The Malazan Empire, page 150
Duiker saw Pormqual seated atop a magnificent warhorse. The High Fist’s armor was ornate, more decorative than functional. The jeweled hilt of a Grisian broadsword jutted from one hip; the helm bore a gold-threaded sunburst on the polished iron skullcap. His face looked sickly and bloodless.
Mallick Rel sat on a white horse beside the High Fist, silk-cloaked and weaponless, a sea-blue cloth wrapped about his head. Various officers, both mounted and on foot, surrounded them, and among that group Duiker saw Nethpara and Pullyk Alar.
A red mist descended on the scene as Duiker’s stare fixed on the two noblemen. Increasing his pace, he pushed past Blistig, who snapped a hand out to drag the historian back.
“Leave that till later, man. You’ve got a more immediate responsibility to deal with first.”
Trembling, Duiker forced his rage back. He managed a nod.
“Come on, the High Fist has seen us.”
Pormqual’s expression was cold as he looked down on Duiker. His voice was shrill as he said, “Historian, your arrival is timely. We have two tasks before us this day, both of which require your presence—”
“High Fist—”
“Silence! Interrupt me again and I’ll have your tongue cut out!” He paused, settled, then resumed his statement. “First of all, you shall yourself accompany us in the battle to come. To witness the proper means of dealing with that rabble. The selling of the lives of innocent refugees is not a bargain I shall make—there shall be no repetition of earlier tragedies, earlier crimes of treason! The fools out there have only now settled to sleep—and they shall pay for that stupidity, I assure you.
“Then, when the renegades have been slaughtered, we shall attend to other responsibilities, primarily your arrest and that of the warlocks known as Nil and Nether—the last remaining ‘officers’ of Coltaine’s horrific command. And I assure you, the punishment following your conviction shall match the severity of your crimes.” He gestured and an aide led Duiker’s mare forward. “Alas, your beast is hardly fit for the company, but it shall suffice.
“Commander Blistig, prepare your soldiers for marching. We wish our rearguard to be no more and no less than three hundred paces behind us. I trust that is within your capabilities—if not, inform me now, and I shall happily place someone else in command of the garrison.”
“Aye, High Fist, the task is within my capabilities.”
Duiker’s gaze swung to Mallick Rel, and the historian wondered at the satisfied flush in the priest’s face, but only for a moment. Ah, of course, past slights. Not a man to cross, are you, Rel?
In silence, the historian walked to his horse and climbed into the saddle. He laid a hand on the mare’s thin, ungroomed neck, then gathered the reins.
The lead companies of medium cavalry were assembled at the gate. Once out of the city, little time would be wasted, as the horsewarriors would immediately part in a sweeping maneuver intended to surround Korbolo’s encampment, while the infantry poured out from the gate to assemble into solid phalanxes before marching on the enemy position.
Blistig had departed the scene without a backward glance. Duiker stared at the distant gate, scanned the troops gathered there.
“Historian.”
He turned his head, looked down at Nethpara.
The nobleman was smiling. “You should have treated me with more respect. I suppose you see that now, although it’s come too late for you.”
Nethpara did not notice Duiker slip his boot from the stirrup.
“For the insults you have committed upon my person…for the laying of hands on me, Historian, you shall suffer—”
“No doubt,” Duiker cut in. “And here’s one last insult.” He kicked out, the toe of his boot driving into the nobleman’s flabby throat, then up. Trachea crumpled inward, head snapped back with a crunching, popping sound, Nethpara pitched backward, thumped heavily on the cobblestones. His eyes stared up unseeing at the pale sky.
Pullyk Alar shrieked.
Soldiers closed in around the historian, weapons out.
“By all means,” Duiker said, “I shall welcome an end to this—”
“You shall not be so fortunate!” Pormqual hissed, white with rage.
Duiker sneered at the man. “You’ve already convicted me as an executioner. What’s one more, you craven pile of dung?” He shifted his gaze to Mallick Rel. “And as for you, Jhistal, come closer—my life’s still incomplete.”
