The Malazan Empire, page 488
‘So my squad is a corporal and two soljers.’
‘Twins, Sergeant,’ Touchy said. ‘But I’m older, as I’m sure you can tell.’
‘And mentally underdeveloped, Sergeant,’ Brethless said. ‘Those last few minutes were obviously crucial, as I’m sure you can tell.’
Hellian turned away. ‘They look the same to me, Urb. All right, has the word come yet? We s’posed to be mustering somewhere right now?’
‘Sergeant, you might want to pass that jug around – we’re about to get in a fight and I don’t know about you and them two, but I joined the local city guard so’s I wouldn’t have to do any of this. I been to the latrines four times since supper and I’m still all squishy inside.’
At Urb’s suggestion Hellian clutched the jug tight to her chest. ‘Getyerown.’
‘Sergeant.’
‘All right, a couple mouthfuls each, then I get the rest. I see anybody take more’n two swallows and I cut ’em down where they stand.’
‘With what?’ Urb asked as he pulled the jug from her reluctant hands.
Hellian frowned. With what? What was he talking about? Oh, right. She thought for a moment, then smiled. ‘I’ll borrow your sword, of course.’ There, what a pleasing solution.
Sergeant Balm squatted in the dirt, studying the array of pebbles, stone discs and clay buttons resting on the elongated Troughs board. He muttered under his breath, wondering if this was a dream, a nightmare and he was still asleep. He glanced across at Sergeant Moak, then looked back down at the game-board.
Something was wrong. He could make no sense of the pieces. He’d forgotten how to play the game. Straws, discs, buttons, pebbles – what were they all about? What did they signify? Who was winning? ‘Who’s playing this damned game?’ he demanded.
‘You and me, you Dal Honese weasel,’ Moak said.
‘I think you’re lying. I never seen this game before in my life.’ He glared round at all the faces, the soldiers all looking down to watch, all looking at him now. Strange expressions – had he ever seen any of them before? He was a sergeant, wasn’t he? ‘Where’s my damned squad? I’m supposed to be with my damned squad. Has the call come? What am I doing here?’ He shot upright, making sure one foot toppled the game-board. Pieces flew, soldiers jumping back.
‘Bad omen!’ one hissed, backing away.
Growling, Moak rose, reaching for the knife at his belt. ‘Swamp scum, you’ll pay for that. I was winning—’
‘No you weren’t! Those pieces were a mess! A jumble! They didn’t make sense!’ He reached up and scratched at his face. ‘What – this is clay! My face is covered in clay! A death mask! Who did this to me?’
A familiar but musty-smelling man stepped close to Balm. ‘Sergeant, your squad’s right here. I’m Deadsmell—’
‘I’ll say.’
‘Corporal Deadsmell. And that’s Throatslitter, and Widdershins, Galt and Lobe—’
‘All right, all right, be quiet, I ain’t blind. When’s the call coming? We should’ve heard something by now.’
Moak closed in. ‘I wasn’t finished with you – that was a curse, what you did, Balm, on me and my squad – since I was winning the game. You cursed us, you damned warlock—’
‘I did not! It was an accident. Come on, Deadsmell, let’s make our way to the pickets, I’m done waiting here.’
‘You’re headed the wrong way, Sergeant!’
‘Lead on, then! Who designed this damned camp, anyway? None of it makes any sense!’
Behind them, Sergeant Moak made to step after them, but his corporal, Stacker, pulled him back. ‘It’s all right, Sergeant. I heard about this from my da. It’s the Confusion. Comes to some before a battle. They lose track – of everything. It should settle down once the fighting starts – but sometimes it don’t, and if that’s the case with Balm, then it’s his squad that’s doomed, not us.’
‘You sure about all that, Stacker?’
‘Yeah. Remember Fist Gamet? Listen. It’s all right. We should check our weapons, one last time.’
Moak sheathed his knife. ‘Good idea, get them on it, then.’
