The Malazan Empire, page 219
They are trapped, my friend. All but the T’lan Imass, who fears solitude. Why else would he not leave his companions? Swallowed in ice. Helpless. Frozen. The Seguleh – no need to fear them. Never was. I but played. And the woman! My rimed beauteous statue! Wolf and dog have vanished. Fled. Aye, the kin, brother of your eyes … fled. Tail between legs, hee hee!
And again.
Your Malazan army is too late! Too late to save Capustan! The city is mine. Your fellow soldiers are still a week away, my friend. We shall await them. We shall greet them as we greet all enemies.
I will bring you the head of the Malazan general. I will bring you his cooked flesh, and we shall dine together, you and I, once more.
How much blood can one world shed? Have you ever wondered, Toc the Younger? Shall we see? Let us see, then. You and I, and dear Mother here – oh, is that horror I see in her eyes? Some sanity still resides in her rotted brain, it seems. How unfortunate … for her.
And now, after a long absence, he returned once more. The false skin of the old man was taut against the unhuman visage. The tusks were visible as if through a transparent sheath. The eyes burned, but not, this time, with glee.
Deceit! They are not mortal beasts! How dare they assail my defences! Here, at the very gates! And now the T’lan Imass has vanished – I can find him nowhere! Does he come as well?
So be it. They shall not find you. We journey, the three of us. North, far beyond their reach. I have prepared another … nest for you two.
The inconvenience …
But Toc no longer heard him. His mind had been snatched away. He saw brittle white sunlight, a painful glare shimmering from ice-clad mountains and valleys buried in rivers of snow. In the sky, wheeling condors. And then, far more immediate, there was smoke, wooden structures shattered, stone walls tumbled. Figures running, screaming. Crimson spattering the snow, filling the milky puddles of a gravel road.
The point of view – eyes that saw through a red haze – shifted, swung to one side. A mottled black and grey hound kept pace, shoulders at eye level to the armoured figures it was tearing into with blurred savagery. The creature was driving towards a second set of gates, an arched portal at the base of a towering fortress. None could stand before it, none could slow its momentum.
Grey dust swirled from the hound’s shoulders. Swirled. Spun, twisted into arms, legs gripping the creature’s flanks, a bone-helmed head, torn fur a ragged wing behind it. Raised high, a rippled sword the colour of old blood.
His bones are well, his flesh is not. My flesh is well, my bones are not. Are we brothers?
Hound and rider – nightmare vision – struck the huge, iron-banded gates.
Wood exploded. In the archway’s gloom, terror plunged among a reeling knot of Seerdomin.
Loping towards the breached portal, Toc rode his wolf’s vision, saw into the shadows, where huge, reptilian shapes stepped into view to either side of the hound and its undead rider.
The K’ell Hunters raised their broad blades.
Snarling, the wolf sprinted. His focus was the gate, every detail there sharp as broken glass whilst all that lay to either side blurred. A shift of weight brought him to the Ke’ll Hunter closing from the hound and rider’s left.
The creature pivoted, sword slashing to intercept his charge.
The wolf ducked beneath it, then surged upward, jaws wide. Leathery throat filled his mouth. His canines sank deep into lifeless flesh. Jaw muscles bunched. Bone cracked, then crumbled as the wolf inexorably closed its vice-grip, even as the momentum of his charge drove the K’ell Hunter back onto its tail, crashing against a wall that shuddered with the impact. Upper and lower canines met. Jagged molars ground together, slicing through wood-like tendon and dry muscle.
The wolf was severing the head from the body.
The K’Chain Che’Malle shook beneath him, spasmed. A flailing blade sliced into the wolf’s right haunch.
Toc and beast flinched at the pain, yet did not relent.
The ornately helmed head fell back, away, thumped as it struck the slush-covered cobbles.
Snarling, lifeless shreds snagged on his teeth, the wolf spun round.
The hound crouched, spine hunched, in a corner of the archway. Blood poured from it. Alone, to battle its wounds.
The undead swordsman – my brother – was on his leather-wrapped feet now, his flint sword trading blows with the other K’ell Hunter’s twin blades. At speeds unimaginable. Chunks of the K’Chain Che’Malle flew. A sword-bound forearm spun end over end to land near the flinching hound.