The historian did not notice—nor did anyone else—the arrival of a captain of Blistig’s garrison. The man had been about to speak with Duiker, to inform him of the safe delivery of a child to a grandfather. But at the word “Jhistal” he stiffened, then, eyes widening, he took a step back.
The gates opened just then, and the troops of cavalry poured through. Motion rippled through the legions of infantry as weapons were readied.
Keneb took another step back, that lone word echoing in his mind. He knew it from somewhere, but full awareness eluded him, even as alarms rang in his mind. A voice within was shouting that he needed to find Blistig—he did not yet know why, but it was imperative—
But he had run out of time.
Keneb stared out as the army surged toward the gate. The orders had been given, and the momentum was unstoppable.
The captain took another step back, his words to Duiker forgotten. He stumbled over Nethpara’s body unnoticing, then spun about. And ran.
Sixty paces on, Keneb’s mind was suddenly flooded with the memory of when he had last heard the word “Jhistal.”
Duiker rode with the mounted officers out onto the plain.
Korbolo Dom’s army looked to be in full panicked flight, though the historian noted that they still held on to their weapons even as they fled back over the mound and its facing slope. The High Fist’s cavalry rode hard to either side, quickly outpacing the footsoldiers as they pushed to complete the encirclement. Both wings rode beyond line of sight, into the evenly distributed hills of the burial ground.
The High Fist’s legions moved at double time, silent and determined. They had no hope of catching the fleeing army until the cavalry had completed the encirclement, closing off all avenues of escape.
“As you predicted, High Fist!” Mallick Rel shouted to Pormqual as they cantered along. “They are routed!”
“But they shall not escape, shall they?” Pormqual laughed, pitching unevenly in his saddle.
Gods below, the High Fist can’t even ride.
The pursuit took them up and over the first barrow, and they rode among the corpses of the Seventh and the Wickans. Those looted bodies spread northward in a wide swath, mapping the route of Coltaine’s running battle, over the next barrow, then around the base of the one beyond. Duiker struggled to keep from scanning those corpses, seeking familiar faces in their unfamiliar expressions of death. He stared forward, studying the fleeing renegades.
Pormqual periodically slowed their pace to keep within the midst of the infantry. The wings of cavalry were somewhere ahead, and had not reappeared. In the meantime, the thousands of fleeing soldiers stayed ahead of the phalanxes, sweeping around the barrows, leaving booty behind as they went.
The High Fist and his army doggedly pursued, down into a vast basin, packed with the routed enemy who began pouring up the gently sloping sides. Dust ringed the crest to the east and west, and directly ahead.
“The encirclement is complete!” Pormqual cried. “See the dust!”
Duiker frowned at that dust. Faintly, he heard the sounds of battle. A moment later those sounds began to diminish, while the rising dust thickened, deepened.
The infantry marched down into the basin.
Something’s wrong…
The fleeing soldiers had reached the crests now on all sides but the south, but instead of continuing their panicked pace, they slowed, readied their weapons and turned about.
The curtain of dust climbed higher behind those warriors, then mounted figures appeared—not Pormqual’s cavalry, but tribal riders. A moment later the ring of footsoldiers thickened, as rank after rank joined them.
Duiker spun in his saddle. Seven Cities cavalry lined the south skylines, closing the back door.
And so we ride into the simplest of traps. Leaving Aren defenseless…
“Mallick!” Pormqual shrieked, reining in. “What is happening! What has happened?”
The priest’s head was jerking in all directions, his jaw dropping. “Treachery!” he hissed. He swung his white horse around, eyes fixing on Duiker. “This is your doing, Historian! Part of the bargain Nethpara hinted at! More, I see the sorcery around you now—you have been communicating with Korbolo Dom! Gods, we were fools!”
Duiker ignored the man, his eyes squinting as he studied the scene to the south, and the tag-end elements of Pormqual’s army as they wheeled about to face the threat now behind them. Clearly, the High Fist’s cavalry wings had been annihilated.
“We are surrounded! They are in the tens of thousands! We shall be slaughtered!” The High Fist jabbed a finger at the historian. “Kill him! Kill him now!”
