After all the crying and yelling died down, Jawl's begging and pleading, Urfa's veterans threatening murder, the heavies dragged the last of the saboteurs off and Nait and Urfa went through the assembled hoard. They were careful. Some jokers weren't above boobytrapping their packs with small charges such as the rare Moranth ‘stick fuses’. Tourmaline arrived with all the Gold had with them. They placed the largest of the munitions all together: eight cussors and four crackers. A terrifying assemblage, as far as Nait was concerned. Like nothing he'd ever dreamed seeing gathered together in his entire lifetime. A hoard fit to level a fortress. But when he studied the moiling gap into nothingness turning ponderously like a whirlpool on its side, the pile seemed laughably inadequate. Yet it was all they had.
Tourmaline began packing it all away into the Moranth wood-framed canvas carryalls. After watching for a time Nait helped. They took two bags each, brought them to the closest edge of the earthworks. Urfa followed, arranged the carrying straps, pulled them tight.
‘You'd take Ryllandaras over this any day, hey?’ she shouted over the constant thundering roar above.
‘Naked with jam on my arse!’
Laughing, she gave a thumbs-up.
A number of the mages came sliding down into the dirt trench, faces averted from the stain hanging over everyone. Heuk came to Nait's side. ‘What's this?’ Nait asked.
‘Some are going to head out with you,’ the old mage shouted, his mouth close to Nait's ear.
‘What for?’
‘In case he spots you – they'll do what they can.’
‘Oh, great!’
Tourmaline turned to Nait, signed move out. They edged up and out. Nait pushed himself along with the inside of his frayed leather sandals, pulled with handfuls of the sharp tough grass. The swirling dust made him want to sneeze. His munition bags dragged to either side. Through the grass he caught brief glimpses of the mages accompanying them: Ho and Blues, at least. Then their differing paths took them from sight.
As they edged along, on an idle thought, Nait spoke to Tourmaline. ‘You Moranth, I was wondering, you have women among you?’
‘Of course. All are needed in defence of the homeland.’
‘And you? What about you? I mean – Tourmaline – among you… is that a woman's or a man's name?’
The helm jerked away as if Tourmaline was offended. ‘A woman's, of course! Isn't it obvious?’ And she shuffled away, kicking dirt.
Nait paused, stricken with wonder. Gods above and below! He was surrounded by them! May, Urfa, Bala, Hands, now Tourmaline. Strong women! They were a bane upon his life.
They passed the scattered, tangled ruins of the ship and Nait caught up with the Moranth, finding that she'd taken out a saboteur's shovel and was hacking out a cut in the thick root-layer of the prairie grass. Nait looked up: the mar, or rift, or whatever it was, appeared to hang edge-on, directly above. Dust raised by Tourmaline's efforts puffed up to rise like smoke, sucked up and up, presumably to waft into the gap. Nait winced at that, imagining himself following. Into the Abyss, or the Gap of Chaos itself.
Knowing there was only room for one to work, Nait peeked through the blowing grasses to keep watch. The mage stood far off, a flickering darker shape within the spinning curtain of multicoloured energies surrounding him like a glaring winding-sheet.
He watched for a time. The slanting rays of the sun punished him, heating his pot helmet. He was sweating and damned thirsty. He figured it was nearing mid-morning. Behind him, Tourmaline excavated a bowl-shaped depression in the thick grey topsoil.
Then sudden movement. Four figures had appeared from nowhere between him and the mage: two Wickans, and two Crimson Guardsmen. Nait gaped, then threw himself as low as possible. The Imperials and the Guard were making a move!
Power erupted, slamming Nait backwards and pounding the ground to make it shake. Spot-fires burst to life among the grasses. Nait fumbled, bouncing, to throw himself on top of Tourmaline who lay on top of her excavation. Speech was impossible: the howling rabid ferocity pummelled Nait, making him scream soundlessly. He risked a glance up, eyes slitted, face shaded against the blowing dirt and chaff. The four poured punishing energies into the one mage who responded with his own lashes that flailed each. But they were not alone: Ho and Blues had appeared as well and now they too added their efforts.
