we’re about to kill them all, sir.’
‘Yes, Finadd,’ the commander sighed. ‘So we are.’ He hesitated, then cast Sirryn an oddly sly glance. ‘I doubt there will be much opportunity to excessively bleed the Tiste Edur, Finadd. They have done their task, after all, and now need only dig in behind these Malazans-and when the poor fools break, as they will, they will be routing right into Hanradi’s Edur spears, and that will be the end of that.’
Sirryn Kanar shrugged. ‘I still do not understand how these Malazans could have believed a thousand of their soldiers would be enough to conquer our empire. Even with their explosives and such.’
‘You forget their formidable sorcery, Finadd.’
‘Formidable at stealth, at hiding them from our forces. Naught else. And now, such talents have no use at all. We see our enemy, sir, and they are exposed, and so they will die.’
‘Best we get on with it, then,’ the commander said, somewhat shortly, as he turned to gesture his mages forward.
Below, on the vast plain that would be the killing field for this invading army-if it could even be called that-the Malazan column began, with alacrity, reforming into a defensive circle. The commander grunted. ‘They hold to no illusions, Finadd, do they? They are finished and they know it. And so, there will be no rout, no retreat of any sort. Look at them! There they will stand, until none stand.’
Gathered now into their defensive circle, in very nearly the centre of the killing field, the force suddenly seemed pathetically small. The commander glanced at his seven mages, now arrayed at the very crest of the ridge and beginning the end of their ritual-which had been a week in the making. Then back to the distant huddle of Malazans. ‘Errant bless peace upon their souls,’ he whispered.
It was clear that Atri-Preda Bivatt, impatient as she no doubt was, had at the last moment decided to draw out the beginning of battle, to let the sun continue its assault on the mud of the seabed. Alas, such delay was not in Redmask’s interest, and so he acted first.
The Letherii mages each stood within a protective ring of soldiers carrying oversized shields. They were positioned beyond arrow range, but Bivatt well knew their vulnerability nonetheless, particularly once they began their ritual summoning of power.
Toc Anaster, seated on his horse to permit him a clearer view, felt the scarring of his missing eye blaze into savage itching, and he could feel how the air grew charged, febrile, as the two mages bound their wills together. They could not, he suspected, maintain control for very long. The sorcery would need to erupt, would need to be released. To roll in foaming waves down into the seabed, blistering their way across the ground to crash into the Awl lines. Where warriors would die by the hundreds, perhaps by the thousands.
Against such a thing, Redmask’s few shamans could do nothing. All that had once given power to the plains tribe was torn, very nearly shredded by displacement, by the desecration of holy grounds, by the deaths of countless warriors and elders and children. The Awl culture, Toe now understood, was crumbling, and to save it, to resurrect his people, Redmask needed victory this day, and he would do anything to achieve it.
Including, if need be, the sacrifice of his K’Chain Che’Malle.
Beneath their strange armour, beneath the fused swords at the end of the K’ell Hunter’s arms, beneath their silent language and inexplicable alliance with Redmask of the Awl, the K’Chain Che’Malle were reptiles, and their blood was cold, and deep in their brains, perhaps, could be found ancient memories, recollections of a pre-civilized existence, a wildness bound in the skein of instincts. And so the patience of a supreme predator coursed in that chill blood.
Reptiles. Damned lizards.
Thirty or so paces from where stood the mages and their guardian soldiers, the slope reached down to the edge of the ancient sea, where the mud stretched out amidst tufts of smeared, flattened grasses, and where run-off had pooled before slowly ebbing away into the silts beneath.
The K’Chain Che’Malle had wallowed down into that mud, quite possibly even as the rains continued to thrash down in darkness. Huge as they were, they had proved skilled at burying themselves so that no sign was visible of their presence-no sign at least to a casual viewer. And after all, who could have imagined such enormous beasts were capable of simply disappearing from sight?
And Redmask had guessed more or less correctly where the mages would position themselves; indeed, he had invited such placements, where waves of magic would converge to maximum effect against his waiting warriors. Neither Sag’Churok nor Gunth Mach rose to find themselves too far away for that sudden, devastating rush upslope.
Screams of terror as the flat clay seemed to erupt at the old shoreline, and then, mud cascading from their backs, the demonic creatures were racing upslope, each closing in on one of the mages.
Panicked retreat-flight from the guards, flinging shields and swords away-exposing the hapless mages, both of whom sought to unleash their sorcery-
– no time, as Sag’Churok’s twin blades slashed out and the first mage seemed to vanish in a bloom of blood and meat-
– no time, as Gunth Mach leapt high in the air then landed with splayed talons directly atop the second, cowering mage, crushing him in a snap of bones-
And then the beasts wheeled, racing back in zigzag patterns as flights of arrows descended. Those that struck bounced or, rarely, penetrated the thick scaled hide enough to hold fixed in place, until the creature’s motion worked them loose.
In the wake of this sudden honor, the Letherii horns sounded like cries of rage, and all at once the wedges were moving down the slope, and some battle song lifted skyward to set cadence-but it was a shrill sound, erupting from the throats of shaken soldiers-
As easily as that, Toc Anaster reflected, this battle begins.
Behind him, Torrent was dancing in gleeful frenzy.
Shouting: ‘Redmask! Redmask! Redmask!’
The wedges edged out onto the seabed and visibly sagged as momentum slowed. Between them milled the archers, skirmishers and some medium infantry, and Toc saw soldiers slipping, falling, boots skidding out as they sought purchase to draw bowstrings-chaos. The heavy infantry in front were now sinking to their knees, while those at the back stumbled into those before them, as the rhythm broke, then utterly collapsed.
A second set of horns sounded as soon as each entire wedge was on the flat, and all forward motion ceased. A moment of relative silence as the wedges reformed, then a new song emerged from the soldiers, this one deeper, more assured, and carrying a slower cadence, a drawn-out beat that proved the perfect match to an advance of one step at a time, with a settling pause between it and the next.
Toc grunted in admiration. That was impressive control indeed, and it looked to be working.
They will reach the Awl lines intact. Still, no solid footing to fix shields or swing weapons with strength. Gods, this is going to be bloody.
For all of Redmask’s creativity, he was not, in Toe’s judgement, a tactical genius. Here, he had done all he could to gain advantage, displaying due competence. Without the K’Chain Che’Malle, this battle might already be over. In any case, Redmask’s second surprise could not-for anyone-have been much of a surprise at all.
Natarkas, face slick with sweat behind his red mask, eased his horse into a canter. Surrounding him was the sound of thunder. Two thousand chosen warriors rode with him across the plain. As the canter was loosed into a gallop, lances were set, shields settled to cover groin, hip and chest.
Natarkas had led his cavalry through the night’s rain, east of the seabed, then north and finally, as false dawn licked the darkness, westward.
At dawn, they were positioned a third of a league behind the Letherii forces. Arrayed into a wedge with Natarkas himself positioned in the centre of the sixth row. Awaiting the first sounds of battle.
Redmask had been adamant with his instructions. If enemy scouts found them, they were to wait, and wait yet longer, listening to the sounds of battle for at least two turns of the wheel. If they believed themselves un-discovered-if the opportunity for surprise remained-when the sounds of fighting commenced, Natarkas was to immediately lead his cavalry into an attack on the rear formations of the enemy forces-on, no doubt, the Tiste Edur. There was to be no deviation from these instructions.
At dawn, his own scouts had ridden to Natarkas to announce that a mounted troop of Edur had discovered them. And he thought back to Redmask the night before. ‘Natarkas, do you understand why, if you are seen, I want you to hold? To not immediately charge? No? Then I will explain. If you are seen, 1 must be able to exploit that in the battle on the seabed. At least two wheels you must wait, doing nothing. This will lock the Tiste Edur in place. It may even draw out the Bluerose cavalry-and should they approach you, invite them to the chase ~ lead them away, yes, and keep leading them away. Do not engage them, Natarkas! You will be savaged! Run their horses into the dust-you see, they will cease to matter by then, and Bivatt will not have them at her disposal. This is important! Do you understand my commands?’
Yes, he did understand them. If surprise was lost, he was to lead his Awl… away. Like cowards. But they had played the cowards before, and that was a truth that burned in his heart. Flaring into agony whenever he saw the Mezla, Toe Anaster, yes, the one-eyed foreigner who stood as living proof to a time of such darkness among the Awl that Natarkas could barely breathe whenever he thought about it.
And he knew his fellow warriors felt the same. The hol-lowness inside, the terrible need to give answer, to reject the past in the only way now left to them.
They had been seen, yes.
But they would not run. Nor would they wait. They would ride to the sounds of battle. They would sight the hated enemy, and they would charge.
Redemption. Do you understand that word, Redmask? No? Then, we shall show you its meaning.
‘Sister Shadow, they’re coming.’ Brohl Handar tightened the strap of his helm. ‘Ready your spears!’ he bellowed to his warriors, and along the entire front line, two ranks deep, the iron points of the spears flashed downward. The foremost rank knelt, angling their points to the chest height of the approaching horses, while the row behind them remained standing, ready to thrust. ‘Shields to guard!’ The third rank edged forward half a step to bring their shields into a guard position beneath the weapon arms of the warriors in the second row.
Brohl turned to one of his runners. ‘Inform the Atri-Preda that we face a cavalry charge, and I strongly advise she order the Bluerose to mount up for a flank attack-the sooner we are done with this the sooner we can join the fight on the seabed.’