“Wait!” Mallick Rel shouted. He turned to Pormqual. “Please, High Fist, leave that to me, I beg you! Be assured that I shall exact a worthy punishment!”
“As you say, then, but—” Pormqual glared about. “What shall we do, Mallick?”
The priest pointed to the north. “There, riders approach under a white flag—let us see what Korbolo Dom proposes, High Fist! What have we to lose?”
“I cannot speak with them!” Pormqual gibbered. “I cannot think! Mallick—please!”
“Very well,” the Jhistal priest acceded. He swung his mount around, jabbed spurred heels into the beast’s flanks and rode through the milling ranks of the High Fist’s trapped army.
Midway up the distant north slope, the converging riders met. The parley lasted less than a minute, then Mallick wheeled and rode back.
“If we push back we can break the elements to the south,” Duiker quietly said to the High Fist. “A fighting withdrawal back to the city’s gates—”
“Not another word from you, traitor!”
Mallick Rel arrived, his expression filled with hope. “Korbolo Dom has had enough of bloodshed, High Fist! Yesterday’s slaughter has left him sickened!”
“What does he propose, then?” Pormqual demanded, leaning forward.
“Our only hope, High Fist. You must command your army to lay down its arms—to pass them out to the edges, then withdraw into a compact mass in the center of this basin. They shall be prisoners of war, and therefore treated with mercy. As for you and me, we shall be made hostages. When Tavore arrives, arrangements will be made for our honorable return. High Fist, we have no choice in the matter…”
A strange lassitude seeped into Duiker as he listened. He knew he could say nothing to sway the High Fist. He slowly dismounted, reached under his mare and unhitched the girth.
“What are you doing, traitor?” Mallick Rel demanded.
“I’m freeing my horse,” the historian said reasonably. “The enemy won’t bother with her—too worn out to be of any use. She’ll head back to Aren—it’s the least I can do for her.” He removed the saddle, dropped it to the ground to one side, then pulled the bit from the mare’s mouth.
The priest stared for a moment longer, a slight frown on his face, then he turned back to the High Fist. “They await our reply.”
Duiker stepped close to his horse’s head and laid a hand on the soft muzzle. “Take care,” he whispered. Then he stepped back, gave the animal a slap on the rump. The mare sprang away, wheeled, then trotted southward—as Duiker knew she would.
“What choice?” Pormqual whispered. “Unlike Coltaine, I must consider my soldiers…their lives are worth everything…peace will return to this land, sooner or later…”
“Thousands of husbands, wives, and fathers and mothers will bless your name, High Fist. To fight now, to seek out that bitter, pointless end, ah, they will curse your name for all eternity.”
“I cannot have that,” Pormqual agreed. He faced his officers. “Lay down arms. Deliver the orders—all weapons to go to the edges and left there, the ranks to withdraw to the center of the basin.”
Duiker stared at the four captains who listened in silence to the High Fist’s commands. A long moment passed, then the officers saluted and rode off.
Duiker turned away.
The disarmament took close to an hour, the Malazan soldiers yielding their weapons in silence. Those weapons were piled on the ground just beyond the phalanxes, then the soldiers made their way inward, forming up in tight, restless ranks in the basin’s center.
Tribal horsewarriors then rode down and collected the arms. Twenty minutes later an army of ten thousand Malazans crowded the basin, weaponless, helpless.
Korbolo Dom’s vanguard detached from the forces on the north ridge and rode down toward the High Fist’s position.
Duiker stared at the approaching group. He saw Kamist Reloe, a handful of war chiefs, two unarmed women who were in all likelihood mages, and Korbolo Dom himself, a squat half-Napan, all hair shaved from his body, revealing scars in tangled webs. He was smiling as he reined in with his companions before the High Fist, Mallick Rel and the other officers.
“Well done,” he growled, his eyes on the priest.
The Jhistal dismounted, stepped forward and bowed. “I deliver to you High Fist Pormqual and his ten thousand. More, I deliver to you the city Aren, in Sha’ik’s name—”
“Wrong,” Duiker chuckled.