It looked to him as if the six were making headway; the attacks from the one seemed to weaken, flickering. Yes! They're going to do it! Yet the winding penumbra of energy that surrounded him did not appear to be thinning at all. Argent fire searing from one of the attackers was merely deflected to spin inward, adding its own layer to those enmeshing the mage. What was going on? Why couldn't they overcome him?
Crashing noise pulled Nait's attention from the front. He glanced behind and gaped, horrified. Broken timbers, jagged fragments of shattered board and rope-tangled ironmongery were on their way, flying towards him through the air. Look out! But of course he couldn't warn anyone; he could only duck, covering his head.
The debris swooped over, whipping and hissing through the air as fierce as crossbow bolts shot from a siege scorpion. He watched enraged and aghast as the spinning wreckage lanced into the six attackers. One was decapitated instantly. All were plucked from their feet like scythed weeds to fly spinning through the air. It looked to him as if one had taken a blow to the head from a bent iron bar, Ho was impaled once more by wood shards, and the others similarly swept away in one masterstroke.
Beside him Tourmaline signed for Nait to go help them. Nait motioned to the pit. She shook her head, waved for him to give her his munitions. Cursing, Nait pulled the straps from over his head, then scuttled off keeping as low to the ground as possible.
As he went he kept an eye on the mage in his ring of protective energies; the man appeared to have turned away from the field, dismissing it once more to concentrate on his efforts with the rift. That suited Nait. Crawling through the whipping, singed grasses he yelped to meet two coming towards him – the Wickans, young, adolescent boy and girl, nearly identical. Each carried appalling wounds, gouges and slices that ran with blood, clothes tattered. Nait grasped an arm of each to help guide them back to the trench.
He handed them over to the reaching arms of Heuk, two Avowed named Treat and Sept, and even the old Wickan witch who had come forward. She took them and immediately began berating them in Wickan; the two flinched, hanging their heads, looking like remorseful schoolchildren. Nait turned back to try to find the others. The two Avowed slipped up and out after him, running hunched.
Movement on the field dropped Nait to his chest – two of the fallen mages – up and closing on the summoner: Blues and Ho. Despite torn bloodied rags revealing gaping wounds, Blues’ back wet with blood that ran down darkening his legs, both limped inexorably towards the mage. Blues drew two short blades. They reached the outermost spiralling layer of energy, pushing inward, hands protecting their faces. And it seemed to Nait that, somehow, despite the punishing, scouring conflagration, both were pushing through. The two Avowed threw themselves down next to Nait. ‘Blues!’ one urged, ‘Get ‘im!’
Even Nait found his hands clenched in fists. Yes! Get him! Send him to Hood!
Shapes appeared from nowhere behind Blues and lunged up from the grass behind Ho. The Avowed cursed, leapt to their feet running, drawing weapons. Blues turned, defending himself only to be thrust from his feet by the power of the churning energy to fall in a tangle with his attackers. The three figures tackling Ho struck Nait as all bizarrely similar, as if they were all members of the same family. The four rolled away in a blur of ferocious kicks and blows that sent up swaths of earth.
Sizzling actinic power slashed out to strike the closing Avowed, Treat and Sept, throwing them tumbling across the slope like tossed balls. Two more figures ran past Nait, bent over, faces averted from the blasting magics – the Wickan youths, heading for the brawl of Ho and his attackers.
Lady, this is seriously not what I signed up for. Not what I signed up for at all.
He was considering heading back for the trench when he froze. Someone was standing right beside him. Nait slowly edged his head up: the man wore loose trousers, sashed, and a long-sleeved pale-blue tunic; his long loose hair blew about his mahogany face, which was wrinkled up in sour disgust. Nait had never seen the man before in his life. ‘I allow them their petty squabbles,’ the fellow said as if thinking aloud. ‘I do not interfere in succession. My forbearance I thought unassailable. But this! This I cannot allow.’