He watched as the youth rushed off.
The wedges were on the flat now, he understood, employing the step and settle advance Bivatt had devised in order to adjust to the mud. They were probably nearing the Awl lines, although yet to clash. The Atri-Preda had another tactic for that moment, and Brohl Handar wished her well.
The slaying of the mages had been a grim opening to this day’s battle, but the Overseer’s confidence had, if anything, begun to grow.
These fools charge us! They charge a forest of spears! It is suU tide!
Finally, he realized, they could end this. Finally, this absurd war could end. By day’s close, not a single Awl would remain alive. Not one.
The thunder of hoofs. Lances lowered, the horses with necks stretched-out, the warriors hunching down-closer, closer, then, all at once, chaos.
No horse could be made to run into a wall of bristling spears. In the midst of the Awl lancers were mounted archers, and as the mass of riders drew to within a hundred paces of Edur, these archers rose on their stirrups and released a swarm of arrows.
The first row of Edur, kneeling with spears planted, had leaned their rectangular Letherii shields against their shoulders-the best they could manage with both hands on the spear shaft. Those immediately behind them were better protected, but the spear-hedge, as the Letherii called it, was vulnerable.
Warriors screamed, spun round by the impact of arrows. The row rippled, wavered, was suddenly ragged.
Horses could not be made to run into a wall of bristling spears. But, if sufficiently trained, they could be made to hammer into a mass of human flesh. And, among those still facing spears positioned at chest height, they could jump.
A second flight of arrows slanted out at forty or so paces. Then a third at ten paces.
The facing side of the Edur square was a ragged mess by the time the charge struck home. Beasts launched themselves into the air, straining to clear the first spears, only to intercept other iron-headed points-but none of these were butted into the ground, and while serrated edges slashed through leather plates and the flesh beneath, many were driven aside or punched back. In the gaps in the front line, the horses plunged into the ranks of Edur, flinging warriors away, trampling others. Lances thudded into reeling bodies, skidded from desperate shield blocks, kissed faces and throats in a welter of blood.
Brohl Handar, positioned behind his Edur square, stared in horror as the entire block of Arapay warriors seemed to recoil, flinch back, then inexorably fold inward from the facing side.
The Awl wedge had driven deep and was now exploding from within the disordered square. The impact had driven warriors back, fouling those behind them, in a rippling effect that spread through the entire formation.
Among the Awl, in the midst of jostling, stumbling Edur, heavy cutting swords appeared as lances were shattered, splintered or left in bodies. In screaming frenzy, the savages were hacking down on all sides.
Horses went down, kicking, lashing out in their death-throes. Spears stabbed upwards to lift Awl warriors from their saddles.
The square was seething madness.
And horses continued to go down, whilst others backed, despite the shrieking commands of their riders. More spears raked riders from their saddles, crowds closing about individuals.
All at once, the Awl were seeking to withdraw, and the Edur warriors began pushing, the square’s flanks advancing in an effort to enclose the attackers.
Someone was screaming at Brohl Handar. Someone at his side, and he turned to see one of his runners.
Who was pointing westward with frantic gestures.
Bluerose cavalry, forming up.
Brohl Handar stared at the distant ranks, the sun-lashed lance-heads held high, the horses’ heads lifting and tossing, then he shook himself. ‘Sound close ranks! The square does not pursue! Close ranks and let the enemy withdraw!’
Moments later, horns blared.
The Awl did not understand. Panic was already among them, and the sudden recoiling of those now advancing Edur struck them as an opportunity. Eager to disengage, the horse-warriors sprang away from all contact-twenty paces-archers twisting in their saddles to loose arrows-forty, fifty paces, and a copper-faced officer among them yelling at his troops to draw up, to reform for another charge-and there was thunder in the west, and that warrior turned in his saddle, and saw, descending upon his milling ranks, his own death.
His death, and that of his warriors.
Brohl Handar watched as the commander frantically tried to wheel his troops, to set them, to push the weary, bloodied beasts and their equally weary riders into a j meeting charge-but it was too late. Voices cried out in fear as warriors saw what was descending upon them. The confusion redoubled, and then riders were breaking, fleeing-
All at once, the Bluerose lancers swept into them.
Brohl Handar looked down upon his Arapay-Sister Shadow, but we have been wounded. ‘Sound the slow advance!’ he commanded, stepping forward and drawing his sword. ‘We will finish what the Bluerose have begun.’ I want those bastards. Every damned one of them. Screaming in pain, dying by our blades!
Something dark and savage swirled awake within him. Oh, there would be pleasure in killing. Here. Now. Such pleasure.
As the Bluerose charge rolled through the Awl cavalry, a broad-bladed lance caught Natarkas-still shrieking his commands to wheel-in the side of the head. The point punched through low on his left temple, beneath the rim of the bronze-banded helm. It shattered that plate of the skull, along with his cheekbone and the orbit of the eye. Then drove still deeper, through brain and nasal cavity.
Blackness bloomed in his mind.
Beneath him-as he toppled, twisted round when the lance dragged free-his horse staggered before the impact of the attacker’s own mount; then, as the weight of Natarkas’s body rolled away, the beast bolted, seeking a place away from this carnage, this terror.
All at once, open plain ahead and two other riderless horses racing away, heads high in sudden freedom.
Natarkas’s horse set off after them.
The chaos in its heart dwindled, faded, fluttered away with every exultant breath the beast drew into its aching lungs.
Free!
Never! Free!
Never again!
On the seabed, the heavy infantry wedges advanced beneath the now constant hail of descending arrows. Skittering on raised shields, glancing from visored helms, stabbing down through gaps in armour and chance ricochets. Soldiers cried out, stumbled, recovered or sought to fall-but these latter were suddenly grasped by hands on either side and bodies closed in, keeping them upright, feet now dragging as life poured its crimson gift to the churned mud below. Those hands then began pushing the dead and the dying forward, through the ranks. Hands reaching back, grasping, tugging and pulling, then pushing into yet more waiting hands.
Through all of this, the chant continued, the wait beat marked each settling step.
Twelve paces from the Awl on their islands of dry, able now to see into faces, to see the blazing eyes filled with fear or rage.
This slow advance could not but unnerve the waiting Awl. Human spear-heads, edging ever closer. Massive iron fangs, inexorably looming, step, wait, step, wait, step.
And now, eight paces away, arrow-riddled corpses were being flung forward from the front ranks, the bodies sprawling into the mud. Shields followed here and there. Boots settled atop these things, pushing them into the mud.
Bodies and shields, appearing in a seemingly unending stream.
Building, there in the last six strides, a floor of flesh, leather, wood and armour.
Javelins sleeted into those wedges, driving soldiers back and down, only to have their bodies thrust forward with chilling disregard. The wounded bled out. The wounded drowned screaming in the mud. And each wedge seemed to lift itself up and out of the mud, although the cadence did not change.
Four steps. Three.
And, at a bellowing shout, the points of those enormous wedges suddenly drove forward.
Into human flesh, into set shields, spears. Into the Awl.
Each and every mind dreamed of victory. Of immortality. And, among them all, not one would yield.
The sun stared down, blazing with eager heat, on Q’uson Tapi, where two civilizations locked throat to throat.
One last time.
A fateful decision, maybe, but he’d made it now. Dragging with him all the squads that had been in the village, Fiddler took over from some of Keneb’s more beat-up units the west-facing side of their turtleback defence. No longer standing eye to eye with that huge Letherii army and its Hood-cursed sorcerers. No, here they waited, and opposite them, drawing up in thick ranks, the Tiste Edur.
Was it cowardice? He wasn’t sure, and from the looks he caught in the eyes of his fellow sergeants-barring Hellian who’d made a temporarily unsuccessful grab at Skulldeath, or more precisely at his crotch, before Primly intervened-they weren’t sure, either.
Fine, then, I just don’t want to see my death come rolling down on me. Is that cowardly? Aye, by all counts it couldn’t be anything but. Still, there’s this. I don’t feel frightened.
No, all he wanted right now, beyond what Hellian so obviously wanted, of course, all he wanted, then, was to die fighting. To see the face of the bastard who killed him, to pass on, in that final meeting of eyes, all that dying meant, must have meant and would always mean… whatever that was, and let’s hope I do a better job of letting my killer know whatever it is-better, that is, than all those whose eyes I’ve looked into as they died at my hand. Aye, seems a worthy enough prayer.
But I ain’t praying to you, Hood.
In fact, damned if I know who I’m praying to, but even that doesn’t seem to matter.
His soldiers were digging holes but not saying much. They’d received a satchelful of munitions, including two more cussers, and while that wasn’t nearly enough it made it advisable to dig the holes where they could crouch for cover when those sharpers, cussers and all the rest started going off.
All of this, dammit, assumed there would be fighting.
Far more likely, magic would sweep over the Malazans, one and all, grabbing at their throats even as it burned away skin, muscle and organs, burned away even their last desperate, furious screams.
Fiddler vowed to make his last scream a curse. A good one, too.
He stared across at the rows of Tiste Edur.
Beside him, Cuttle said, ‘They don’t like it neither, you know.’
Fiddler replied with a wordless grunt.
‘That’s their leader, that old one with the hunched shoulders. Too many paying him too much attention. I plan to take him out, Fid-with a cusser. Listen-are you listening? As soon as that wave of magic starts its roll, we should damn well up and charge these bastards.’