Twenty paces away, Deadsmell fell in step alongside his sergeant. ‘Smart, all that back there. You was losing bad. Faking the Confusion, well, Sergeant, I’m impressed.’
Balm stared at the man. Who was he again? And what was he blathering on about? What language was the fool speaking, anyway?
‘I got no appetite,’ Lutes said, tossing the chunk of bread away. A camp dog closed in, collected the food and scampered off. ‘I feel sick,’ the soldier continued.
‘You ain’t the only one,’ Maybe said. ‘I’m in there first, you know. Us sappers. Rest of you got it easy. We got to set charges, meaning we’re running with cussers and crackers over rough ground, climbing rubble, probably under fire from the walls. Then, down at the foot of the wall and Hood knows what’s gonna pour down on us. Boiling water, oil, hot sand, bricks, offal, barrack-buckets. So it’s raining down. Set the munitions. Acid on the wax – too much and we all go up right there and then. Dozens of sappers, and any one of ’em makes a mistake, or some piece of rock drops smack onto a munition. Boom! We’re as good as dead already, if you ask me. Bits of meat. Tomorrow morning the crows will come down and that’s that. Send word to my family, will you? Maybe was blown to bits at Y’Ghatan, that’s all. No point in going into the gory details – hey, where you going? Gods below, Lutes, do your throwing up outa my sight, will you? Hood take us, that’s awful. Hey, Balgrid! Look! Our squad healer’s heaving his guts out!’
Gesler, Strings, Cuttle, Truth and Pella sat around the dying coals of a hearth, drinking tea.
‘They’re all losing their minds with this waiting,’ Gesler said.
‘I get just as bad before every battle,’ Strings admitted. ‘Cold and loose inside, if you know what I mean. It never goes away.’
‘But you settle once it’s begun,’ Cuttle said. ‘We all do, ’cause we’ve done this before. We settled, and we know we settle. Most of these soldiers, they don’t know nothing of the sort. They don’t know how they’ll be once the fighting starts. So they’re all terrified they’ll curl up into cringing cowards.’
‘Most of them probably will,’ Gesler said.
‘I don’t know about that, Sergeant,’ Pella said. ‘Saw plenty of soldiers just like these ones at Skullcup. When the rebellion hit, well, they fought and they fought well, all things considered.’
‘Outnumbered.’
‘Yes.’
‘So they died.’
‘Most of them.’
‘That’s the thing with war,’ Gesler said. ‘Ain’t nearly as many surprises, when all’s said and done, as you might think. Or hope. Heroic stands usually end up with not a single hero left standing. Held out longer than expected, but the end was the same anyway. The end’s always the same.’
‘Abyss below, Gesler,’ Strings said, ‘ain’t you a cheery one.’
‘Just being realistic, Fid. Damn, I wish Stormy was here, now it’s up to me to keep an eye on my squad.’
‘Yes,’ Cuttle said, ‘that’s what sergeants do.’
‘You suggesting Stormy should’ve been sergeant and me corporal?’
‘Now why would I do that?’ the sapper asked. ‘You’re both just as bad as each other. Now Pella here…’
‘No thanks,’ Pella said.
Strings sipped his tea. ‘Just make sure everybody sticks together. Captain wants us on the tip of the spear, as fast and as far in as we can get – the rest will just have to catch up. Cuttle?’
‘Once the wall’s blown I’ll pull our sappers together and we meet you inside the breach. Where’s Borduke right now?’
‘Went for a walk. Seems his squad got into some kind of sympathetic heaves. Borduke got disgusted and stormed off.’
‘So long as everybody’s belly is empty by the time we get the call,’ Cuttle said. ‘Especially Maybe.’
‘Especially maybe,’ Gesler said, with a low laugh. ‘That’s a good one. You’ve made my day, Cuttle.’
‘Believe me, it wasn’t intentional.’
Seated nearby, hidden from the others in a brush-bordered hollow, Bottle smiled. So that’s how the veterans get ready for a fight. Same as everyone else. That did indeed comfort him. Mostly. Well, maybe not. Better had they been confident, brash and swaggering. This – what was coming – sounded all too uncertain.