The man merely raised a hand and a blinding eruption threw Nait aside. He rolled tumbling to lie stunned, gasping in the hot dust-choked air. He didn't know whether he blacked out. He couldn't tell. But when he shook his head, blinking and coughing, eyes watering, he reared up to look: a slash of brilliant light was hammering the mage in his gyre of protective energies. It was pushing the entire tornado of writhing force backwards while this new mage advanced at a steady pace.
Hood's balls! Who was this guy?
More wreckage flew overhead, whipping for the fellow. No! Not again! But as it neared it burst into flames, the shattered timbers incinerating instantly into wafting black flakes. The mangled iron glowing, melting and misting into smoke.
Three figures emerged from the churning smoke and dust, Ho supported by the Wickan youths. They were making for the trench. Though he was beaten and bruised the mage's face held an idiotic grin. The Wickan girl spotted Nait and signed retreat. He didn't need any more encouragement than that.
They piled into the trench. People reached out, supporting Nait. One was Heuk. ‘Who in Hood's mercy is that!’ Nait said.
‘Tayschrenn.’ The old mage grinned his blackened rotten teeth. ‘Ain't he somethin’?’
‘I'll say.’
The aged Wickan witch helped with Ho, who offered a broken-lipped smile. ‘You won?’ she asked him. He gave a tired nod.
‘They acceded to me.’
‘Good. I knew they would.’ She turned on the two youths. ‘And you two – where is the other, Blues? Why did you not come back with him? We still may need him.’
The two exchanged suffering glances, but bowed. ‘Yes, Nana,’ they said, and scrambled back out on to the field.
‘Healers!’ the old woman barked, waving them to Ho. ‘See to him!’
Nait peered up at the mar still hanging in the clear blue sky like a bruise or ugly wound. It had grown since he last looked. ‘It's low,’ he said to Heuk.
‘Yes, but-look!’
The enemy mage, named Yath apparently, had been plucked off the ground. He flailed now, limbs churning, enmeshed in the argent puissance invoked by Tayschrenn. It looked as though the High Mage intended to force him through his own rift.
‘Yes…’ Heuk murmured appreciatively, ‘he may just bridge it…’ Then the mage stiffened and turned to Nait, his face blanching. He gripped Nait's shoulder. ‘Eldest forgive me! What of Tourmaline? The munitions! Tayschrenn stands almost on top of them!’
No one asked Kyle to leave the hilltop and so he remained, arms crossed, watching the fireworks of the mage duel out on the battle plain. With him was the Untan nobleman who'd come as part of the Wickan delegation – Kyle hadn't caught the man's name. He watched and listened just as Kyle did, his face torn between awe and dread. The battle below reminded Kyle of the Spur, only on an even grander scale. So this was what the old hands meant when they spoke about the Warren-clashes of the old campaigns. Fearsome stuff. He understood more clearly now the relationship between the different arms of these armies out of Quon. No wonder the presence of a powerful mage corps could deter any aggression – or the lack invite it. Still, from the reactions around him he understood what they were seeing now to be unprecedented; a deliberate effort at whole-scale destruction.
That duelling appeared to jump to a yet greater confrontation as light like the reflection of the sun from still water blossomed on the plain. The Avowed mages remaining around Kyle, Opal, Lor-sinn and Shell, all cursed and winced, Shell staggering backwards as if pushed by some unseen force.
‘I know that!’ Opal said through clenched teeth.
‘Brethren report it is the High Mage,’ said Shimmer, her tone amazed.
‘The only time I've ever been glad to see him,’ K'azz said.
The old Malazan commander, Urko, grunted appreciatively. ‘Couldn't turn a blind eye to something like this.’
‘Did you witness the confrontation at Pale?’ Lor-sinn asked of Shell.
Shell straightened her jerkin, her lined face wrinkled up as though pained. ‘I watched from the distance.’
‘Challenged Anomander,’ Lor-sinn breathed. ‘Lord of Moon's Spawn.’