Not a bad idea, actually. Blinking, Fiddler faced the sapper, and then nodded. ‘Pass the word, then.’
At that moment one of Thorn Tissy’s soldiers jogged into their midst. ‘Fist’s orders,’ he said, looking round. ‘Where’s your captain?’
‘Holding Beak’s hand, somewhere else,’ Fiddler replied. ‘You can give those orders to me, soldier.’
‘All right. Maintain the turtleback-do not advance on the enemy-’
‘That’s fucking-’
‘Enough, Cuttle!’ Fiddler snapped. To the runner he nodded and said, ‘How long?’
A blank expression answered that question.
Fiddler waved the idiot on, then turned once more to stare across at the Tiste Edur.
‘Damn him, Fid!’
‘Relax, Cuttle. We’ll set out when we have to, all right?’
‘Sergeant?’ Bottle was suddenly crawling out of the hole he’d dug, and there was a strained look on his face. ‘Something… something’s happening-’
At that moment, from the ridge to the east, a blood-chilling sound-like ten thousand anchor chains ripping up from the ground, and there rose a virulent wall of swirling magic. Dark purple and shot through with crimson veins, black etchings like lightning darting along the crest as it rose, higher, yet higher-
‘Hood’s balls!’ Cuttle breathed, eyes wide.
Fiddler simply stared. This was the sorcery they’d seen off the north coast of Seven Cities. Only, then they’d had Quick Ben with them. And Bottle had his-he reached out and pulled Bottle close. ‘Listen! Is she-’
‘No, Fid! Nowhere! She’s not been with me since we landed. I’m sorry-’
Fiddler flung the man back down.
The wall heaved itself still higher.
The Tiste Edur along the western edge of the killing field were suddenly pulling back.
Cuttle yelled, ‘We need to go now! Fiddler! Now!’
Yet he could not move. Could not answer, no matter how the sapper railed at him. Could only stare, craning, ever upward. Too much magic. ‘Gods above,’ he muttered, ‘talk about overkill,’
Run away from this? Not a chance.
Cuttle dragged him round.
Fiddler scowled and pushed the man back, hard enough to make the sapper stumble. ‘Fuck running, Cuttle! You think we can out-run that1’
‘But the Edur-’
‘It’s going to take them too-can’t you see that?’ It has to-no-one can control it once it’s released-no-one. ‘Those Hood-damned Edur have been set up, Cuttle!’ Oh yes, the Letherii wanted to get rid of their masters-they just didn’t want to do it with us as allies. No, they’ll do it their way and take out both enemies at the same damned time…
Three hundred paces to the west, Hanradi stared up at that Letherii magic. And understood, all at once. He understood.
‘We have been betrayed,’ he said, as much to himself as to the warriors standing close by. ‘That ritual-it has been days in the making. Maybe weeks. Once unleashed…’ the devastation will stretch for leagues westward.
What to do?
Father Shadow, what to do? ‘Where are my K’risnan?’ he suddenly demanded, turning to his aides.
Two Edur hobbled forward, their faces ashen.
‘Can you protect us?’
Neither replied, and neither would meet Hanradi’s eyes.
‘Can you not call upon Hannan Mosag? Reach through to the Ceda, damn you!’
‘You do not understand!’ one of the once-young K’risnan shouted. ‘We are-all-we are all abandoned!’
‘But Kurald Emurlahn-’
‘Yes! Awake once more! But we cannot reach it! Nor can the Ceda!’
‘And what of that other power? The chaos?’
‘Gone! Fled!’
Hanradi stared at the two warlocks. He drew his sword and lashed the blade across the nearest one’s face, the edge biting through bridge of nose and splitting both eyeballs. Shrieking, the figure reeled back, hands at his face. Hanradi stepped forward and drove his sword into the creature’s twisted chest, and the blood that gushed forth was almost black.
Tugging the weapon free, Hanradi turned to the other one, who cowered back. ‘You warlocks,’ the once-king said in a grating voice, ‘are the cause of this. All of this.’ He took another step closer. ‘Would that you were Hannan Mosag crouched before me now-’
‘Wait!’ the K’risnan shrieked, suddenly pointing eastward. ‘Wait! One gives answer! One gives answer!’
Hanradi turned, eyes focusing with some difficulty on the Malazans-so overwhelming was the wave of Letherii magic that a shadow had descended upon the entire killing field.
Rising from that huddled mass of soldiers, a faint, luminous glow. Silver, vaguely pulsing.
Hanradi’s laugh was harsh. ‘That pathetic thing is an answer?’ He half raised his sword.
‘No!’ the K’risnan cried. ‘Wait! Look, you stupid fool! Look!’
And so he did, once again.
And saw that dome of silver light burgeoning, spreading out to engulf the entire force-and it thickened, became opaque-
The last K’risnan clutched at Hanradi’s arm. ‘Listen to me! Its power-Father Shadow! Its power!’
‘Can it hold?’ Hanradi demanded. ‘Can it hold against the Letherii?’
He saw no answer in the K’risnan’s red-rimmed eyes.
It cannot-look, still, it is tiny-against that evergrowing wave-
But… it need be no larger than that, need it? It engulfs them all.
‘Sound the advance!’ he shouted. ‘At the double!’
Wide eyes fixed on Hanradi, who pointed at that scintillating dome of ethereal power. ‘At the very least we can crouch in its shadow! Now, move forward! Everyone!’
Beak, who had once possessed another name, a more boring name, had been playing in the dirt that afternoon, on the floor of the old barn where no-one went any more and that was far away from the rest of the buildings of the estate, far enough away to enable him to imagine he was alone in an abandoned world. A world without trouble.
He was playing with the discarded lumps of wax he collected from the trash heap below the back wall of the main house. The heat of his hands could change their shape, like magic. He could mould faces from the pieces and build entire families like those families down in the village, where boys and girls his age worked alongside their parents and when not working played in the woods and were always laughing.
This was where his brother found him. His brother with the sad face so unlike the wax ones he liked to make. He arrived carrying a coil of rope, and stood just inside the gaping entrance with its jammed-wide doors all overgrown.
Beak, who had a more boring name back then, saw in his brother’s face a sudden distress, which then drained away and a faint smile took its place which was a relief since Beak always hated it when his brother went off somewhere to cry. Older brothers should never do that and if he was older, why, he’d never do that.
His brother then walked towards him, and still half smiling he said, ‘I need you to leave, little one. Take your toys and leave here.’
Beak stared with wide eyes. His brother never asked such things of him. His brother had always shared this barn. ‘Don’t you want to play with me?’
‘Not now,’ his brother replied, and Beak saw that his hands were trembling which meant there’d been trouble back at the estate. Trouble with Mother.
‘Playing will make you feel better,’ Beak said.
‘I know. But not now.’
‘Later?’ Beak began collecting his wax villagers.
‘We’ll see.’
There were decisions that did not seem like decisions. And choices could just fall into place when nobody was really looking and that was how things were in childhood just as they were for adults. Wax villagers cradled in his arms, Beak set off, out the front and into the sunlight. Summer days were always wonderful-the sun was hot enough to make the villagers weep with joy, once he lined them up on the old border stone that meant nothing any more.
The stone was about eighteen of Beak’s small paces away, toppled down at one corner of the track before it turned and sank down towards the bridge and the stream where minnows lived until it dried up and then they died because minnows could only breathe in water. He had just set his toys down in a row when he decided he needed to ask his brother something.
Decisions and choices, falling.
What was it he had wanted to ask? There was no memory of that. The memory of that was gone, melted down into nothing. It had been a very hot day.
Reaching the entrance he saw his brother-who had been sitting with legs dangling from the loft’s edge-slide over to drop down onto the floor. But he didn’t drop all the way. The rope round his neck caught him instead.
And then, his face turning dark as his eyes bulged and his tongue pushed out, his brother danced in the air, kicking through the shafts of dusty sunlight.
Beak ran up to him-the game his brother had been playing with the rope had gone all wrong, and now his brother was choking. He threw his arms about his brother’s kicking legs and tried with all his might to hold him up.
And there he stood, and perhaps he was screaming, but perhaps he wasn’t, because this was an abandoned place, too far away from anyone who might help.
His brother tried to kick him away. His brother’s fists punched down on the top of Beak’s head, hard enough to hurt but not so much since those hands couldn’t but barely reach him, short as he was being still younger than his brother. So he just held on.
Fire awoke in the muscles of his arms. In his shoulders. His neck. His legs shook beneath him, because he needed to stand on his toes-if he tried to move his arms further down to well below his brother’s knees, then his brother simply bent those knees and started choking again.
Fire everywhere, fire right through Beak’s body.
His legs were failing. His arms were failing. And as they failed his brother choked. Pee ran down to burn against Beak’s wrists and his face. The air was suddenly thick with worse smells and his brother never did things like this-all this mess, the terrible mistake with the rope.
Beak could not hold on, and this was the problem with being a younger brother, with being as he was. And the kicking finally stilled, the muscles of his brother’s legs becoming soft, loose. Two fingertips from one of his brother’s hands lightly brushed Beak’s hair, but they only moved when Beak himself moved, so those fingers were as still as the legs.
It was good that his brother wasn’t fighting any more. He must have loosened the rope from round his neck and was now just resting. And that was good because Beak was now on his knees, arms wrapped tight about his brother’s feet.
And there he stayed.