The K’ell Hunter lurched back in the face of the onslaught. Shin-bones snapped with a brittle report. The huge creature fell over, spraying slush out to all sides.
The undead warrior clambered onto it, systematically swinging his sword to dismember the K’Chain Che’Malle. It was a task swiftly completed.
The wolf approached the wounded hound. The animal snapped a warning to stay away—
Toc was suddenly blind, ripped away from the wolf’s vision.
Bitter winds tore at him, but the Matron held him tight. On the move. Swiftly. They travelled a warren, a path of riven ice. They were, he realized, fleeing Outlook, fleeing the fortress that had just been breached.
By Baaljagg. And Garath and Tool. Garath – those wounds—
‘Silence!’ a voice shrieked.
The Seer was with them, leading the way through Omtose Phellack.
The gift of clarity remained in Toc’s mind. His laugh was a ragged gurgle.
‘Shut up!’
The entire warren shook to distant thunder, the sound of vast ice … cracking, exploding in a conflagration of sorcery.
Lady Envy. With us once more—
The Seer screamed.
Reptilian arms clenched Toc. Bones cracked, splintered. Pain shoved him over a precipice. My kin, my brothers—He blacked out.
* * *
The night sky to the south was lit red. Though over a league distant, from the slope of the sparsely wooded hill, Capustan’s death was plain to see, drawing the witnesses to silence apart from the rustle of armour and weapons, and the squelch of boots and moccasins in mud.
Leaves dripped a steady susurration. The soaked humus filled the warm air with its fecundity. Somewhere nearby a man coughed.
Captain Paran drew a dagger and began scraping the mud from his boots. He had known what to expect at this moment – his first sight of the city. Humbrall Taur’s scouts had brought word back earlier in the day. The siege was over. The Grey Swords might well have demanded an emperor’s ransom for their services, but fire-charred, tooth-gnawed bones could not collect it. Even so, knowing what to expect did little to diminish the pathos of a dying city.
Had those Grey Swords been Crimson Guard, the scene before Paran might well be different. With the lone exception of Prince K’azz D’Avore’s Company of the Avowed, mercenaries were less than worthless as far as the captain was concerned. Tough talk and little else.
Let’s hope those children of Humbrall Taur have fared better. It did not seem likely. Pockets of resistance perhaps remained. Small knots of cornered soldiers, knowing mercy was out of the question, would fight to the last. In alleys, in houses, in rooms. Capustan’s death-throes would be protracted. Then again, if these damned Barghast can actually manage a doubletime – instead of this squabbling saunter – we might be able to adjust that particular fate’s conclusion.
Paran turned at the arrival of his new commander, Trotts.
The huge Barghast’s eyes glittered as he studied the burning city. ‘The rains have done little to dim the flames,’ he rumbled, scowling.
‘Perhaps it’s not as bad as it looks,’ Paran said. ‘I can make out maybe five major fires. It could be worse – I’ve heard tales of firestorms…’
‘Aye. We saw one from afar, in Seven Cities, once.’
‘What’s Humbrall Taur had to say, Warchief? Do we pick up our pace or do we just stand here?’
Trotts bared his filed teeth. ‘He will send the Barahn and the Ahkrata clans southeast. They are tasked with taking the landings and the floating bridges and barges. His own Senan and the Gilk will strike towards Capustan. The remaining clans will seize the Septarch’s main supply camp, which lies between the landings and the city.’
‘That’s all very well, but if we keep dawdling—’
‘Hetan and Cafal, Taur’s children, are alive and not at risk. So the shouldermen insist. The bones are being protected, by strange sorceries. Strange, yet profoundly powerful. There is—’
‘Damn you, Trotts! People are dying down there! People are being devoured!’
The Barghast’s grin broadened. ‘Thus, I have been given leave … to lead my clan at a pace of my own choosing. Captain, are you eager to be first among the White Faces into Capustan?’
Paran growled under his breath. He felt a need to draw his sword, felt a need to deliver vengeance, to finally – after all this time – strike a blow against the Pannion Domin. Quick Ben, in those moments when he was lucid and not raving with fever, had made it clear that the Domin held dire secrets, and a malevolence stained its heart. The fact of the Tenescowri was proof enough of that to the captain’s mind.