Mallick Rel faced him.
“You’ve not delivered Aren, Jhistal.”
“What claims do you make now, old man?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t notice,” the historian said. “Too busy gloating, I guess. Take a close look at the companies around you, especially those to the south…”
Mallick’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the gathered legions. Then he paled. “Blistig!”
“Seems the commander and his garrison decided to stay behind after all. Granted, they’re only two or three hundred, but we both know that that will be enough—for the week or so until Tavore arrives. Aren’s walls are high, well impregnated these days with Otataral, I believe—proof against any sorcery. Thinking on it, I would predict that there are Red Blades lining those walls now, as well as the garrison. You have failed in your betrayal, Jhistal. Failed.”
The priest jerked forward, the back of his hand cracking against Duiker’s face. The historian was spun around by the savage blow, and the rings on the man’s hand raking through the flesh of one cheek burst the barely healed splits in his lips and chin. He fell hard to the ground and felt something shatter against his sternum.
He pushed himself up, the blood streaming down his lacerated face. Looking down at the ground beneath him, he expected to see tiny fragments of broken glass, but there were none. The leather thong around his neck now had nothing on it at all.
Hands pulled him roughly to his feet and dragged him around to face Mallick Rel once more.
The priest was trembling still. “Your death shall be—”
“Silence!” Korbolo snapped. He eyed Duiker. “You are the historian who rode with Coltaine.”
The historian faced him. “I am.”
“You are a soldier.”
“As you say.”
“I do, and so you shall die with these soldiers, in a manner no different—”
“You mean to slaughter ten thousand unarmed men and women, Korbolo Dom?”
“I mean to cripple Tavore before she even sets foot on this continent. I mean to make her too furious to think. I mean to crack that façade so she dreams of vengeance day and night, poisoning her every decision.”
“You always fashioned yourself as the Empire’s harshest Fist, didn’t you, Korbolo Dom? As if cruelty’s virtue…”
The pale-blue-skinned commander simply shrugged. “Best join the others now, Duiker—a soldier of Coltaine’s army deserves that much.” Korbolo then turned to Mallick. “My mercy, however, does not extend to that one soldier whose arrow stole Coltaine from our pleasure. Where is he, Priest?”
“He went missing, alas. Last seen an hour after the deed—Blistig had his soldiers search everywhere, without success. Even if he has now found him, he is with the garrison, afraid to say.”
The renegade Fist scowled. “There have been disappointments this day, Mallick Rel.”
“Korbolo Dom, sir!” Pormqual said, still bearing an expression of disbelief. “I do not understand—”
“Clearly you do not,” the commander agreed, his face twisting in disgust. “Jhistal, have you any particular fate in mind for this fool?”
“None. He is yours.”
“I cannot grant him the dignified sacrifice I have in mind for his soldiers. That would leave too bitter a taste in my mouth, I’m afraid.” Korbolo Dom hesitated, then sighed and made a slight gesture with one hand.
A war chief’s tulwar flashed behind the High Fist, lifted the man’s head clean from his shoulders and sent it spinning. The warhorse bolted in alarm and broke through the ring of soldiers. The beautiful beast galloped down among the unarmed soldiers, carrying its headless burden into their midst. The High Fist’s corpse, Duiker saw, rode in the saddle with a grace not matched in life, weaving this way and that before hands reached up to slow the frightened horse, and Pormqual’s body slid to one side, falling into waiting arms.
It may have been his imagination, but Duiker thought he could hear the harsh laughter of a god.
There was no shortage of spikes, yet it took a day and a half before the last screaming prisoner was nailed to the last crowded cedar lining Aren Way.
Ten thousand dead and dying Malazans stared down on that wide, exquisitely engineered Imperial road—eyes unseeing or eyes uncomprehending—it made little difference.
Duiker was the last, the rusty iron spikes driven through his wrists and upper arms to hold him in place high on the tree’s blood-streaked bole. More spikes were hammered through his ankles and the muscles of his outer thighs.