Until, three bells after dusk, one of the stable hands from the search party came into the barn with a lantern.
By then, the sun’s heat earlier that afternoon had ruined all his villagers, had drawn down their faces into expressions of grief, and Beak did not come back to collect them up, did not reshape them into nicer faces. Those lumps remained on the border stone that meant nothing any more, sinking down in the day after day sun.
After that last day with his brother, there was trouble aplenty in the household. But it did not last long, not long at all.
He did not know why he was thinking about his brother now, as he set ablaze every candle within him to make the world bright and to save all his friends. And before long he no longer sensed anyone else, barring the faint smudges they had become. The captain, the Fist, all the soldiers who were his friends, he let his light unfold to embrace them all, to keep them safe from that frightening, dark magic so eager to rush down upon them.
It had grown too powerful for those seven mages to contain. They had created something that would now destroy them, but Beak would not let it hurt his friends. And so he made his light burn yet brighter. He made of it a solid thing. Would it be enough? He did not know, but it had to be, for without friends there was nothing, no-one.
Brighter, hotter, so hot the wax of the candles burst into clouds of droplets, flaring bright as the sun, one after another. And, when every coloured candle was lit, why, there was white.
And yet more, for as each joined the torrent emanating from him, he felt in himself a cleansing, a scouring away, what priests called purification only they really knew nothing about purification because it had nothing to do with offerings of blood or coin and nothing to do with starving yourself and whipping your own back or endlessly chanting until the brain goes numb. Nothing like any of that. Purification, Beak now understood, was final.
Everything glowed, as if lit from fires within. The once-black stubble of crops blazed back into fierce life. Stones shone like precious gems. Incandescence raged on all sides. Fiddler saw his soldiers and he could see through, in pulsing flashes, to their very bones, the organs huddled within their cages. He saw, along one entire side of Koryk, old fractures on the ribs, the left arm, the shoulder blade, the hip. He saw three knuckle-sized dents on Cuttle’s skull beneath the now translucent helm-a rap he had taken when still a babe, soft-boned and vulnerable. He saw the damage between Smiles’s legs from all the times she savaged herself. He saw in Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas the coursing blood that held in it the power to destroy every cancer that struck him, and he was a man under siege from that disease, but it would never kill. Would not even sicken him.
He saw in Bottle coruscating waves of raw power, a refulgence devoid of all control-but that would come. It will come.
Corporal Tarr crouched down in the hole he’d dug, and the light emanating from him looked solid as iron.
Among the others he saw more than any mortal would want to see, yet he could hot close his eyes, could not look away.
Gesler and Stormy were lit in gold fire. Even Stormy’s beard and hair-all spun gold now-a brutal beauty cascading round his face, and the damned fool was laughing.
The world beyond had vanished behind an opaque, curved wall of silver fire. Vague shapes on the other side-yes, he’d seen the Tiste Edur approaching, seeking some kind of shelter.
Fiddler found he was standing, facing that wall, and now he was walking forward. Because some things matter more than others. Stepping into that silver fire, feeling it lance through his entire body, neither hot nor cold, neither pain nor joy.
He staggered suddenly, blinking, and not fifteen paces from him crouched hundreds of Tiste Edur. Waiting to die. * * *
Hanradi knelt with his gaze fixed on the sky, half of which had vanished behind a blackened wall of writhing madness. The crest had begun its toppling advance.
Sudden motion drew his eyes down.
To see a Malazan-now transformed into an apparition of white-beard, hair-the dangling finger bones were now polished, luminous, as was his armour, his weapons. Scoured, polished, even the leather of his harness looked new, supple.
The Malazan met his gaze with silver eyes, then he lifted one perfect hand, and waved them all forward.
Hanradi rose, flinging his sword aside.
His warriors saw. His warriors did the same, and as they all moved forward, the dome of silver fire all at once rushed towards them.
A piercing shriek and Hanradi turned to see his last K’risnan burst into flames-a single blinding instant, then the hapless warlock was simply ash, settling onto the ground-
Beak was happy to save them. He had understood that old sergeant. The twisted mage, alas, could not embrace such purification. Too much of his soul had been surrendered. The others-oh, they were wounded, filled with bitterness that he needed to sweep away, and so he did. Nothing was difficult any more. Nothing-At that moment, the wave of Letherii magic descended.
The Letherii commander could not see the killing field, could indeed see nothing but that swirling, burgeoning wall of eager sorcery. Its cruel hunger poured down in hissing clouds.
When it heaved forward, all illusion of control vanished.
The commander, with Sirryn Kanar cowering beside him, saw all seven of his mages plucked from the ground, dragged up into the air, into the wake of that charging wall. Screaming, flailing, then streaks of whipping blood as they were torn apart moments before vanishing into the dark storm.
The sorcery lurched, then plunged down upon the killing field.
Detonation.
Soldiers were thrown from their feet. Horses were flung onto their sides, riders tumbling or pinned as the terrified beasts rolled onto their backs. The entire ridge seemed to ripple, then buckle, and sudden slumping pulled soldiers from the edge, burying them in slides racing for the field below. Mouths were open, screams unleashed in seeming silence, the horror in so many eyes-
The collapsing wave blew apart-
Beak was driven down by the immense weight, the horrible hunger. Yet he would not retreat. Instead, he let the fire within him lash out, devouring every candle, igniting everything.
His friends, yes, the only ones he had ever known.
Survival, he realized, could only be found through purity. Of his love for them all-how so many of them had smiled at him, laughed with him. How hands clapped him on the shoulder and even, now and then, tousled his hair.
He would have liked to see the captain one last time, and maybe even kiss her. On the cheek, although of course he would have liked something far more… brave. But he was Beak, after all, and he could hold on to but one thing at a time.
Arms wrapped tight, even as the fire began to burn the muscles of his arms. His shoulders and neck. His legs.
He could hold on, now, until they found him.’
Those fires were so hot, now, burning-but there was no pain. Pain had been scoured away, cleansed away. Oh, the weight was vast, getting heavier still, but he would not let go. Not of his brothers and his sisters, the ones he so loved.
My friends.
The Letherii sorcery broke, bursting into clouds of white fire that corkscrewed skyward before vanishing. Fragments crashed down to either side of the incandescent dome, ripped deep into the earth in black spewing clouds. And, everywhere, it died.
The commander struggled back onto his feet, stared uncomprehending at the scene on the killing field.
To either side his soldiers were stumbling upright once again. Runners appeared, one nearly colliding with him as he careened off a still-kneeling Sirryn Kanar, the woman trying to tell him something. Pointing southward.
‘-landing! Another Malazan army, sir! Thousands more! From the river!’
The veteran commander frowned at the woman, whose face was smeared with dirt and whose eyes were brittle with panic.
He looked back down at the killing field. The dome was flickering, dying. But it had held. Long enough, it had held. ‘Inform my officers,’ he said to the runner. ‘Prepare to wheel and fast march to the river-how far? Have they managed a beach-head?’
‘If we march straight to the river, sir, we will meet them. And yes, as I was saying, they have landed. There are great warships in the river-scores of them! And-^’
‘Go, damn you! To my officers!’
Sirryn was now on his feet. He rounded on the commander. ‘But sir-these ones below!’
‘Leave them to the damned Edur, Sirryn! You wanted them mauled, then you shall have your wish! We must meet the larger force, and we must do so immediately!’
Sword and shield, at last, a battle in which a soldier could die with honour.
Captain Faradan Sort had, like so many other soldiers relatively close to where Beak had sat, been driven to the ground by the ferocity of his magic. She was slow to recover, and even as the silver glow pulsed in fitful death, she saw… white.
Gleaming armour and weapons. Hair white as snow, faces devoid of all scars. Figures, picking themselves up in a half-daze, rising like perfect conjurations from the brilliant green shoots of some kind of grass that now snarled everything and seemed to be growing before her eyes.
And, turning, she looked upon Beak.
To burn, fire needed fuel.
To save them all, Beak had used all the fuel within him.
In horror, Faradan Sort found herself staring at a collapsed jumble of ashes and scorched bone. But no, there was pattern within that, a configuration, if she could but focus through her tears. Oh. The bones of the arms seemed to be hugging the knees, the crumpled skull settled on them.
Like a child hiding in a closet, a child seeking to make himself small, so small…
Beak. Gods below… Beak.
‘Plan on returning to your weapons?’ Fiddler asked the Edur war leader. ‘If you’re wanting to start again, that is, we’re willing.’
But the elderly warrior shook his head. ‘We are done with empire.’ Then he added, ‘If you would permit us to leave.’
‘I can think of quite a few of us who’d be more inclined to kill you all, right now.’
A nod.
‘But,’ Fiddler then said, as his soldiers gathered behind him, all staring at the Tiste Edur-who were staring back-‘we’re not here to conduct genocide. You would leave your Emperor defenceless?’
The war leader pointed northward. ‘Our villages lie far away. Few remain there, and they suffer for our absence. I would lead my warriors home, Malazan. To rebuild. To await the return of our families.’
‘Go on, then.’
The Tiste Edur elder bowed. Then said, ‘Would that we could… take back… all that we have done.’
‘Tell me this. Your Emperor-can he be killed?’
‘No.’
Nothing more was said. Fiddler watched as the Edur set off.
Behind him a grunt from Koryk, who then said, ‘I was damned sure we’d get a fight today.’