Kyle watched Opal shake her mop of curly auburn hair. ‘Hubris. The Ascendant held back.’
‘And how do we know that?’
Opal gestured to the field. ‘And risk such consequences?’
Lor-sinn, Kyle could tell, remained unconvinced. A glimmering brilliance out of the field made Kyle flinch and look away; he glanced back, a hand shading his eyes. The rumbling of a particularly loud eruption of power rolled over them. The mages winced in empathic pain.
K'azz raised a hand for attention. ‘Brethren say a messenger is here for Commander Urko.’
‘Well?’ asked Urko.
‘The messenger claims to be an officer of the assembled Cawnese Provincial Army.’
Kyle looked to the Malazan commanders Urko and Fist D'Ebbin. Urko's greying brows rose like shelves. Fist D'Ebbin, though beaten down by what he had endured through the night, at first appeared pleased, then that pleasure slipped into unease as he glanced to K'azz. These two were all that remained of Imperial command in the field – other than the Sword, who was rumoured to be in charge of the eastern redoubt. Cowl's Veils had taken an awful toll.
Urko motioned to K'azz. ‘Send him up.’
A soldier climbed the hillside, his helmet under an arm. He wore mail under a white surcoat bearing the diamond design of Cawn. He saluted Urko. ‘Commander.’
‘Yes?’
‘I bear news from the east.’
‘Yes?’
The man glanced about at the Guardsmen. Voice lowered, he said, ‘Perhaps a more private talk…’
‘Here will do. As you can see – we are facing a common enemy.’
‘I understand. Very well. The Cawn Provincial Army is marshalling to the east. It was judged prudent to remain a good distance away. We bring five thousand cavalry and thirty thousand mixed infantry. Command is Lords Mal Nayman, J'istenn, and Viehman ‘esh Wait. We are also pleased to host the Imperial representative Councillor and Assembly Spokesman, Mallick Rel.’
Urko's brows now clenched in puzzlement. ‘Mallick? He's left Unta?’ He dismissed the mystery with a shake of his head. ‘Fist D'Ebbin, would you accompany the captain here and coordinate the commands?’
A salute. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘A moment,’ K'azz called. ‘What of your mage cadre, Captain? We may have need of them.’
The captain faced Urko, saying nothing. The old general's face tightened. ‘Well?’
The captain admitted, reluctantly, ‘Squad mages, only, sir.’ And he added, weighted with significance: ‘For generations Cawn has given up its best to the Empire.’
Urko glowered a nod. ‘Very good. Dismissed.’
Fist D'Ebbin bowed to K'azz and Shimmer. Kyle thought the last look he gave them one of silent apology. The two officers descended the hillside.
Kyle's gaze was pulled back to the field. Why that look of apology? he wondered. Ah, yes – numbers. The Imperial force was now twice as large.
The Avowed mages all let out excited calls then, pointing to the field. One of the duelling figures, the summoner of the rift, Kyle assumed, was airborne, wreathed in an argent conflagration. Kyle was still not all that familiar with these contests, but it looked as though this Tayschrenn had gained the advantage.
And should he win? What then? Kyle's gaze edged over to study K'azz. That Cawnese officer probably hadn't even realized whom he'd stood before. And why should he? K'azz was now just another old man, his white hair tousled. He still wore his sun-faded, tattered old fisherman's canvas trousers and shirt. He hadn't even belted on a sword. The only gesture he seemed to have allowed himself was a silver sigil of the Guard at his breast. Yet he clearly was in command. All the Avowed instinctively arrayed themselves around him. While Kyle watched, the Duke's troubled gaze followed not the coruscating mage duel of the plain but the retreating figure of the Cawnese messenger. Yes, he too must be wondering… Laseen gave her word… but that was when the field was more even. Would the temptation to try to finally rid the Imperium of its most enduring enemy lead her to reconsider?