But there was more to his need. He lived with pain. His stomach raged with spotfires. He had thrown up acidic bile and blood – revealing that truth to no-one. The pain bound him within himself, and those bindings were getting tighter.
And another truth, one I keep pushing away. She’s haunting me. Seeking my thoughts. But I’m not ready for her. Not yet, not with my stomach aflame …
It was no doubt madness – a delusion – but Paran believed that the pain would relent – all would be well once more – as soon as he delivered to the world the violence trapped within him. Folly or not, he clung to that belief. Only then will these pressures relent. Only then.
He was not ready to fail.
‘Call up the Bridgeburners, then,’ Paran muttered. ‘We can be at the north gate inside of a bell.’
Trotts grunted. ‘All thirty-odd of us.’
‘Well, damn if we can’t shame these Barghast into some haste—’
‘This is your hope?’
Paran glanced over at the man. ‘Hood take us all, Trotts, you were the one who asked Taur to grant you leave. Do you expect the thirty-seven of us to retake Capustan all on our own? With an unconscious mage in tow?’
The Barghast, eyes thinned to slits as he studied the city ahead, rolled his shoulders and said, ‘We leave Quick Ben behind. As for retaking the city, I mean to try.’
After a long moment, the captain grinned. ‘Glad to hear it.’
* * *
The march of the White Face Barghast had been slow, torturous. Early on, during the southward journey across the high plains, sudden duels brought the clans to a halt a half-dozen times a day. These were, finally, diminishing, and Humbrall Taur’s decision to assign entire clans to specific tasks in the upcoming battle would effectively remove the opportunity in the days to come. For all that every warchief had bowed to the single cause – the liberation of their gods – longstanding enmities persisted.
Trotts’s new role as warchief of the Bridgeburners had proved something of a relief for Paran. He’d hated the responsibility of command. The pressure that was the well-being of every soldier under him had been a growing burden. As second-in-command, that pressure had diminished, if only slightly – but it was, for now, enough. Less pleasant was the fact that Paran had lost his role as representative of the Bridgeburners. Trotts had taken on the task of attending the war councils, leaving the captain out of the picture.
In the strictest sense, Paran remained in command of the Bridgeburners. But the company had become a tribe, insofar as Humbrall Taur and the Barghast were concerned, and tribes elected warchiefs, and that role belonged to Trotts.
The tree-studded hills behind them, the company of Bridgeburners moved down to the muddy verges of a seasonal stream that wound its way towards the city. Smoke from Capustan’s fires obscured the stars overhead, and the rain of the past few days had softened the ground underfoot, lending it a spongy silence. Armour and weapons had been strapped tight; the Bridgeburners padded forward through the darkness without a sound.
Paran was three paces behind Trotts, who still held to his old role in Whiskeyjack’s squad – that of taking point. Not the ideal position for the commander, but one that complemented the Barghast role of warchief. The captain was not happy with it. Worse, it showed Trotts’s stubborn side all too clearly. A lack of adaptability that was disturbing in a leader.
An invisible presence seemed to settle on his shoulder, the touch of a distant, familiar mind. Paran grimaced. His link with Silverfox was growing stronger. This was the third time she had reached out to him this week. A faint brush of awareness, like the touching of fingers, tip to tip. He wondered if that made her able to see what he saw, wondered if she was reading his thoughts. Given all that he held within himself, Paran was beginning to instinctively recoil from her contact. His secrets were his own. She had no right to plunder them, if that was what she was doing. Even tactical necessity could not justify that to his mind. His frown deepened as her presence lingered. If it is her. What if—
Ahead, Trotts stopped, settling into a crouch, one hand raised. He gestured twice.
Paran and the soldier immediately behind him moved to join the Barghast warrior.
They had reached the Pannions’ north pickets. The encampment was a shambles, bereft of organization, sloppily prepared and seriously undermanned. Litter cluttered the trodden paths between trenches, pits, and the ragged sprawl of makeshift tents. The air was redolent with poorly placed latrines.