‘Fiddler. The Letherii army’s marched off,’ Gesler said.
‘The Adjunct,’ Fiddler said, nodding. ‘She’ll hammer them into the ground.’
‘My point is,’ Gesler continued, ‘our way to Letheras… it’s an open road. Are we going to let the Adjunct and all those salty soldiers of hers beat us there?’
‘Good question,’ Fiddler said, turning at last. ‘Let’s go ask the Fist, shall we?’
‘Aye, and maybe we can find out why we’re all still alive, too.’
‘Aye, and white, too.’
Gesler tugged off his helm and grinned at Fiddler. ‘Speak for yourself, Fid.’
Hair of spun gold. ‘Hood take me,’ Fiddler muttered, ‘that’s about as obnoxious a thing as I’ve ever seen.’
Another helping hand, lifting Beak to his feet. He looked round. Nothing much to see. White sand, a gate of white marble ahead, within which swirled silver light.
The hand gripping his arm was skeletal, the skin a strange hue of green. The figure, very tall, was hooded and wearing black rags. It seemed to be studying the gate.
‘Is that where I’m supposed to go, now?’ Beak asked.
‘Yes.’
‘All right. Are you coming with me?’
‘No.’
‘All right. Well, will you let go of my arm, then?’
The hand fell away. ‘It is not common,’ the figure then said.
‘What?’
‘That I attend to… arrivals. In person.’
‘My name is Beak.’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s through there?’
‘Your brother waits for you, Beak. He has been waiting a long time.’
Beak smiled and stepped forward, all at once in a great hurry-the silver light within that gate was beautiful, reminding him of something.
The stranger’s voice brought him round: ‘Beak.’
‘Yes?’
‘Your brother. He will not know you. Yet. Do you understand?’
Beak nodded. ‘Why aren’t you coming with me?’
‘I choose to wait… for another.’
‘My brother,’ Beak said, his smile broadening. ‘I’m taller now. Stronger. I can save him, can’t I?’
A long pause, and then the figure said, ‘Yes, Beak, you can save him.’
Yes, that made sense. He set out again. With sure strides. To the gate, into that silver glow, to emerge on the other side in a glade beside a trickling stream. And kneeling near the bank, his brother. The same as he remembered. On the ground on all sides there were hundreds of small wax figures. Smiling faces, an entire village, maybe even a whole town.
Beak walked up to his brother.
Who said, too shy to look up, ‘I made all of these, for him.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ Beak said, and he found tears running down his face, which embarrassed him so he wiped them away. Then asked, ‘Can I play with you?’
His brother hesitated, scanning all the figures, then he nodded. ‘All right.’
And so Beak knelt down beside his brother.
While, upon the other side of the gate, the god Hood stood, motionless. Waiting.
A third army rose from the seabed to conquer the others. An army of mud, against whom no shield could defend, through whom no sword could cut to the quick. The precious islands of canvas were how twisted jumbles, fouling the foot, wrapping tight about legs, or pushed down entirely beneath thick silts. Grey-smeared soldier struggled against grey-smeared warrior, locked together in desperation, rage and terror.
The seething mass had become an entity, a chaotic beast writhing and foundering in the mud, and from it rose the deafening clangour of clashing metal and voices erupting in pain and dying.
Soldiers and warriors fell, were then pushed down amidst grey and red, where they soon merged with the ground. Shield walls could not hold, advances were devoured; the battle had become that of individuals sunk to their knees, thrashing in the press.
The beast heaved back and forth, consuming itself in its madness, and upon either side those who commanded sent yet more into the maelstrom.
The wedge of Letherii heavy infantry should have swept the Awl aside, but the weight of their armour became a curse-the soldiers could not move fast enough to exploit breaches, were sluggish in shoring up their own. Fighters became mired, finding themselves suddenly separated from their comrades, and the Awl would then close in, surrounding the soldier, cutting and stabbing until the Letherii went down. Wherever the Letherii could concentrate in greater numbers-from three to thirty-they delivered mayhem, killing scores of their less disciplined enemy. But always, before long, the mud reached up, pulled the units apart.
Along the western edge, for a time, the K’Chain Che’Malle appeared, racing along the flank, unleashing dreadful slaughter.
Bivatt sent archers and spear-wielding skirmishers and, with heavy losses, they drove the two demons away-studded with arrows, the female limping from a deeply driven spear in her left thigh. The Atri-Preda would have then despatched her Bluerose cavalry to pursue the creatures, but she had lost them somewhere to the northeast-where they still pursued the few surviving Awl cavalry-and in any case, the Kechra remained on the seabed, spraying mud with every elongated stride, circling round towards the eastern side of the locked armies.
And, should they attack there, the Atri-Preda had few soldiers left to give answer: only two hundred skirmishers who, without the protection of archers, could do little more than provide a modest wall of spears guarding barely a quarter of the Letherii flank.
Seated atop her restless horse on the rise of the old shoreline, Bivatt cursed in the name of every god she could think of-those damned Kechra! Were they truly unkill-able? No, see the wounded one! Heavy spears can hurt them-Errant take me, do I have a choice?
She beckoned to one of her few remaining runners. ‘Finadd Treval is to lead his skirmishers down to the east flank,’ she said. ‘Defensive line in case the demons return.’
The messenger raced off.
Bivatt settled her gaze once more upon the battle before her. At least there’s no dust to obscure things. And the evidence was plain to see. The Letherii were driving the Awl back, slowly advancing wings, at last, to form encircling horns. The fighting had lost none of its ferocity-indeed, the Awl on the outside edges seemed to be redoubling their desperate efforts, recognizing what was happening. Recognizing… the beginning of the end.
She could not see Redmask. He and his bodyguards had left the central platform half a bell past, rushing into the battle to fill a breach.
The fool had surrendered his overview of the battle, had surrendered his command. His aides carried no standard upon which his warriors could rally. If Redmask was not already dead, he would be covered in mud like all the rest, unrecognizable, useless.
She wanted so to feel exultant, triumphant. But she could see that she’d lost a third-perhaps more-of her entire army.
Because the Awl would not accept the truth. Of course, there could be no surrender-this day was for annihilation-but the fools would not even flee, when clearly they could, remaining on the seabed to prevent any pursuit from cavalry and easily outdistancing their heavier foes on foot. They could flee, damn them, in the hopes to fight another day.
Instead, the bastards stood, fought, killed and then died.
Even the women and elders had joined, adding their torn flesh and spilled blood to the churned morass.
Gods how she hated them!
Brohl Handar, Overseer of the Drene province, tasted the woman’s blood in his mouth and, in a rush of pleasure, he swallowed it down. She had poured herself onto him as he’d leaned forward to drive his sword right through her midsection. Into his face, a hot, thick torrent. Tugging his weapon free as she fell back onto the ground, he spun, seeking yet another victim.
His warriors stood on all sides, few moving now beyond struggling to regain their breaths. The slaughtering of the unhorsed and the wounded had seemed fevered, as if every Arapay Tiste Edur had charged into the same nightmare, and yet there had been such glee in this slaying of Awl that its sudden absence filled the air with heavy, turgid shock.
This, Brohl Handar realized, was nothing like killing seals on the shores of his homeland. Necessity yielded a multitude of flavours, some bitter, others excruciatingly sweet. He could still taste that woman’s blood, like honey coating his throat.
Father Shadow, have I gone mad?
He stared about. Dead Awl, dead horses. Edur warriors with weapons slick and dripping. And already crows were descending to feed.
Are you injured, Overseer?’
Brohl wiped blood from his face and shook his head. ‘Form ranks. We now march to the battle, to kill some more. To kill them all.’
‘Yes sir!’
Masarch stumbled his way clear, half blinded by the mud. Where was Redmask? Had he fallen? There was no way to tell. Clutching his side, where a sword-point had punched through the leather armour, and hot blood squeezed between his fingers, the young Renfayar warrior fought through the mud towards the platform-but the enemy were nearly upon it on the east flank, and atop that platform no-one remained.
No matter.
All he desired, at this moment, was to pull away from this mud, to clamber onto those wooden boards. Too many of his comrades had vanished into the cloying sodden silts, raising in his mind horrifying memories of being buried alive-his death night-when madness reached into his brain. No, he would not fall, would not sink down, would not drown with blackness filling his eyes and mouth.
Disbelief raged through him. Redmask, their great leader, who had returned, who had promised them triumph-the end of the Letherii invaders-he had failed the Awl. And now, we die. Our people. These plains, this land, will surrender even the echoes of our lives. Gone, for ever more.
He could not accept that.
Yet it is the truth.
Redmask, you have slain us.
He reached the edge of the platform, stretched out his free hand-the one that should have held a weapon-where had it gone?
A bestial scream behind him and Masarch half turned, in time to see the twisted, grey, cracked face beneath the helm, the white of eyes staring out from thick scales of mud.
Fire burst in Masarch’s chest and he felt himself lifted up, balanced on a sword’s hilt and its sliding stream of molten iron, thrown onto his back-onto the boards of the platform-and the Letherii was pulling himself up after him, kicking mud from his boots, still pushing with his shortsword-although it could go no further, no deeper, and the weapon was now jammed, having thrust through Masarch’s back and gouging deep into the wood. On his knees straddling the Renfayar, the Letherii, smeared teeth bared, stared down into Masarch’s eyes, and began tugging at his sword.