Nait edged his way through the blackened ash of the seared grass, the dust of the dirt and gravel powdered by the incalculable forces competing, thrashing, just above his head. Ants, just us ants down here. And me the dumbest of them. The High Mage was close, manoeuvring to edge the writhing, flailing shape of Yath above into the mar. Close enough to be blown to droplets by Tourmaline's cussors. What a monumental fuck-up!
Nait paused – which way? All looked the same: churned-up, flame-scorched, blasted wasteland. Then a glint of gold through the ash-grey and black. He shuffled over. The Moranth was in a bad way. Thrown soil covered her, disguising the worst of her injuries. As it was, Nait winced. Her back was one burnt scar of puckered flesh and the strange chitinous Moranth armour all melted and twisted. She was lying on a mound – the buried charge.
‘Tourmaline!’ Nait called, his head next to hers.
The helm stirred, turned to him. ‘You return, saboteur.’
‘Your charms.’
A chuckle. ‘You have no idea, little man. But get me out of this and perhaps I shall enlighten you.’
Don't think I won't take you up on that. He studied the mound of pressed earth. His hair stirred to stand and his breath caught as he glimpsed in one of the Moranth's gauntleted fists the tall slim length of an acid fuse. Using both hands he gently prised it loose and only then managed to exhale. Gods below – my nerves weren't going to take much more of this.
He studied the thrashing figure above in its cocoon of blinding, virulent energy, the arcs and sizzling connections between him and Tayschrenn below. The enemy, Yath, was close to the yawning, roiling lip of the rift. ‘Not much longer now,’ he called to Tourmaline. ‘Looks like we'll maybe get to keep all our goodies, hey?’
The banners of power quivered then as if struck. Some snapped to lash the air and ground like whips of flame sending up curtains of blasted earth that pattered down across him and Tourmaline. Nait covered his head. Damn, I should not have said that!
He peered between his forearms. Through the penumbra of energies surrounding Tayschrenn Nait glimpsed figures at the man's rear enmeshed in an eerie dance of move and counter-move. Three faced one who seemed some kind of a bodyguard, fending them off from the High Mage's back. This one, slim, short and blurringly quick, whirled a stave feinting at the attackers. And since those three were certainly not Claws, that left Crimson Guard Veils, probably Avowed. Come to take Tayschrenn while they had the chance!
Other figures came charging in; Nait recognized Blues, Ho and the other Avowed, Treat and Sept. But the bodyguard fell, having absorbed terrible punishment. Ho threw himself upon one attacker and wrenched the man or woman's head around. Blues and another fell together in a storm of knife-thrusts. The third leapt forward, rolling, evading all to strike the High Mage.
A detonation of power blasted everyone tumbling away like weeds uprooted in a cyclone. A wall of dirt and stones thrown up by the shockwave punched into Nait who yelled as all his earlier wounds pounded anew. But that was not the worst – the worst was his effort to hold the acid fuse steady against his chest like a babe. Once the pressure eased, Nait rolled on to his back, wiped his tearing eyes.
Staring upwards it took him a moment to comprehend just what he was seeing. Close to the rift two figures now rotated around each other – one flailing, the other limp – while the raw Warren energies reverberated between them, thrumming and gyring with the release of all that power. As Nait watched, open-mouthed, the wild spinning tumbled both of them into the open maw of the rift and they disappeared within.
Standing next to K'azz, Shimmer watched in surprise and alarm as all the Avowed mages within sight grunted and stepped back, rocked by an eruption of brilliance like the sun itself. A booming avalanche report washed over all, striking Shimmer full in the chest. Shell whispered low: ‘Tayschrenn's been hit. One of ours, I'm sorry to say. Isha, I believe.’ She took a breath murmuring a curse. ‘He's drifting, rising… there's a pull from the…’ She lurched forward, hands rising. ‘No!’
‘What!’
Shell faced them, her eyes revealing her utter disbelief and horror. She pushed a shaking hand through her short hair. ‘He's gone. Taken by the rift. Both of them.’
‘And that thing? The rift?’ K'azz demanded.
‘Still growing.’
Shimmer caught K'azz's eye and he nodded. ‘Commander Urko,’ she called gently, but firmly. ‘It would appear that we must pull together everything we have left.’
