The Malazan Empire, page 343
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 pre-dawn raid, identical to the first one. And so the Adjunct had ordered the emplacements as a preemptive 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 back-lit 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 cross-bow 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.’