He was speaking, the Awl realized, words repeated over and over again in that foul Letherii tongue. Masarch frowned-he needed to understand what the man was saying as the man killed him.
But the world was fading, too fast-
No, 1 hear you, soldier, yes. I hear, and yes, I know-
The Letherii watched the life leave the Awl bastard’s young eyes. And though the Letherii’s teeth were bared as if in a smile, though his eyes were wide and bright, the words coming from him repeated their litany: ‘Keep me alive, please, keep me alive, please, keep me alive…’
Seventy paces away, Redmask pulled himself onto the back of his horse-one of the few left-and sawed at the reins to swing the beast round. He’d lost his whip, but the crescent axe remained in his hands, gore-spattered, the edges notched.
Gods, he had killed so many, so many, and there were more to come. He knew it, felt it, hungered for it. Heels pounded into the horse’s flanks and it surged forward, hoofs kicking up mud. Madness to ride on this, but there was no choice, none at all.
Thousands of Letherii slain, more yet to butcher. Bivatt herself, yes-he rode towards the eastern side of the seething mass, well outside the encircling horn-oh, that would not last, his warriors would break through. Shattering the bastards and their flimsy lines.
Redmask would-once he was done with Bivatt-return to that slaughter-and yes, here were his K’Chain Che’Malle, thundering to join him. The three of them, together, thrusting like an enormous sword into the Letherii ranks. Again and again, killing all within reach.
Sag’Churok closing in from his right-see those huge arm-swords lift, readying themselves. And Gunth Mach, swinging round to his inside flank, placing herself between Redmask and the jostling line of skirmishers with their pathetic spears-Gunth Mach was limping, but the spear had worked itself loose-or she had dragged it free. These beasts felt no pain.
And they were almost with him, here, yet again, for they had chosen him.
Victory this day! Victory!
Sag’Churok drew yet closer, matching the pace of Redmask’s horse, and he saw it swing its head to regard him. Those eyes, so cold, so appallingly empty-
The sword lashed out in a blur, taking the horse from the front, at the neck, just above its collarbones. A blow of such savagery and strength that it tore entirely through, cracking hard against the wooden rim of the high saddle. Knocking Redmask back, over the beast’s rump, even as the headless horse ran on another half-dozen strides before wavering to one side then collapsing.
He struck the muddy ground on one shoulder, skidded, then rolled to a halt-and onto his feet, straightening, even as Sag’Churok slashed its second blade, taking him above the knees. Blood fountained as he toppled onto his back, and found himself staring at his severed legs, still standing upright in the mud.
Gunth Mach loomed over him, the talons of a hind foot plunging down to close round his chest. The talons punched deep, ribs crushing in that embrace, and Redmask was lifted then thrown through the air-where he intersected the path of one of Sag’Churok’s swords. It chopped through his right shoulder, sending the arm spinning away-still gripping the crescent axe.
Redmask thumped onfo the ground once more, already dead.
Three hundred paces to the east, Toc Anaster rose on his stirrups, ignoring Torrent’s shrieks of horror, and watched as the two K’Chain Che’Malle padded once more towards what was left of Redmask. The female one kicked at the body, lightly nudging it, then stepped back.
A moment later and the two creatures were thumping away, northeast, heads stretched out, tails horizontal and stiff as spears behind them.
‘He failed them,’ Toe whispered. What other reason could there be for such a thing? Perhaps, many reasons. Only Redmask could have answered all the mysteries surrounding the K’Chain Che’Malle. Their presence here, their alliance-an alliance now at an end. Because he failed.
The suddenness of the execution remained within him, reverberating, a shock.
Beyond, the last of the Awl-no more than a few hun-dred now-were surrounded, and were dying in their cemetery of mud.
A score of skirmishers had moved out and were drawing nearer-they had seen this last remnant. Toe Anaster on his horse. Torrent. Twenty-odd children deemed too young to die with a weapon in hand-so now they would die anyway.
Still ignoring Torrent’s screams of anguish, Toc turned in his saddle, in his mind the thought of killing these children with his own hands-quick thrusts, with his hand over the eyes-and instead he saw, to the southeast, an odd, seething line-bhederin?
No. That is an army.
Lone eye squinting, he watched that line drawing closer-yes, they were coming here. Not Letherii-1 see no standards, nothing at all. No, not Letherii.
Toc glanced back at the skirmishers now jogging towards them. Still a hundred paces away.
One final look, down at the huddled, crying or mute children, and then he untied from his saddle the leather satchel containing his poems. ‘Torrent!’ he snapped, flinging the bag to the warrior-who caught it, his rash-mottled face streaked with mud and tears, his eyes wide and uncomprehending.
Toc pointed to the distant line. ‘See? An army-not Letherii. Was there not word of the Bolkando and allies? Torrent, listen to me, damn you! You’re the last-you and these children. Take them, Torrent-take them and if there’s a single guardian spirit left to your people, then this need not be the last day of the Awl. Do you understand?’
‘But-’
‘Torrent-just go, damn you!’ Toe Anaster, last of the Grey Swords of Elingarth, a Mezla, drew out his bow and nocked the first stone-tipped arrow on the gut string. ‘I can buy you some time-but you have to go now!’
And he looped the reins round the saddle horn, delivering pressure with his knees as he leaned forward, and he rode-for the Letherii skirmishers.
Mud flew out as the horse stretched out into a gallop. Hood’s breath, this won’t be easy.
Fifty paces away from the foot soldiers, he rose on his stirrups, and began loosing arrows.
The seabed that Torrent guided the children along was a nentle, drawn-out slope, rising to where that army was, the mass of dark figures edging ever closer. No standards, nothing to reveal who they were, but he saw that they did not march in ordered ranks. Simply a mass, as the Awl might march, or the Ak’ryn or D’rhasilhani plains tribes of the south.
If this army belonged to either of those two rival tribes, then Torrent was probably leading these children to their deaths. So be it, we are dead anyway.
Another ten slogging paces, then he slowed, the children drawing in round him. One hand settling on the head of one child, Torrent halted, and turned about.
Toc Anaster deserved that much. A witness. Torrent had not believed there was courage left in the strange man. He had been wrong.
The horse was unhappy. Toe was unhappy. He had been a soldier, once, but he was no longer. He had been young-had felt young-and that had fed the fires of his soul. Even a shard of burning stone stealing his handsome face, not to mention an eye, had not proved enough to tear away his sense of invulnerability.
Prisoner to the Domin had changed all of that. The repeated destruction delivered upon his bones and flesh, the twisted healing that followed each time, the caging of his soul until even his own screams sounded like music-this had taken his youthful beliefs, taken them so far away that even nostalgia triggered remembrances of nothing but agony.
Arising in the body of another man should have given him all that a new life promised. But inside, he had remained Toe the Younger. Who had once been a soldier, but was one no longer.
Life with the Grey Swords had not altered that. They had travelled to this land, drawn by the Wolves with gifts of faint visions, murky prophecies born in confused dreams: some vast conflagration awaited them-a battle where they would be needed, desperately needed.
Not, it had turned out, alongside the Awl.
A most fatal error in judgement. The wrong allies. The wrong war.
Toc had never trusted the gods anyway. Any god. In truth, his list of those whom he did trust was, after all he had been through, pathetically short.
Tatter sail. Ganoes Paran. Gruntle.
Tool.
A sorceress, a mediocre captain, a caravan guard and a damned T’lan Imass.
Would that they were with him now, riding at his side.
His horse’s charge was slow, turgid, slewing. Perched over the press of his knees against the beast’s shoulders, Toc sent arrow after arrow towards the skirmishers-though he knew it was hopeless. He could barely see, so jostled was he atop the saddle, with mud flying up on all sides as the horse careered in a wild struggle to stay upright.
As he drew closer, he heard screams. With but two arrows left, he rose higher still on his stirrups, drawing on his bowstring-
His arrows, he saw with astonishment, had not missed. Not one. Eight skirmishers were down.
He sent another hissing outward, saw it take a man in the forehead, the stone point punching through bronze and then bone.
Last arrow.
Gods-
He was suddenly among the Letherii. Driving his last arrow at near point-blank range into a woman’s chest.
A spear tore into his left leg, cut through and then gouged along his horse’s flank. The beast screamed, launched itself forward-
Tossing the bow away, Toc unsheathed his scimitar-damn, should’ve brought a shield-and hacked from side to side, beating away the thrusting spears.-
His horse pulled through into the clear. And would have rushed on, straight into the Letherii ranks two hundred paces ahead, but Toc grasped the reins and swerved the animal round.
Only to find a dozen or so skirmishers right behind him-pursuing on foot.
Two spears drove into his mount, one skidding off a shoulder blade, the other stabbing deep into the animal’s belly.
Squealing piteously, the horse foundered, then fell onto its side, hind legs already fouled with spilled out intestines, each frantic kick tearing more loose from the body cavity. Toc, with legs still drawn high, was able to throw himself from the beast, landing clear.
Skidding in the mud, struggling to regain his feet.
A spear drove into his right hip, lifting him from the muck before throwing him onto his back.
He hacked at the shaft. It splintered and the pressure pinning him down vanished.
Slashing blindly, Toc fought his way back onto his feet. There was blood pouring down both legs.
Another lunging attack. He parried the spear thrust, lurched close and chopped his scimitar into the side of the soldier’s neck.
A point slammed into his back, punched him forward.
And onto a shortsword that slid up under his ribs, cutting his heart in half.