Urko's grimaced nod almost seemed to grind his neck. ‘I agree.’
‘We have some six, perhaps eight, Avowed mages. I understand there are many witches and warlocks among the Wickans. What of the mage cadre?’
His dark eyes hidden away beneath a great shelf of bone glared their anger then glanced away. ‘Crushed. We have some squad mages but no one of great stature, ‘cept maybe one.’
‘This Tiste Andii mage?’
‘No. There ain't no Andii mage – none I know of. There's an ex-High Mage named Bala. Bala Jesselt. She's at the east redoubt.’
‘Very well. Perhaps we may use the Imperial Warren to move-’
K'azz had held up a hand. ‘Excuse me, Shimmer. The Brethren report we may have one more option. We should wait.’
‘Wait?’ Urko growled. His gaze searched K'azz's face. ‘What's this? More of your old tricks? Wait for what?’
‘For it to grow a bit more.’
Nait could not believe what he'd seen. The big powers were supposed to bail them out of trouble. Not disappear into a great big steaming pile of it. He studied the slim acid fuse clenched in his dirty hand. Just me V you now, honey.
‘Are you all right?’ someone shouted over the roaring, which was so deafening and constant Nait had almost forgotten it.
Flinching, Nait peered around. Ho, on his knees in the dirt, was peering down at him. Nait nodded, completely bemused. He cocked his head, thinking of the puzzle of this man who seemed able to overcome everything thrown at him and he mouthed: ‘Who are you, anyway?’
The mage smiled crookedly, nodding his understanding. ‘I'm just another damn-fool mage, Sergeant Jumpy.’ He pointed up. ‘Just like this one. I thought I was capable of anything. But all my researches and experiments brought me only misery.’ Improbably, he eased himself down cross-legged, as if they were relaxing on a hillside. He cast one gauging look up to the rift then returned to studying Nait. ‘I was inspired by Ryllandaras, believe it or not. He is Soletaken, yes, a man-beast. But few remember now that he is also D'ivers – one who is many. Who is to know how many there are of him? Perhaps this one is the last. In any case, I attempted an incalculably ancient and complex ritual. One none dared re-create, since the few times it was invoked were far beyond living memory. And I did succeed. After a grotesque fashion. I am D'ivers, Sergeant. Human D'ivers. There are four of me left alive. The others conspired to have me cast into prison to be rid of me. But I am returned and they have fled.
‘Now,’ and he gestured to the mound. ‘Is this it?’
‘Yes.’
Others came jogging up, hunched, wincing in empathic pain from the churning lip of the rift now suspended so low. So low! Nait sat up. He waved to these others, Treat, Blues and Sept – Soliel help us! What a sad collection of street beggars! Blues’ face mottled in bruising, an eye swollen shut. Treat's clothes tattered, his limbs black with crusted blood mixed with dirt. Sept's ear and neck sliced in a gash that had soaked his front in blood. Nait pointed to Tourmaline. ‘Take her out of here!’
Ho arched a brow, mouthed, her? But he nodded and gestured the others up. Tourmaline signed a weak negative they ignored as they grabbed hold of her and dragged her off. Ho remained, cocked a question to Nait who waved him away: ‘Gotta get to work.’
Ho agreed then straightened, stung. ‘Her! Yes!’ He got to his feet, bent low. ‘There is another one! Tayschrenn's bodyguard! Oponn favour you!’
Already turned away, Nait gave a curt bob of his head. Dust floated up around him, sifting straight up in the gathering current. He felt the flow plucking at his surcoat. He lay on his side, face lowered, and fought to ignore the yammering oblivion just over his shoulder.
