House of Chains @import url(user.css); @import url(../user.css); @import url(.../user.css); previous | Table of Contents | next CHAPTER NINETEEN It was said the captain’s adopted child—who at that time was known by the unfortunate name of Grub—refused the wagon on the march. That he walked the entire way, even as, in the first week beneath the year’s hottest sun, fit and hale soldiers stumbled and fell. This is perhaps invention, for by all accounts he was at that time no more than five years of age. And the captain himself, from whose journals much of that journey and the clash in which it culminated is related in detail, writes very little of Grub, more concerned as he was with the rigours of command. As a result, of the future First Sword of the Late Empire period, scant details, beyond the legendary and probably fictitious, are known. Lives of the Three Moragalle THE SOUND OF FLIES AND WASPS WAS A SOLID, BUZZING HUM IN THE hot air of the gorge, and already the stench had grown overpowering. Fist Gamet loosened the clasp on the buckle and lifted the battered iron helmet from his head. The felt liner was sodden with sweat, itching against his scalp, but, as the flies swarmed him, he did not remove it. He continued watching from the slight rise at the south end of the gorge as the Adjunct walked her horse through the carnage below. Three hundred Seti and over a hundred horses lay dead, mostly from arrows, in the steep-sided ravine they had been led into. It could not have taken long, even including rounding up and leading off the surviving mounts. There had been less than a bell between the advance Seti riders and the Khundryl, and had Temul not ordered his Wickans back to cover the main army . . . well, we would have lost them as well. As it was, those Wickans had prevented another raid on the supply train, their presence alone sufficient to trigger a sudden withdrawal by the enemy—with not a single drop of blood spilled. The warleader commanding the desert horse warriors had been too cagey to see his force ensnared in an out-and-out battle. Far better to rely upon . . . errors in judgement. The Seti not assigned as flanking riders to the vanguard had defied orders, and had died as a result. And all the bastard needs from us is more stupid mistakes. Something in the scene below was raising the hairs on his neck. The Adjunct rode alone through the slaughter, her back straight, unmindful of her horse’s skittish progress. It’s never the flies that are the trouble, it’s the wasps. One sting and that well-bred beast will lose its mind. Could rear and throw her off, break her neck. Or could bolt, straight down the gorge, and then try to take one of the steep sides . . . like some of those Seti horses tried to do . . . Instead, the horse simply continued picking its way over the bodies, and the clouds of wasps did little more than rise and then wheel from its path, alighting once more upon their feast as soon as mount and rider had passed. An old soldier at the Fist’s side coughed and spat, then, at Gamet’s glance, mumbled an apology. ‘No need . . . Captain. It’s a grisly sight, and we’re all too close . . .’ ‘Not that, sir. Only . . .’ he paused, then slowly shook his head. ‘Never mind, sir. Just an old memory, that’s all.’ Gamet nodded. ‘I’ve a few of those myself. So, Fist Tene Baralta wants to know if he needs to send his healers forward. The answer you may bring him lies before you.’ ‘Aye, sir.’ He watched the grizzled old soldier back his horse clear then swing it round and ride off. Then Gamet fixed his attention once more upon the Adjunct. She had reached the far end, where most of the bodies lay, heaped up against blood-splashed stone walls, and, after a long moment, during which she scanned the scene on all sides, she gathered the reins and began retracing her path. Gamet set the helm on his head once more and closed the clasp. She reached the slope and rode up to halt alongside him. He had never before seen her expression so severe. A woman with few of a woman’s charms, as they say of her, in tones approaching pity. ‘Adjunct.’ ‘He left many of them wounded,’ she said. ‘Anticipating, perhaps, that we’d reach them in time. Wounded Malazans are better than dead ones, after all.’ ‘Assuming that warleader seeks to delay us, aye.’ ‘He does. Even with the Khundryl supply lines, our resources are strained as it is. The loss of the wagons last night will be felt by everyone.’ ‘Then why didn’t Sha’ik send this warleader against us as soon as we crossed the Vathar River? We’re a week or less away from the Whirlwind Wall. She could have purchased another month or more, and we’d be in far worse shape when we finally arrived.’ ‘You are correct, Fist. And I have no answer for you. Temul has gauged this raiding party’s strength at just under two thousand—he was fairly certain that the midday contact on the flank revealed the enemy’s full force, since he sighted supply horses as well as those taken from the Seti. Thus, a rather large raiding army.’ Gamet ruminated on this for a time, then he grunted. ‘It’s almost as if we’re facing a confused opposition, one at odds with itself.’ ‘The same thought had occurred to me. For the moment, however, we must concern ourselves with this warleader, else he bleed us to death.’ Gamet swung his horse around. ‘More words with Gall, then,’ he said, grimacing. ‘If we can get them out of their great-grandfathers’ armour, they might actually manage a ride up a hill without leaving their horses blown.’ ‘I want the marines out tonight, Fist.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘The marines, Adjunct? On foot? You wish the pickets bolstered?’ She drew a deep breath. ‘In the year 1147, Dassem Ultor was faced with a similar situation, with a much smaller army and three entire tribal nations mauling him virtually every night.’ After a moment Gamet nodded. ‘I know the scenario, Adjunct, and I recall his answer. The marines will be sent out tonight.’ ‘Be sure they understand what is expected of them, Fist Gamet.’ ‘There’s some veterans among them,’ he replied. ‘And in any case, I plan to command the operation myself.’ ‘That will not be—’ ‘Yes, it will, Adjunct. My apologies. But . . . yes, it will.’ ‘So be it.’ It was one thing to doubt his commander’s measure, but another entirely to doubt his own. There were three types of scorpion common in the odhan, none of which displayed any toleration for either of the others. Early in the second week Strings had drawn his two fellow sergeants aside to unveil his scheme. Both Gesler and Borduke had proved agreeable, particularly at the offer of splitting the profits three ways. Borduke was first to draw the odd-coloured stone and was quick to choose the Red-backed Bastard—outwardly the meanest of the three scorpion types. Gesler had followed, choosing the amber In Out—so named for its transparent exoskeleton through which, if one was inclined to look carefully, various poisons could be seen racing beneath its carapace. The two sergeants had then looked with pity upon their hapless companion. The Lord’s luck that the man with the idea in the first place should be left with the Birdshit scorpion—puny and flat and black and looking like its namesake. Of course, when it came to the three-way split of the main profits, none of that really mattered. Only in the private wagers between the three sergeants would Strings come out wanting. But Strings had affected only mild disappointment at being left with the Birdshit, answering with naught but a slight shrug as he collected the handful of pebbles they had used in choosing the order of selection. And neither Gesler nor Borduke caught the old sapper’s twitch of a smile as he turned away, nor his seemingly casual glance to where Cuttle sat in the shade of a boulder—a glance answered with the slightest of nods. The squads were then set to the task of finding their respective champions whilst on the march, and, when that failed, at dusk when the horrid little creatures were wont to scuttle out from their hiding places in search of something to kill. Word quickly spread, and soon the wagers started pouring in. Borduke’s soldier, Maybe, was chosen for the task of bet-holder, given his extraordinary ability to retain facts. And one Holder was selected from each squad, who then in turn selected a Trainer. The afternoon following the raid and the slaughter of the Seti, Strings slowed his pace during the march, until he fell in step with Bottle and Tarr. Despite his casual expression, the truth was, the bile roiled sour in his stomach. The Fourteenth had found its own scorpion, out there in the wastes beyond, and it had just delivered its first sting. The mood of the soldiers was low, and uncertainty gnawed at their confidence. None had believed, it was clear, that the first blood they tasted would be their own. Got to get their minds off it. ‘How’s little Joyful, Bottle?’ The mage shrugged. ‘As hungry and nasty as ever, Sergeant.’ Strings nodded. ‘And how’s the training coming along, Corporal?’ Tarr frowned beneath the rim of his helm. ‘All right, I suppose. As soon as I figure out what kind of training it needs, I’ll get right on it.’ ‘Good, the situation sounds ideal. Spread the word. First battle’s tonight, one bell after we set camp.’ Both soldiers swung their heads round at this. ‘Tonight?’ Bottle asked. ‘After what just—’ ‘You heard me. Gesler and Borduke are getting their beauties primed, same as us. We’re ready, lads.’ ‘It’s going to draw quite a crowd,’ Corporal Tarr said, shaking his head. ‘The lieutenant won’t help but wonder—’ ‘Not just the lieutenant, I’d imagine,’ Strings replied. ‘But there won’t be much of a crowd. We’ll use the old word-line system. Run the commentary back through the whole camp.’ ‘Joyful’s going to get skewered,’ Bottle muttered, his expression growing sorrowful. ‘And here I been feeding her, every night. Big juicy capemoths . . . she’d just pounce real pretty, then start eating until there wasn’t nothing left but a couple wings and a crunched-up ball. Then she’d spend half the night cleaning her pincers and licking her lips—’ ‘Lips?’ Smiles asked from behind the three men. ‘What lips? Scorpions don’t have lips—’ ‘What do you know?’ Bottle shot back. ‘You won’t even get close—’ ‘When I get close to a scorpion I kill it. Which is what any sane person would do.’ ‘Sane?’ the mage retorted. ‘You pick them up and start pulling things off! Tail, pincers, legs—I ain’t seen nothing so cruel in my life!’ ‘Well, ain’t that close enough to see if it’s got lips?’ ‘Where’s it all go, I wonder?’ Tarr muttered. Bottle nodded. ‘I know, it’s amazing. She’s so tiny . . .’ ‘That’s our secret,’ Strings said quietly. ‘What is?’ ‘The reason why I picked a Birdshit, soldiers.’ ‘You didn’t pick . . .’ At the suspicious silence that followed, Strings simply smiled. Then he shrugged. ‘Hunting’s one thing. An easy thing. Birdshits don’t need to get . . . elaborate, killing a maimed capemoth. It’s when they have to fight. Protecting territory, or their young. That’s when the surprise comes. You think Joyful’s going to lose tonight, Bottle? Think your heart’s going to get broken? Relax, lad, old Strings here has always got your tender feelings in mind . . .’ ‘You can drop that “Strings” bit, Sergeant,’ Bottle said after a moment. ‘We all know who you are. We all know your real name.’ ‘Well, that’s damned unfortunate. If it gets out to the command—’ ‘Oh, it won’t, Fiddler.’ ‘Maybe not on purpose, but in the heat of battle?’ ‘Who’s going to listen to our screams of panic in a battle, Sergeant?’ Fiddler shot the young man a look, gauging, then he grinned. ‘Good point. Still, be careful what you say and when you say it.’ ‘Aye, Sergeant. Now, could you explain that surprise you were talking about?’ ‘No. Wait and see.’ Strings fell silent then, noting a small party of riders approaching down the line of march. ‘Straighten up, soldiers. Officers coming.’ Fist Gamet, the sergeant saw, was looking old, worn out. Getting dragged out of retirement was never a good thing, he knew, since the first thing that an old soldier put away was his nerve, and that was hard, if not impossible, to get back. That stepping away, of course, marked a particular kind of retirement—and one a cautious soldier usually avoided. Abandoning the lifestyle was one thing, but surrendering the deadly edge was another. Studying the Fist as the man rode up, Fiddler felt a tremor of unease. Accompanying Gamet were Captain Keneb and the lieutenant, the latter so grim-faced as to be near comical. His officer mask, with which he tries to look older and thus more professional. Instead, it’s the scowl of a constipated man. Someone should tell him . . . The threesome reined in to walk their horses alongside Fiddler’s own squad—somewhat unnerving to the sergeant, though he offered them a nod. Keneb’s eyes, he noted, were on Cuttle. But it was Ranal who spoke first. ‘Sergeant Strings.’ ‘Aye, sir?’ ‘You and Cuttle, please, off to one side for a private conversation.’ Then he raised his voice to the squad marching ahead. ‘Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy, back with us on the double.’ ‘Four should be enough,’ the Fist rumbled, ‘to see the instructions properly delivered to the other squads.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ said Ranal, who had been about to call over Borduke. When the four marines were assembled, Fist Gamet cleared his throat, then began, ‘It’s clear you are all veterans. And Captain Keneb informs me that you have marched in these lands before—no, I need no more details of that. My reliance depends on that very experience, however. The Adjunct wishes the marines to answer the desert raiders tonight.’ He fell silent then. And no-one spoke for a time, as the significance of the Fist’s words slowly settled in the minds of the four marines. Finally, Captain Keneb said, ‘Aye, Dassem’s answer, all those years ago. It’s fortunate, then, that you’d planned on using the word-line this evening. Simple enough to keep it going once the three-way fight’s finished.’ He leaned over slightly in his saddle and said to Fiddler, ‘You’ve the Birdshit, Sergeant? What are the odds running at right now?’ ‘Maybe says it’s about forty to one,’ Fiddler replied, keeping his face straight. ‘Even better than I’d hoped,’ Keneb replied, leaning back. ‘But I should add, Sergeant, that I’ve convinced the Fist to back your Birdshit as well.’ ‘Ten jakatas,’ Gamet said, ‘and in this I rely upon the captain’s . . . experience. And yours, Sergeant . . . Strings.’ ‘Uh, we’ll do our best, sir.’ Gesler turned to Stormy. ‘Smell something, Corporal?’ The huge Falari with the flint sword on his back scowled. ‘Ain’t no scorpions on the coasts, dammit. Aye, Sergeant, I’m smelling something all right.’ ‘Get used to it,’ Cuttle advised. Ranal was looking confused, but wisely said nothing . . . for now. ‘Use the word-line,’ Keneb said, resuming his instructions, ‘and remember, make sure the toughest squads are the ones showing their smiles.’ ‘Aye, Captain,’ Fiddler replied, wondering if he should reassess his opinion of Keneb. ‘One last thing,’ the man added. ‘Fist Gamet will be commanding the operation tonight. Accordingly, I want your two squads and Borduke’s to double your duties tonight.’ Oh, Hood’s balls under a big rock. ‘Understood, Captain.’ The soldiers of the Fourteenth Army were strangely arrayed throughout the encampment once the tents had been raised and the cookfires started, seemingly casually seated in a manner that, if seen from on high, would have resembled a vast, knotted rope. And following the meal, activities seemed to cease entirely, barring the reluctant marching out of the soldiers on first picket duty. In one particular place, centred on the marines of the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, a somewhat different assembly of soldiers was apparent—a smallish, exclusive ring, surrounding a still smaller ring of daggers thrust into the ground, edge inward, at a spacing of two finger-widths. For the moment, that inner ring was empty, the sand smoothed flat and free of pebbles. Maybe was the last soldier to join the others waiting impatiently around the modest arena, saying nothing though his lips moved in a silent recitation of numbers and names. Seeing the eyes of the others on him, he gave a single nod. Fiddler swung to Bottle. ‘Bring out Joyful Union, lad.’ Borduke and Gesler issued similar instructions for their respective combatants. The Red-backed Bastard had been named Mangonel by Borduke’s squad, while Gesler and company had named their amber In Out scorpion Clawmaster. The three boxes were brought forward and Fiddler said to his fellow sergeants, ‘All right, here and now we’re to look upon our beauties, and so swear that no alterations have been made to them, either by sorcery or alchemy or any other means. They are natural as the day we first found them. Unchanged. Each of us will examine each of the three scorpions—as closely as we might choose, including the assistance of a mage if desired, and then swear out loud, by whatever gods we normally swear by, as precise a statement of what we see as we can. Here, I’ll start.’ He gestured and the three boxes were set down just outside the knife ring. The first wooden container—Borduke’s—had its lid removed and Fiddler leaned close. He was silent for a long time, then he nodded. ‘I, Sergeant Strings of the 4th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear by the ghosts of the Deadhouse and every other nasty nightmare that haunts me that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Red-backed Bastard scorpion.’ The sergeant then moved on to Gesler’s champion, and after a long examination he sighed and nodded, repeating his sworn vow on behalf of the In Out scorpion scuttling about in the small wooden box. He then concluded with his own Joyful Union. Gesler followed the procedure, seeking the added opinions of both Tavos Pond and Sands during his protracted examination of Joyful Union, whilst Fiddler leaned back with a slight smile on his bearded face, waiting patiently until, with a snarl, Gesler swore his vow. ‘I, Sergeant Gesler of the 5th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear by the two Lords of Summer, Fener and Treach, that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Birdshit scorpion—even though I know there’s something about it I’m not seeing and I’m about to lose my life’s savings on the Sergeants’ Wager.’ Fiddler’s smile broadened momentarily. Borduke crawled up to Joyful Union and came as close as was possible without being stung, his face almost inside the small box. Since that draped the motionless creature in shadow he cursed and leaned back slightly. ‘I should know about scorpions, shouldn’t I? But all I ever do is stamp on them—like any sane man would do. Sure, I knew a whore once who kept one on a thong about her neck, as golden as the skin of her breasts—tender nipples, you see, and she didn’t like them manhandled—’ ‘Get on with it,’ Gesler snapped. ‘Don’t rush me. I don’t like being rushed.’ ‘All right, I won’t rush you. Just swear your damned vow before my heart flies out to fill my breeches.’ ‘I, Borduke of the 6th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear on the downy belly of the Queen of Dreams that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Birdshit scorpion, and may my father’s ghost remain in its tomb, since the inheritance was mine to lose anyway, right? Dead means you don’t care any more, right? It had better, because if it doesn’t, then I’m doomed to paternal haunting for the rest of my days.’ ‘The worst kind,’ Lutes muttered. ‘Another word from you, soldier,’ Borduke growled, moving back into the circle, ‘and I’ll make you the only one smiling later tonight.’ ‘Besides,’ Balgrid said, ‘it ain’t the worst kind. Maternal haunting—now that’s a killer. How long can a man stand being seven years old?’ ‘Will you two be quiet!’ Borduke snarled, his large-knuckled fingers clutching as if squeezing invisible throats. ‘We ready?’ Fiddler quietly asked. ‘She’ll hide, won’t she?’ Gesler demanded. ‘Wait till the other two have chopped and stabbed each other up before pouncing on the mangled survivor! That’s it, isn’t it? Her jelly brains are purer than theirs, purer and smarter, aren’t they?’ Fiddler shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know about that, Gesler. Are you done?’ The bronzed-hued marine settled back, the muscles of his jaw bunching. ‘How’s the word-line, Cuttle?’ ‘Been repeating every word since we first settled, Fid,’ the sapper replied. ‘And so legends were born,’ Koryk rumbled with facetious portent. ‘Into the arena, then,’ Fiddler instructed. The boxes were gingerly lifted and held over the arena. ‘Equidistant? Good. Tip ’em, lads.’ Mangonel was the first to land, tail arched and pincers out as it scuttled close to the knife-edge barrier, upon which, a hair’s breadth from the iron blades, it halted and then backed away, its carapace flushing red with its characteristic mindless rage. Clawmaster was next, seeming to leap down ready for war, fluids racing beneath its amber-tinted shell. Joyful Union came last, slow and measured, so low on the sand as to seem belly-down. Pincers tucked away, tail curled to port and quiescent. Dwarfed by the other two scorpions, its black shell somewhere between glossy and flat. Its multiple legs scuttled it forward slightly, then it froze. Gesler hissed. ‘If she plucks a couple knives from the ring and uses ’em, I’m going to kill you, Fid.’ ‘No need,’ Fiddler replied, his attention divided between what was going on in the arena and Ibb’s running commentary, the man’s voice harsh with tension as he waxed creative in describing what had, up to now, been essentially nothing worth comment. That suddenly changed as three things occurred almost simultaneously. Joyful Union sauntered into the middle of the arena. Mangonel’s assortment of natural weapons all cocked in unison, even as the creature began backing up, its shell turning fiery red. Clawmaster suddenly wheeled and darted straight at the nearest wall of blades, halting a moment before impact, pincers waving wildly. ‘He wants mommy, looks like, Hubb,’ Koryk drily observed. Clawmaster’s Holder softly whimpered in answer. Then, after a frozen moment from all three scorpions, Joyful Union finally lifted its tail. Upon which, all but Fiddler stared in utter disbelief, as Joyful Union seemed to . . . split. Horizontally. Into two identical, but thinner, flatter scorpions. That then raced outward, one to Mangonel, the other to Clawmaster—each like a village mongrel charging a bull bhederin, so extreme their comparative sizes. Red-backed Bastard and In Out both did their best, but were no match in speed, nor ferocity, as tiny pincers snipped—audibly—through legs, through tail, through arm-joints, then, with the larger creature immobile and helpless, a casual, almost delicate stab of stinger. With In Out’s translucent shell, the horrid bright green of that poison was visible—and thus described in ghastly detail by Ibb—as it spread out from the puncture until Clawmaster’s once beautiful amber was gone, replaced by a sickly green that deepened before their eyes to a murky black. ‘Dead as dung,’ Hubb moaned. ‘Clawmaster . . .’ Mangonel suffered an identical fate. With its enemies vanquished, the two Birdshit scorpions rushed back into each other’s arms—and, in the blink of an eye, were as one once more. ‘Cheat!’ Stormy bellowed, rearing to his feet and fumbling to draw his flint sword. Gesler leapt up and, along with Truth, struggled to restrain their raging comrade. ‘We looked, Stormy!’ Gesler yelled. ‘We looked for anything—then we swore! I swore! By Fener and Treach, damn you! How could any of us have known “Joyful Union” wasn’t just a cute name?’ Glancing up, Fiddler met Cuttle’s steady gaze. The sapper mouthed the words We’re rich, you bastard. The sergeant, with a final glance at Gesler and Truth—who were dragging a foaming Stormy away—then moved to crouch down beside Ibb. ‘All right, lad, what follows is for the marines only, and especially the sergeants. We’re about to become our own Joyful Union to big, bad Mangonel tonight. I’ll explain what the Adjunct has ordered—repeat what I say, Ibb, word for word—got it?’ Three bells had passed since the sunset. Dust from the Whirlwind Wall obscured the stars, making the darkness beyond the hearth-fires almost impenetrable. Squads from the infantry trooped out to relieve those stationed at the pickets. In the Khundryl camp, the warriors removed their heavy armour and prepared to settle in for the night. Along the army encampment’s outermost trenches, Wickan and Seti horse warriors patrolled. At the 4th squad’s fire, Fiddler returned from the company’s wagons with his kit bag. He set it down and untied the draws. Nearby sprawled Cuttle, his eyes glittering reflected flames, watching as the sergeant began withdrawing variously sized, hide-wrapped objects. Moments later he had assembled a dozen such items, which he then began unwrapping, revealing the glint of polished wood and blackened iron. The others in the squad were busy checking over their weapons and armour one last time, saying nothing as the tension slowly built among the small group of soldiers. ‘Been some time since I last saw one of those,’ Cuttle muttered as Fiddler laid out the objects. ‘I’ve seen imitations, some of them almost as good as the originals.’ Fiddler grunted. ‘There’s a few out there. It’s the knock-back where the biggest danger lies, since if it’s too hard the whole damn thing explodes upon release. Me and Hedge worked out this design ourselves, then we found a Mare jeweller in Malaz City—what she was doing there I’ve no idea—’ ‘A jeweller? Not a weaponsmith?’ ‘Aye.’ He began assembling the crossbow. ‘And a wood-carver for the stops and plugs—those need replacing after twenty or so shots—’ ‘When they’re pulped.’ ‘Or splitting, aye. It’s the ribs, when they spring back—that’s what sends the shockwave forward. Unlike a regular crossbow, where the quarrel’s fast enough out of the slot to escape that vibration. Here, the quarrel’s a pig, heavy and weighted on the head end—it never leaves the slot as fast as you’d like, so you need something to absorb that knock-back, before it gets to the quarrel shaft.’ ‘And the clay ball attached to it. Clever solution, Fid.’ ‘It’s worked so far.’ ‘And if it does fail . . .’ Fiddler looked up and grinned. ‘I won’t be the one with breath to complain.’ The last fitting clicked into place, and the sergeant set the bulky weapon down, turning his attention to the individually wrapped quarrels. Cuttle slowly straightened. ‘Those ain’t got sharpers on them.’ ‘Hood no, I can throw sharpers.’ ‘And that crossbow can lob cussers far enough? Hard to believe.’ ‘Well, the idea is to aim and shoot, then bite a mouthful of dirt.’ ‘I can see the wisdom in that, Fid. Now, you let us all know when you’re firing, right?’ ‘Nice and loud, aye.’ ‘And what word should we listen for?’ Fiddler noticed that the rest of his squad had ceased their preparations and were now waiting for his answer. He shrugged. ‘Duck. Or sometimes what Hedge used to use.’ ‘Which was?’ ‘A scream of terror.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘All right, soldiers, it’s time.’ When the last grains trickled down, the Adjunct turned from the hourglass and nodded to Gamet. ‘When will you join your companies, Fist?’ ‘In a few moments, Adjunct. Although, because I intend to remain in my saddle, I will not ride out to them until the fighting starts.’ He saw her frown at that, but she made no comment, focusing instead on the two Wickan youths standing near the tent’s entrance. ‘Have you completed your rituals?’ The lad, Nil, shrugged. ‘We have spoken with the spirits, as you ordered.’ ‘Spoken? That is all?’ ‘Once, perhaps, we could have . . . compelled. But as we warned you long ago in Aren, our power is not as it once was.’ Nether added, ‘This land’s spirits are agitated at the moment, easily distracted. Something else is happening. We have done all we could, Adjunct. At the very least, if the desert raiders have a shaman among them, there will be little chance of the secret’s unveiling.’ ‘Something else is happening, you said. What, specifically?’ Before she could answer, Gamet said, ‘Your pardon, Adjunct. I will take my leave now.’ ‘Of course.’ The Fist left them to resume their conversation. A fog had settled on his mind, the moments before an engagement when uncertainty engendered unease and confusion. He had heard of this affliction claiming other commanders, but had not thought it would befall him. The rush of his own blood had created a wall of sound, muting the world beyond. And it seemed his other senses had dulled as well. As he made his way towards his horse—held ready by a soldier—he shook his head, seeking to clear it. If the soldier said something to him when he took the reins and swung up into the saddle, he did not hear it. The Adjunct had been displeased by his decision to ride into the battle. But the added mobility was, to Gamet’s mind, worth the risk. He set out through the camp at a slow canter. Fires had been allowed to die, the scenes surrounding him strangely ethereal. He passed figures hunched down around coals and envied them their freedom. Life had been simpler as a plain soldier. Gamet had begun to doubt his ability to command. Age is no instant purchase of wisdom. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? She may have made me a Fist and given me a legion. And soldiers might well salute when they pass—though of course not here, in enemy territory, thank Hood. No, all these trappings are no assurance of my competence. This night shall be my first test. Gods, I should have stayed retired. I should have refused her insistence—dammit, her assumption—that I would simply accept her wishes. There was, he had come to believe, a weakness within him. A fool might call it a virtue, such . . . pliable equanimity. But he knew better. He rode on, the fog of his mind growing ever thicker. Eight hundred warriors crouched motionless, ghostly, amidst the boulders on the plain. Wearing dulled armour and telabas the colour of the terrain around them, they were virtually invisible, and Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas felt a surge of dark pride, even as another part of his mind wondered at Leoman’s protracted . . . hesitation. Their warchief lay flat on the slope’s rise ten paces ahead. He had not moved in some time. Despite the chill, sweat trickled beneath Corabb’s armour, and he shifted his grip once more on the unfamiliar tulwar in his right hand. He’d always preferred axe-like weapons—something with a haft he could, if need be, grip with his other hand. He disliked the blade edge that reached down all the way to the hilt and wished he’d had time to file it blunt for the first half of its length. I am a warrior who cannot tolerate sharp edges close to his body. Which spirits thought to make of me such an embodiment of confused irony? I curse them all. He could wait no longer, and slowly crawled up alongside Leoman of the Flails. Beyond the crest sprawled another basin, this one hummocked and thick with thorny brush. It flanked the encamped Malazan army on this side, and was between sixty and seventy paces in breadth. ‘Foolish,’ Corabb muttered, ‘to have chosen to stop here. I think we need have nothing to fear from this Adjunct.’ The breath slowly hissed between Leoman’s teeth. ‘Aye, plenty of cover for our approach.’ ‘Then why do we wait, Warchief?’ ‘I am wondering, Corabb.’ ‘Wondering?’ ‘About the Empress. She was once Mistress of the Claw. Its fierce potency was given shape by her, and we have all learned to fear those mage-assassins. Ominous origins, yes? And then, as Empress, there were the great leaders of her imperial military. Dujek Onearm. Admiral Nok. Coltaine. Greymane.’ ‘But here, this night, Warchief, we face none of those.’ ‘True. We face the Adjunct Tavore, who was personally chosen by the Empress. To act as the fist of her vengeance.’ Corabb frowned, then he shrugged. ‘Did the Empress not also choose High Fist Pormqual? Korbolo Dom? Did she not demote Whiskeyjack—the fiercest Malazan our tribes ever faced? And, if the tales are true, she was also responsible for the assassination of Dassem Ultor.’ ‘Your words are sharp, Corabb. She is not immune to grave . . . errors in judgement. Well then, let us make her pay for them.’ He twisted round and gestured his warriors forward. Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas grinned. Perhaps the spirits would smile on him this night. Pray that I find a worthy axe or mace among the countless dead Malazan soldiers. Borduke’s squad had found a small hill for their position, swearing and cursing as they clawed their way to its modest summit, then began digging holes and repositioning rocks. Their hill was likely some old round barrow—the hummocks in this basin were far too regular to be natural. Twenty paces away, Fiddler listened to the 6th squad marines muttering and shuffling about on their strong-point, their efforts punctuated every now and then by Borduke’s impatient growl. Fifty paces to the west another squad was digging in on another hill, and the sergeant began to wonder if they’d held off too long. Barrows tended to be big heaps of rocks beneath the cloak of sandy soil, after all, and burrowing into them was never easy. He could hear rocks being pried loose, iron shovels grating on heavy granite, and a few tumbling wildly down the hillsides through the thick, brittle bushes. Hood’s breath, how clumsy do you idiots have to get? As Corabb was about to move on to the next cover, Leoman’s gloved hand reached out and snagged his shoulder. The warrior froze. And now he could hear it. There were soldiers in the basin. Leoman moved up alongside him. ‘Outlying pickets,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘On those barrows. It seems she’s sent us a gift after all,’ the Warchief added with a grin. ‘Listen to them stumble about—they waited too long, and now the darkness confounds them.’ There was no difficulty in locating the enemy positions—they’d selected the barrows one and all, and were making loud work of digging in. And, Corabb realized, they were spaced too far apart for mutual support. Each position could be easily isolated, surrounded, and every last soldier slaughtered. Long before any relief could arrive from the main camp. Likely, Corabb reflected as he slipped through the darkness towards the nearest enemy position, the Malazans had been anticipating a predawn raid, identical to the first one. And so the Adjunct had ordered the emplacements as a pre-emptive measure. But, as Leoman had once explained to him, every element of an army in the field needed to follow the rules of mutual support—even the pickets where first contact would occur. Clearly, the Adjunct had failed to apply this most basic tenet. Added to her inability to control her Seti horse warriors, this was further proof, in Corabb’s eyes, of Tavore’s incompetence. He adjusted his grip on the tulwar, halting fifteen paces from the nearest strong-point. He could actually see the helms of at least two of the Malazan soldiers, poking up over the holes they had dug. Corabb concentrated on slowing his breathing, and waited for the signal. Gamet reined in at the edge of the now unoccupied marine camp. The quiet call would have gone out through the rest of the army, awakening the cutters and healers. Precautionary, of course, since there was no way to predict whether the raiders would attack from the approach the Adjunct had arranged. Given that all the other angles held either natural obstacles or easily defensible positions, the desert warleader might well balk at such an obvious invitation. As he waited, the Fist began to think that nothing would come of this gambit, at least on this night. And what were the chances that a day’s march would bring the army to yet another ideal combination of terrain and timing? He settled back in the saddle, the strange, cloying lassitude in his mind deepening. The night had, if anything, grown even darker, the stars struggling to pierce the veil of suspended dust. A capemoth flitted in front of his face, triggering an involuntary flinch. An omen? He shook himself and straightened once more. Three bells remained before dawn. But there could be no recall and so the marines would take shifts on the wagons come the morrow’s march. And I had better do the same, if we’re to repeat this— A wavering wolf howl broke the stillness of the night. Although Corabb had been waiting for it, he was still startled into a momentary immobility. To either side, warriors rose from their cover and sprinted for the barrow. Arrows whispered, struck the visible helms with solid crunching sounds. He saw one of those bronze helms spin away through the air—realized that it had not been covering a soldier’s head. A flash of unease— Warcries filled the air. The glint of heavily armoured figures rising up on the barrows, crossbows lowering. Smaller objects flew out, one of them striking the ground five paces to Corabb’s right. A detonation that stabbed at his ears. The blast threw him to one side, and he stumbled, then fell over a thorn bush. Multiple explosions—flames shot up to light the scene— At the wolf’s howl, Fiddler flattened himself still further beneath his cloak of sand and brush—not a moment too soon as a moccasined foot thumped down on his back as a raider ran over him. The barrows had done their job—drawing the attackers in to what, by all outward appearances, seemed isolated positions. One squad in three had shown face to the enemy; the remaining two had preceded them by a bell or more to take cover between the barrows. And now the trap was sprung. The sergeant lifted his head, and saw a dozen backs between him and Borduke’s strong-point. Their charge slowed as three of their number suddenly pitched down to the ground, quarrels buried deep. ‘Up, dammit!’ Fiddler hissed. His soldiers rose around him, shedding dusty sand and branches. Crouching low, cusser-fitted crossbow cradled in his arms, the sergeant set out, away from Borduke’s position. Gesler’s marines were easily sufficient to support the squad at the barrow. Fiddler had seen a mass of raiders moving along the ridge beyond the basin—easily two hundred in all—and suspected they were moving to flank the ambush. The narrowest of corridors awaited them, but if they overran the infantry picket stationed there, they could then strike into the heart of the supply camp. He grinned at the snapping crack of sharpers detonating behind him, along with the deadly whoosh of burners filling the basin with red, flaring light. The raid had been stopped in its tracks, and confusion had snared the attackers. Fiddler and the five marines trailing in his wake were low enough to keep their silhouettes from being backlit by the flames as they reached the base of the slope. They had ascended halfway to the ridge when Fiddler held up a fisted hand. Cuttle scrambled up beside him. ‘We won’t even have to duck on this one,’ he growled. The sergeant raised his crossbow, sighting well above the crest line and settling the metal stock against his shoulder. He drew a breath, held it, and slowly pressed the release. The iron ribs thunked, and the cusser quarrel leapt away, describing a graceful arc up and over the ridge. It sank out of sight. Bodies were thrown skyward at the explosion, and screams filled the air. ‘Crossbows to bear,’ Cuttle snapped, ‘in case they come rolling over the—’ On the crest above them, the skyline was suddenly crowded with warriors. ‘Fall back!’ Fiddler shouted as he continued to reload. ‘Fall back!’ After sprawling into the thorn bush, Corabb dragged himself clear, spitting curses, and scrambled to his feet. The bodies of his comrades lay on all sides, struck down by heavy crossbow bolts or those terrible Moranth munitions. There had been more marines, hidden between the barrows, and now he could hear horses behind them, sweeping on to take the ridge—Khundryl—the bastards were in light armour only, and they had been ready and waiting. He looked for Leoman, but could not see him among those warriors made visible by the sheets of flames left by the Malazan fire-grenados—and of those, few were still on their feet. Time had come, he decided, to withdraw. He collected the tulwar from where it had fallen, then spun about and ran for the ridge. And plunged headlong into a squad of marines. Sudden shouts. A huge soldier wearing the trappings of a Seti slammed a hide-wrapped shield into Corabb’s face. The desert warrior reeled back, blood gushing from his nose and mouth, and took a wild swing. The tulwar’s heavy blade cracked hard against something—and snapped clean just above the hilt. Corabb landed hard on the ground. A soldier passed close and left something on his lap. Somewhere just up on the ridge another explosion ripped through the night—this one louder by far than any he had yet heard. Stunned, blinking tears, Corabb sat up, and saw a small round clay ball roll down to land in front of his crotch. Smoke rose from it—sputtering, foaming acid, just a drop, eating its way through. Whimpering, Corabb rolled to one side—and came up against a discarded helm. He grabbed it and lunged back at the sharper, slamming the bronze cap over it. Then he closed his eyes. As the squad continued its retreat—the slope behind it a mass of blasted bodies from Fiddler’s second cusser, with Khundryl Burned Tears now crashing into the flank of the remaining attackers—Cuttle grabbed the sergeant’s shoulder and spun him around. ‘The bastard Koryk knocked down is about to be surprised, Fid.’ Fiddler fixed his gaze on the figure just now sitting up. ‘Left a smoking sharper in his lap,’ Cuttle added. Both sappers halted to watch. ‘Four . . .’ The warrior made his horrific discovery and plunged to one side. ‘Three . . .’ Then rolled back directly onto the sharper. ‘Two . . .’ Thumping a helm down over it. ‘One.’ The detonation lifted the hapless man into the air on a man-high column of fire. Yet he had managed to hold on to the helm, even as it lifted him still higher, up and over. Feet scything wildly in the air, he plummeted back down, landing to kick up a cloud of dust and smoke. ‘Now that—’ But Cuttle got no further, and both sappers simply stared in disbelief as the warrior scrambled upright, looked around, collected a discarded lance, then raced off back up the slope. Gamet drove heels into his horse’s flanks. The mount pounded down into the basin from the west side, opposite where the Khundryl had come from. Three knots of desert warriors had managed to weather the crossbow fire and munitions to assault one of the strong-points. They had driven the two hidden squads back onto the barrow as well, and the Fist saw his marines dragging wounded comrades into the trenchworks. Fewer than ten soldiers among the three squads were still fighting, desperately holding back the screaming raiders. Gamet pulled his sword free as he urged his horse directly towards the beleaguered position. As he approached, he saw two marines go down before an onrush from one of the attacking groups—and the barrow was suddenly overrun. The fugue gripping his senses seemed to redouble, and he began sawing the reins, confused, bewildered by the roar of sounds surrounding him. ‘Fist!’ He lifted his sword, as his horse cantered, as if of its own will, towards the barrow. ‘Fist Gamet! Pull out of there!’ Too many voices. Screams of the dying. The flames—they’re falling away. Darkness closing in. My soldiers are dying. Everywhere. It’s failed—the whole plan has failed— A dozen raiders were rushing at him—and more movement, there, to his right—another squad of marines, fast closing, as if they’d been on their way to relieve the overrun strong-point, but now they were sprinting in his direction. I don’t understand. Not here—the other way. Go there, go to my soldiers— He saw something large fly from one of the marines’ hands, down into the midst of the warriors attacking him. ‘Fist?’ Two lances whipped out, seeking him. Then the night exploded. He felt his horse lifted beneath him, pushing him down over the back of the saddle. The animal’s head snapped upward, impossibly so, as it continued arching back—to thump down between Gamet’s thighs a moment before he tumbled, boots leaving the stirrups, over the horse’s rump. Down into a mist of blood and grit. He blinked his eyes open, found himself lying in sodden mud, amidst bodies and parts of bodies, at the base of a crater. His helmet was gone. No sword in his hand. I was . . . I was on a horse . . . Someone slid down to slam against his side. He attempted to clamber away, but was dragged back down. ‘Fist Gamet, sir! I’m Sergeant Gesler—Captain Keneb’s 9th Company—can you hear me?’ ‘Y-yes—I thought you were—’ ‘Aye, Fist. But we dropped ’em, and now the rest of my squad and Borduke’s are relieving 3rd Company’s marines. We need to get you to a healer, sir.’ ‘No, that’s all right.’ He struggled to sit up, but something was wrong with his legs—they were indifferent to his commands. ‘Tend to those on the barrow, Sergeant—’ ‘We are, sir. Pella! Down here, help me with the Fist.’ Another marine arrived, this one much younger—oh, no, too young for this. I will ask the Adjunct to send him home. To his mother and father, yes. He should not have to die—‘You should not have to die.’ ‘Sir?’ ‘Only his horse between him and a cusser blast,’ Gesler said. ‘He’s addled, Pella. Now, take his arms . . .’ Addled? No, my mind is clear. Perfectly clear, now. Finally. They’re all too young for this. It’s Laseen’s war—let her fight it. Tavore—she was a child, once. But then the Empress murdered that child. Murdered her. I must tell the Adjunct . . . Fiddler settled wearily beside the now dead hearth. He set his crossbow down and wiped the sweat and grime from his eyes. Cuttle eased down beside him. ‘Koryk’s head still aches,’ the sapper muttered, ‘but it don’t look like anything’s broken that wasn’t already broken.’ ‘Except his helm,’ Fiddler replied. ‘Aye, except that. The only real scrap of the night for our squad, barring a few dozen quarrels loosed. And we didn’t even kill the bastard.’ ‘You got too cute, Cuttle.’ The man sighed. ‘Aye, I did. Must be getting old.’ ‘That’s what I concluded. Next time, just stab a pig-sticker in the bastard.’ ‘Amazed he survived it in any case.’ The pursuit by the Khundryl had taken the Burned Tears far beyond the ridge, and what had begun as a raid against a Malazan army was now a tribal war. Two bells remained before dawn. Infantry had moved out into the basin to collect wounded, retrieve quarrels, and strip down the Malazan corpses—leaving nothing for the enemy to use. The grim, ugly conclusion to every battle, the only mercy the cover of darkness. Sergeant Gesler appeared out of the gloom and joined them at the lifeless hearth. He drew off his gauntlets and dropped them into the dust, then rubbed at his face. Cuttle spoke. ‘Heard a position was overrun.’ ‘Aye. We’d had it in hand, at least to start. Closing in fast. Most of the poor bastards could have walked away from that barrow. As it is, only four did.’ Fiddler looked up. ‘Out of three squads?’ Gesler nodded, then spat into the ashes. Silence. Then Cuttle grunted. ‘Something always goes wrong.’ Gesler sighed, collected his gauntlets and rose. ‘Could have been worse.’ Fiddler and Cuttle watched the man wander off. ‘What happened, do you think?’ Fiddler shrugged. ‘I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. Now, find Corporal Tarr and get him to gather the rest. I need to explain all the things we did wrong tonight.’ ‘Starting with you leading us up the slope?’ Fiddler grimaced. ‘Starting with that, aye.’ ‘Mind you, if you hadn’t,’ Cuttle mused, ‘more of those raiders could have followed down to the overrun barrow through the breach. Your lobbed cusser did its work—distracted them. Long enough for the Khundryl to arrive and keep them busy.’ ‘Even so,’ the sergeant conceded. ‘But if we’d been alongside Gesler, maybe we could have saved a few more marines.’ ‘Or messed it up worse, Fid. You know better than to think like that.’ ‘I guess you’re right. Now, gather them up.’ ‘Aye.’ Gamet looked up as the Adjunct entered the cutters’ tent. She was pale—from lack of sleep, no doubt—and had removed her helm, revealing her short-cropped, mouse-coloured hair. ‘I will not complain,’ Gamet said, as the healer finally moved away. ‘Regarding what?’ the Adjunct asked, head turning to scan the other cots on which wounded soldiers lay. ‘The removal of my command,’ he replied. Her gaze fixed on him once more. ‘You were careless, Fist, in placing yourself at such risk. Hardly cause to strip you of your rank.’ ‘My presence diverted marines rushing to the aid of their comrades, Adjunct. My presence resulted in lives lost.’ She said nothing for a moment, then stepped closer. ‘Every engagement takes lives, Gamet. This is the burden of command. Did you think this war would be won without the spilling of blood?’ He looked away, grimacing against the waves of dull pain that came from forced healing. The cutters had removed a dozen shards of clay from his legs. Muscles had been shredded. Even so, he knew that the Lady’s luck had been with him this night. The same could not be said for his hapless horse. ‘I was a soldier once, Adjunct,’ he rasped. ‘I am one no longer. This is what I discovered tonight. As for being a Fist, well, commanding house guards was a fair representation of my level of competence. An entire legion? No. I am sorry, Adjunct . . .’ She studied him, then nodded. ‘It will be some time before you are fully recovered from your wounds. Which of your captains would you recommend for a temporary field promotion?’ Yes, the way it should be done. Good. ‘Captain Keneb, Adjunct.’ ‘I concur. And now I must leave you. The Khundryl are returning.’ ‘With trophies, I hope.’ She nodded. Gamet managed a smile. ‘That is well.’ The sun was climbing near zenith when Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas reined in his lathered horse alongside Leoman. Other warriors were straggling in all the time, but it might be days before the scattered elements of the company were finally reassembled. In light armour, the Khundryl had been able to maintain persistent contact with the Raraku horse warriors, and had proved themselves fierce and capable fighters. The ambush had been reversed, the message delivered with succinct precision. They had underestimated the Adjunct. ‘Your first suspicions were right,’ Corabb growled as he settled down in his saddle, the horse trembling beneath him. ‘The Empress chose wisely.’ Leoman’s right cheek had been grazed by a crossbow quarrel, leaving a crusted brown line that glistened in places through the layer of dust. At Corabb’s observation he grimaced, leaned to one side and spat. ‘Hood curse those damned marines,’ Corabb continued. ‘If not for their grenades and those assault crossbows, we would have taken them all down. Would that I had found one of those crossbows—the loading mechanism must be—’ ‘Be quiet, Corabb,’ Leoman muttered. ‘I have orders for you. Select a worthy messenger and have him take three spare horses and ride back to Sha’ik as fast as he can. He is to tell her I will be continuing with my raids, seeking the pattern to this Adjunct’s responses, and will rejoin the Chosen One three days before the Malazan army arrives. Also, that I no longer hold any faith in Korbolo Dom’s strategy for the day of battle, nor his tactics—aye, Corabb, she will not listen to such words, but they must be said, before witnesses. Do you understand?’ ‘I do, Leoman of the Flails, and I shall choose the finest rider among us.’ ‘Go, then.’ previous | Table of Contents | next

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