Toe Anaster sank down onto his knees, and, releasing his last breath, would have fallen forward into the mud, but for a hand grasping him, yanking him back. The flash of a knife before his lone eye. Sudden heat along the line of his jaw-
Torrent watched as the Letherii skirmisher cut away Toc Anaster’s face. One more trophy. The task was quick, well-practised, and then the soldier pushed his victim away, and the red wound that had once been Toe’s face plunged down into the mud.
The children were crying, and yes, he realized-in watching, in waiting, he had perhaps condemned them all to the Letherii knives. Still, they could-
Torrent turned round-
And found strangers before him.
Not Ak’rynnai.
Not D’rhasilhanii.
No, he had never before seen such people.
The clans of the White Face Barghast approached the scene of the battle-a battle nearing its grisly end. Who won, who lost, was without meaning to them. They intended to kill everyone.
Two hundred paces ahead of the ragged lines was their vanguard, walking within a stream of the Tellann Warren, which was strong in this place, where beneath the silts of the ancient shoreline could be found stone tools, harpoons made of antler, bone and ivory, and the hulks of dugout canoes. And out here, on the old seabed, there were offerings buried deep now in the silts. Polished stones, pairs of antlers locked together, animal skulls daubed in red ochre
– countless gifts to a dwindling sea.
There were other reasons for such a powerful emanation of Tellann, but these were known to but one of the three in the vanguard, and she had ever been close with her secrets.
Emerging from the warren, the three had stood not far from the Awl warrior and the Awl children. They had watched, in silence, the extraordinary bravery of that lone warrior and his horse. To charge more than a score of skirmishers-the horse’s skill at staying upright had been exceptional. The warrior’s ability to guide the beast with but his legs, whilst loosing arrow after arrow-none of which did not find a target-was simply breathtaking.
That warrior-and his horse-had given their lives to save these last Awl, and it was that fact alone which stayed
– for the moment-the hand of Tool, chosen now among all the White Face Barghast-with Humbrall Taur’s tragic death at the landing-as war leader, even though he was not Barghast at all. But Imass. That he had taken as his mate Taur’s daughter, Hetan, had without doubt eased the ascension to rule; but more than that, it had been owing to Tool himself.
His wisdom. His will.
The joy of life that could burn in his eyes. The fire of vengeance that could blaze in its stead-that blazed even now-when at last he had judged the time aright, the time to answer for all that had been done.
To the Grey Swords.
An answer delivered unto the betrayers.
An answer delivered unto the slayers.
If not for that brave warrior and his brave horse, then Tool would have killed these Awl immediately. The youth with the mottled face. The muddy children huddled around him. He probably still planned to.
Hetan knew all of this, in her heart; she knew her husband. And, had he drawn his flint sword, she would not have tried to stop him.
The White Faces had been hiding for too long. Their scouting expeditions to the east had long since told them all they needed to know, of the path that awaited them, the journey they must soon undertake. It had been vengeance keeping them in place. That, and the vast, uncanny patience of Tool.
Within the Tellann Warrens, the Barghast had watched this latest war, the protracted engagement that had begun with the massing of the two armies far to the west.
They had not come in time to save the Grey Swords, but Hetan well recalled her and her husband coming upon the killing ground where the company had fallen. Indeed, they had witnessed the plains wolves engaged in their ghastly excision of human hearts-an act of honour? There was no way of knowing-each animal had fled with its prize as soon as it was able. The slaughter of those betrayed soldiers had been particularly brutal-faces had been cut away. It had been impossible to identify anyone among the fallen-and this had delivered upon Tool the deepest wound of all. He had lost a friend there.
The betrayal.
The slaying.
There would be, in Tool, no room for mercy. Not for the Awl. Not for the Letherii army so far from home.
And now they stood, well able to see the last of the Awl warriors fall, to see their wardogs dying in the mud, to hear the triumphant roars of the Letherii, even as the nearby skirmishers, having seen the Barghast forces, were hastily retreating back to their lines.
Hetan studied that vast, churned killing field, and said, ‘I cannot tell them apart.’
Torrent stared, not knowing what to think. Both women, flanking the lone man, were to his eyes terrifying. The one who had just spoken-in some infernal foreign tongue-was like an apparition from an adolescent boy’s nightmare. Danger and sensuality, a bloodthirstiness that simply took Torrent’s breath away-and with the loss of that breath, so too the loss of courage. Of manhood itself.
The other woman, dark, short yet lithe, wrapped in the furs of a panther. And the blue-black glint of that beast’s skin seemed to be reflected in the heart of her eyes beneath that robust brow. A shaman, a witch, oh yes. A most dreadful witch.
The man was her kin-the resemblances were unmistakable in their features, as well as their modest heights and the bowing of their legs. And for all that the women terrified Torrent, the stolidity of the warrior’s expression chilled the Awl’s soul.
The taller woman, with her face streaked in white paint, now settled her gaze upon Torrent and said, in halting trader’s tongue, ‘You still live. Because of the horse warrior’s sacrifice. But,’ she nodded towards the savage with the flint sword, ‘he remains undecided. Do you understand?’
Torrent nodded.
The man then said something, and the white-faced woman glanced away, eyes thinning. Then her gaze settled on the satchel Torrent still held, dangling from a strap, in his left hand. She pointed down at it. ‘What do you carry?’
The Awl blinked, then looked down at the leather bag. Shrugging, he tossed it aside. ‘Scribblings,’ he said. ‘He painted many words, like a woman. But he was not the coward I thought. He was not.’
‘Scribblings?’
Torrent found that there were tears on his cheeks. He wiped them away. ‘The horse-warrior,’ he said. ‘The Mezla.’
Hetan saw her husband’s head slowly turn at that word, saw his eyes fix on the Awl warrior, then watched as a cascade of realizations took hold of Tool’s expression, ending with a terrible scream as he brought his hands to his face, then fell to his knees.
And she was suddenly at his side, cradling his head against her belly as he loosed another piercing cry, clawing at his own face.
The Awl stared as if in shock.
Barghast warriors were rushing out from the line behind them, the young ones with their ancient single-edged hook-swords drawn, Tool’s most beloved whom he saw as his own children. Faces filled with consternation, with fear, they converged towards Tool.
Hetan held out a hand, halted them all in their tracks.
Beside the two of them now, drawing her panther skin about her shoulders, Kilava Onass. Her husband’s sister, whose heart held more sorrow and loss than Hetan could comprehend, who would weep every night as if it was ritually demanded of her with the sun’s setting. Who would walk out beyond the camp and sing wordless songs to the night sky-songs that would send the ay howling with voices of mourning and grief.
She stood, now, on her brother’s right. But did not reach down a hand, did not even cast upon Tool a glance of sympathy. Instead, her dark eyes were scanning the Letherii army. ‘They prepare for us,’ she said. ‘The Tiste Edur join the ranks. The cavalry wait along the old shoreline. Onos Toolan, we are wasting time. You know I must leave soon. Very soon.’
Tool drew himself from Hetan’s embrace. Saying nothing, he straightened, then began walking.
To where his friend had fallen.
The Awl warrior took a half-step towards him. ‘No!’ he shouted, turning pleading eyes upon Hetan. ‘He must not! The Mezla-he was a friend, yes? Please, he must not!’
Tool walked on.
‘Please! They cut off his face!’
Hetan flinched. ‘He knows,’ she said.
And then Tool did halt, looking back, meeting Hetan’s eyes. ‘My love,’ he said in a ragged voice. ‘I do not understand.’
She could but shake her head.
‘They betrayed him,’ Tool continued. ‘Yet, see. This day. He rode to the enemy.’
‘To save the lives of these children,’ Hetan said. ‘Yes.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘You have told me many tales, husband, of your friend. Of Toe the Younger. Of the honour within him. I ask you this: how could he not?’
Her heart came near to bursting as she gazed upon her beloved. These Imass-they were unable to hide anything they felt. They possessed none of the masks, the disguises, that were the bitter gifts of others, including her own Barghast. And they were without control, without mastery, which left grieving to wound the soul deeper than anything Hetan could imagine. As with grieving, so too love. So too friendship. So too, alas, loyalty.
‘They live,’ Tool then said.
She nodded.
Her husband turned and resumed his dreadful journey.
A snort of impatience from Kilava.
Hetan walked over to the leather satchel the Awl warrior had discarded. She picked it up, slung it over one shoulder.
‘Kilava,’ she said. ‘Bonecaster. Lead our Barghast into this battle. I go down to my husband.’
‘They will not-’
‘Don’t be absurd. Terror alone will ensure their obedience. Besides, the sooner they are done slaughtering, the sooner you will part our company.’
Her sudden smile revealed a panther’s canines.
Sending a chill through Hetan. Thank the spirits you smile so rarely, Kilava.
Atri-Preda Bivatt had commanded her forces to withdraw from the seabed. Back onto more solid ground. Their triumph this day had grown sour with the taste of fear. Another damned army, and it was clear that they intended to do battle against her exhausted, bruised and battered forces. She had allowed herself but a few moments’ silent raging at the injustice, before forcing upon herself the responsibilities of her command.
They would fight with courage and honour, although as the barbaric enemy continued massing she could see that it would be hopeless. Seventy thousand, perhaps more. The ones who landed on the north coast, but also, perhaps, the rumoured allies of the Bolkando. Returned here to the north-but why? To join with the Awl? But for that, their main army had come too late. Bivatt had done what she had set out to do; had done what had been commanded of her. She had exterminated the Awl.