From his bag he drew a wood dowelling about the width of his littlest finger. This he pushed into the mounded earth. Quickly at first, then slowing, tapping, tapping, until it struck something firm. Then he carefully withdrew it, leaving a hole. He gathered up a handful of the grey topsoil, spat into it, squeezed and moulded it in his hands into a ball. Strong adherence. No sand or clay. Thick and slow. This ball he threw aside, then he gathered up another, smaller, handful. He spat, rolled the dirt loosely around his palm. Not too tight. He rolled an elongated ball that he gently eased into the hole. Taking up the dowelling again he pushed the wet ball down the hole, slowly, tapping, until he met resistance.
He took a long breath then, exhaling, watched the twitching of his cut and battered hands. Easy. Easy. Slow down, Nait my boy. He glanced up to the rift. Damn close – but close enough? How much longer dare he wait? He watched broken stalks of grass lifting to spin up past his head, sucked into the hissing, roaring gale that hung what seemed just a few man-heights above his head. Experimentally, he threw up a handful of soil – none came back down.
Maybe that's close enough. But they'll only get the one chance. Maybe – no! This is damn slow dirt; who knows how long it'll take? Right. Do it.
He gave the dowelling one last press, eased it out and threw it aside – it spun upwards, whipped from sight. Shit! Close enough! Bent over the hole, he thumbed the stopper from the fuse. Slowly, achingly slow, he eased his hand over, tilting. He watched holding his breath as the thick viscous acid mix eased out. One drop swelled on the lip of the tube. C'mon! It hung, wobbling – Oh, for the love of D'rek!-fell.
Right. One… maybe two. Yeah. Two – best be sure. He tilted further. A second drip swelled, fell. He threw the fuse away and ran. But in his rush he mistakenly straightened fully and something grabbed him from behind, pulling him backwards. He threw himself down again. His helmet was torn from his head. He grasped at handholds of the grass, pulled himself along. His feet kicked in the air behind him. A sandal was sucked from one foot. Leave me be, Hood! Your bony hand ain't quick enough!
He pulled and pulled, sliced his palms open on the sharp crisp grass blades until he fell again and rolled, came up running. He pelted it, arms pumping, one sandal flapping. As he ran he imagined the heavy acid fluid permeating the saliva, increasing its concentration next to the casing of whichever munition he'd touched. Six per cent, seventeen, twenty-eight, fifty. Until a reaction began, irreversible, that started eating that casing until soon… soon…
Nait slowed, stopped, turned. The black and grey moiling maw of the rift had touched down – or so it appeared. A reverberating roar ten times louder than that which had been afflicting him struck his chest and face like a mallet blow, knocking him backwards. Enraged, he stood again, waving his arms at it. Dirt like an avalanche in reverse was speeding up into the void of its black mouth. Shit! It's sucked it up! Fucking arse-wipe cock-
Light. A blow kicked him into the air and he flew, arms pinwheel-ing, to tumble, rolling, amid falling earth and clumps of roots and stones. He lay staring at the clear bright-blue sky. Beauty. A beauty of a blast.
Something nearby was making an Abyss of a racket – loud enough to penetrate the ringing in his ears. Loud enough to annoy Nait into raising his head. The rift itself was now turning in a great sweep, but bent, irregular. Nait watched as its border region rotated, revealing a great warp or bite that turned itself forming its own spiral within the larger. And that rotating was speeding up.
He tried to stand, failed, sat heavily, arms limp on his lap, gazed at the rift. Blood dripped anew from his nose to pat the back of one hand. Even to his layman's eye the mar was clearly in trouble. It appeared to be diminishing in size overall, yet the smaller inner spiral was growing – it seemed to be feeding on the larger which was thinning, fast eroding. Like a snake eating its own tail. While he watched, the spinning accelerated to a blur and the rift shrank to a fraction of itself. The rotating and contraction continued, each becoming faster and faster, feeding each other perhaps, until the rift appeared to wrap itself out of existence to disappear without a sound.
Hunh. Nait spat out a mouthful of grit. Well, there you go. He tried to stand again, failed. Fine. Maybe he'd just sit here awhile. Enjoy the glow. Yeah, that's it. Job well done and all that shit. He wondered where Tourmaline had gone off to. Maybe it was time to find out how those Moranth got out of their armour.