The three men studied the scene for a moment longer, then withdrew to rejoin the others. The squad sergeants slipped forward. A huddle was formed.
Spindle, who had been the soldier accompanying Paran, was the first to speak. ‘Medium infantry on station,’ he whispered. ‘Two small companies by the pair of standards—’
‘Two hundred,’ Trotts agreed. ‘More in the tents. Sick and wounded.’
‘Mostly sick, I’d say,’ Spindle replied. ‘Dysentery, I’d guess, by the smell. These Pannion officers ain’t worth dung. Them sick ones won’t be in the fighting no matter what we do. Guess everyone else is in the city.’
‘The gates beyond,’ Trotts growled.
Paran nodded. ‘Lots of bodies before it. A thousand corpses, maybe more. No barricades at the gates themselves, nor could I see any guard. The overconfidence of victors.’
‘We gotta punch through them medium infantry,’ Sergeant Antsy muttered. ‘Spindle, how are you and the rest of the sappers for Moranth munitions?’
The small man grinned. ‘Found your nerve again, eh, Antsy?’
The sergeant scowled. ‘This is fightin’, ain’t it? Now answer my question, soldier.’
‘We got plenty. Wish we had a few of them lobbers Fiddler makes, though.’
Paran blinked, then recalled the oversized crossbows Fiddler and Hedge used to extend the range of cussers. ‘Doesn’t Hedge have one?’ he asked.
‘He broke it, the idiot. No, we’ll prime some cussers but that’ll be just for sowing. Sharpers, tonight. Burners would make too much light – let the enemy see how few of us there really are. Sharpers. I’ll gather the lads and lasses.’
‘I thought you were a mage,’ Paran muttered as the man turned towards the waiting squads.
Spindle glanced back. ‘I am, Captain. And I’m a sapper, too. Deadly combination, eh?’
‘Deadly for us,’ Antsy retorted. ‘That and your damned hairshirt—’
‘Hey, the burnt patches are growing back – see?’
‘Get to it,’ Trotts growled.
Spindle started tagging off squad sappers.
‘So we just punch right through,’ Paran said. ‘With the sharpers that should be no problem, but then the ones on the outside flanks will sweep in behind us—’
Spindle rejoined them in time to grunt and say, ‘That’s why we’ll sow cussers, Captain. Two drops on the wax. Ten heartbeats. The word’s “run”, and when we shout it that’s what you’d better do, and fast If you’re less than thirty paces away when they go up, you’re diced liver.’
‘You ready?’ Trotts asked Spindle.
‘Aye. Nine of us, so expect just under thirty paces wide, the path we carve.’
‘Weapons out,’ the Barghast said. Then he reached out and gripped Spindle’s hairshirt and dragged him close. Trotts grinned. ‘No mistakes.’
‘No mistakes,’ the man agreed, eyes widening as Trotts clacked his sharpened teeth inches from his face.
A moment later, Spindle and his eight fellow sappers were moving towards the enemy lines, hooded and shapeless in their rain-capes.
The presence brushed Paran’s awareness once again. He did all he could in his mind to push it away. The acid in his stomach swirled, murmuring a promise of pain. He drew a deep breath to steady himself. If swords clash … it will be my first. After all this time, my first battle …
The enemy medium infantry were huddled in groups, twenty or more to each of a row of hearths on the encampment’s only high ground – what used to be a cart track running parallel to the city wall. Paran judged that a path thirty paces wide would take out most of three groups.
Leaving well over a hundred Pannions capable of responding. If there were any capable officers among them, this could get ugly. Then again, if there were any capable officers there the squads wouldn’t be clumped up the way they are …
The sappers had gone to ground. The captain could no longer see them. Shifting his grip on his sword, he checked back over a shoulder to scan the rest of the Bridgeburners. Picker was at the forefront, a painful expression on her face. He was about to ask her what was wrong when detonations cracked through the night. The captain spun round.
Bodies writhed in the firelight of the now scattered hearths.
Trotts loosed a quavering warcry.
The Bridgeburners sprinted forward.
More sharpers exploded, out to the sides now, dropping the mobbed, confused soldiers around adjacent hearths.