Seventy thousand or two hundred thousand. The destruction of Bivatt and her army. Neither mattered in the greater scheme of things. The Letherii Empire would throw back these new invaders. Failing that, they would bribe them away from the Bolkando; indeed, turn them round to fashion an alliance that would sweep into the border kingdoms in waves of brutal slaughter.
Perhaps, she suddenly realized, there was a way through this… She glanced about until she saw one, of her Finadds. Walked over. ‘Prepare a delegation, Finadd. We will seek parley with this new enemy.’
‘Yes sir.’ The man rushed off.
‘Atri-Preda!’
Bivatt turned to see Brohl Handar approach. The Overseer did not, at this moment, look like an imperial governor. He was covered in gore, gripping his sword in one hand thick with dried blood.
‘It seems we are not too late after all,’ he said.
‘These are not Awl, Overseer.’
‘I see that clearly enough. I see also, Atri-Preda, that you and I will die here today.’ He paused, then grunted a laugh. ‘Do you recall, Bivatt, warning me that Letur Anict sought to kill me? Yet here I have marched with you and your army, all this way-’
‘Overseer,’ she cut in. ‘The Factor infiltrated my forces with ten assassins. All of whom are dead.’
His eyes slowly widened.
Bivatt continued, ‘Have you seen the tall soldier often at your side? I set him the task of keeping you alive, and he has done all that I commanded. Unfortunately, Overseer, I believe that he shall soon fail at it.’ Unless I can negotiate our way out of this.
She faced the advancing enemy once more. They were now raising standards. Only a few, and identical to each other. Bivatt squinted in the afternoon light.
And recognized those standards.
She went cold inside. ‘Too bad,’ she said.
Atri-Preda?’
‘I recognize those standards, Overseer. There will be no parley. Nor any chance of surrender.’
‘Those warriors,’ Brohl Handar said after a moment, ‘are the ones who have been raising the cairns.’
‘Yes.’
‘They have been with us, then, for some time.’
‘Their scouts at the least, Overseer. Longer than you think.’
Atri-Preda.’
She faced him, studied his grave expression. ‘Overseer?’
‘Die well, Bivatt.’
‘I intend to. And you. Die well, Brohl Handar.’
Brohl walked away from her then, threading through a line of soldiers, his eyes fixed on one in particular. Tall, with a gentle face streaked now in mud.
The Tiste Edur caught the man’s gaze, and answered the easy smile with one of his own.
‘Overseer, I see you have had an exciting day.’
‘I see the same on you,’ Brohl replied, ‘and it seems there is more to come.’
‘Yes, but I tell you this, I am pleased enough. For once, there is solid ground beneath me.’
The Overseer thought to simply thank the soldier, for keeping him alive this long. Instead, he said nothing for a long moment.
The soldier rubbed at his face, then said, ‘Sir, your Arapay await you, no doubt. See, the enemy readies itself.’
And yes, this is what Brohl Handar wanted. ‘My Arapay will fight well enough without me, Letherii. I would ask one final boon of you.’
‘Then ask, sir.’
‘I would ask for the privilege of fighting at your side. Until we fall.’
The man’s soft eyes widened slightly, then all at once the smile returned. ‘Choose, then, Overseer. Upon my right or upon my left.’
Brohl Handar chose the man’s left. As for guarding his own unprotected flank, he was indifferent.
Somehow, the truth of that pleased him.
In the city of Drene at this time, riots raged over the entire north half of the city, and with the coming night the mayhem would spread into the more opulent south districts.
Venitt Sathad, granted immediate audience with Factor Letur Anict-who awaited him standing before his desk, his round, pale face glistening with sweat, and in whose eyes the steward saw, as he walked towards the man, a kind of bemusement at war with deeper stresses-walked forward, in neither haste nor swagger. Rather, a walk of singular purpose.
He saw Letur Anict blink suddenly, a rapid reassessment, even as he continued right up to the man.
And drove a knife into the Factor’s left eye, deep into the brain.
The weight of Letur Anict, as he collapsed, pulled the weapon free.
Venitt Sathad bent to clean the blade off on the Factor’s silk robe; then he straightened, turned for the door, and departed.
Letur Anict had a wife. He had children. He’d had guards, but Orbyn Truthfinder had taken care of them.
Venitt Sathad set out to eliminate all heirs.
He no longer acted as an agent of the Liberty Consign. Now, at this moment, he was an Indebted.
Who had had enough.
Hetan left her husband kneeling beside the body of Toc the Younger. She could do no more for him, and this was not a failing on her part. The raw grief of an Imass was like a bottomless well, one that could snatch the unsuspecting and send them plummeting down into unending darkness.
Once, long ago now, Tool had stood before his friend, and his friend had not known him, and for the Imass-mortal once more, after thousands upon thousands of years-this had been the source of wry amusement, in the inanner of a trickster’s game where the final pleasure but awaited revelation of the truth.
Tool, in his unhuman patience, had waited a long time to unveil that revelation. Too long, now. His friend had died, unknowing. The trickster’s game had delivered a wound from which, she suspected, her husband might never recover.
And so, she now knew in her heart, there might be other losses on this tragic day. A wife losing her husband. Two daughters losing their adopted father, and one son his true father.
She walked to where Kilava Onass had stationed herself to watch the battle, and it was no small mercy that she had elected not to veer into her Soletaken form, that, indeed, she had left the clans of the White Face Barghast the freedom to do what they did best: kill in a frenzy of explosive savagery.
Hetan saw that Kilava stood near where a lone rider had fallen-killed by the weapons of the K’Chain Che’Malle, she noted. A typically vicious slaying, stirring in her memories of the time when she herself had stood before such terrible creatures, a memory punctuated with the sharp pang of grief for a brother who had fallen that day.
Kilava was ignoring the legless, one-armed body lying ten paces to her left. Hetan’s gaze settled upon it in sudden curiosity.
‘Sister,’ she said to Kilava-deliberate in her usage of the one title that Kilava most disliked-‘see how this one wears a mask. Was not the war leader of the Awl so masked?’
‘I imagine so,’ Kilava said, ‘since he was named Redmask.’
‘Well,’ Hetan said, walking to the corpse, ‘this one is wearing the garb of an Awl.’
‘But he was slain by the K’Chain Che’Malle.’
‘Yes, I see that. Even so…’ She crouched down, studied that peculiar mask, the strange, minute scales beneath the spatters of mud. ‘This mask, Kilava, it is the hide of a K’Chain, I would swear it, although the scales are rather tiny-’
‘Matron’s throat,’ Kilava replied.
Hetan glanced over. ‘Truly?’ Then she reached down and tugged the mask away from the man’s face. A long look down into those pale features.
Hetan rose, tossing the mask to one side. ‘You were right, it’s not Redmask.’
Kilava asked, ‘How do you know that?’
‘Well, Awl garb or not, this man was Letherii.’
Hood, High King of Death, Collector of the Fallen, the undemanding master of more souls than he could count-even had he been so inclined, which he was not-stood over the body, waiting.
Such particular attention was, thankfully, a rare occurrence. But some deaths arrived, every now and then, bearing certain… eccentricities. And the one lying below was one such arrival.
Not least because the Wolves wanted his soul, yet would not get it, but also because this mortal had evaded Hood’s grasp again and again, even though any would see and understand well the sweet gift the Lord of Death had been offering.
Singular lives, yes, could be most… singular.
Witness that of the one who had arrived a short time earlier. There were no gifts in possessing a simple mind. There was no haze of calming incomprehension to salve the terrible wounds of a life that had been ordained to remain, until the very end, profoundly innocent.
Hood had not begrudged the blood on Beak’s hands. He had, however, most succinctly begrudged the heartless actions of Beak’s mother and father.
Few mortal priests understood the necessity for redress, although they often spouted the notion in their sermons of guilt, with their implicit extortions that did little more than swell the temple coffers.
Redress, then, was a demand that even a god could not deny. And so it had been with the one named Beak.
And so it was, now, with the one named Toc the Younger.
‘Awaken,’ Hood said. ‘Arise.’
And Toc the Younger, with a long sigh, did as Hood commanded.
Standing, tottering, squinting now at the gate awaiting them both. ‘Damn,’ Toc muttered, ‘but that’s a poor excuse for a gate.’
‘The dead see as they see, Toc the Younger. Not long ago, it shone white with purity.’
‘My heart goes out to that poor, misguided soul.’
‘Of course it does. Come. Walk with me.’
They set out towards that gate.
‘You do this for every soul?’
‘I do not.’
‘Oh.’ And then Toe halted-or tried to, but his feet dragged onward-‘Hold on, my soul was sworn to the Wolves-’
‘Too late. Your soul, Toe the Younger, was sworn to me. Long ago.’
‘Really? Who was the fool who did that?’
‘Your father,’ Hood replied. ‘Who, unlike Dassem Ultor, remained loyal.’
‘Which you rewarded by killing him? You bastard piece of pigsh-’
‘You will await him, Toe the Younger.’
‘He lives still?’
‘Death never lies.’
Toe the Younger tried to halt again. ‘Hood, a question-please.’
The god stopped, looked down at the mortal.
‘Hood, why do I still have only one eye?’
The God of Death, Reaper of Souls, made no reply. He had been wondering that himself.
Damned wolves.