He had just returned from the mage gathering. Magical probes had revealed a muted presence in Y’Ghatan, the priestly kind, for the most part, and what there was of that was confused, panicked. Or strangely quiescent. For the sappers’ advance, Bottle would be drawing upon Meanas, rolling banks of mist, tumbling darkness on all sides. Easily dispelled, if a mage of any skill was on the wall, but there didn’t seem to be any. Most troubling of all, Bottle would need all his concentration to work Meanas, thus preventing him from using spirit magic. Leaving him as blind as those few enemy soldiers on the wall.
He admitted to a bad run of nerves – he hadn’t been nearly so shaky at Raraku. And with Leoman’s ambush in the sandstorm, well, it was an ambush, wasn’t it – there’d been no time for terror. In any case, he didn’t like this feeling.
Rising into a crouch, he moved away, up and out of the hollow, straightening and walking casually into the squad’s camp. It seemed Strings didn’t mind leaving his soldiers alone for a while before things heated up, letting them chew on their own thoughts, then – hopefully – reining everyone in at the last moment.
Koryk was tying yet more fetishes onto the various rings and loops in his armour, strips of coloured cloth, bird bones and chain-links to add to the ubiquitous finger bones that now signified the Fourteenth Army. Smiles was flipping her throwing-knives, the blades slapping softly on the leather of her gloves. Tarr stood nearby, shield already strapped on his left arm, short sword in his gauntleted right hand, most of his face hidden by his helm’s cheek-guards.
Turning, Bottle studied the distant city. Dark – there seemed not a single lantern glowing from that squat, squalid heap. He already hated Y’Ghatan.
A low whistle in the night. Sudden stirring. Cuttle appeared. ‘Sappers, to me. It’s time.’
Gods below, so it is.
Leoman stood in the Falah’d’s throne room. Eleven warriors were arrayed before him, glassy-eyed, their leather armour webbed in harnesses with straps and loops dangling. Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas studied them – familiar faces one and all, yet now barely recognizable beneath the blood and strips of skin. Deliverers of the Apocalypse, sworn now to fanaticism, sworn not to see the coming dawn, bound to death this night. The very sight of them, with their drug-soaked eyes, chilled Corabb.
‘You know what is asked of you this night,’ Leoman said to his chosen warriors. ‘Leave now, my brothers and sisters, under the pure eyes of Dryjhna, and we shall meet again at Hood’s Gate.’
They bowed and headed off.
Corabb watched until the last of them vanished beyond the great doors, then faced Leoman. ‘Warleader, what is to happen? What have you planned? You spoke of Dryjhna, yet this night you have bargained with the Queen of Dreams. Speak to me, before I begin to lose faith.’
‘Poor Corabb,’ Dunsparrow murmured.
Leoman shot her a glare, then said, ‘No time, Corabb, but I tell you this – I have had my fill of fanatics, through this lifetime and a dozen others, I have had my fill—’
Boots sounded on the floor in the hallway beyond, and they turned as a tall, cloaked warrior strode in, drawing his hood back. Corabb’s eyes widened, and hope surged through him as he stepped forward. ‘High Mage L’oric! Truly, Dryjhna shines bright in the sky tonight!’
The tall man was massaging one shoulder, wincing as he said, ‘Would that I could have arrived within the damned city walls – too many mages stirring in the Malazan camp. Leoman, I did not know you had the power to summon – I tell you, I was headed elsewhere—’
‘The Queen of Dreams, L’oric.’
‘Again? What does she want?’
Leoman shrugged. ‘You were part of the deal, I’m afraid.’
‘What deal?’
‘I will explain later. In any case, we need you this night. Come, we climb to the South Tower.’
Another surge of hope. Corabb knew he could trust Leoman. The Holy Warrior possessed a plan, a diabolical, brilliant plan. He had been a fool to doubt. He set off in the wake of Dunsparrow, High Mage L’oric and Leoman of the Flails.
L’oric. Now we can fight the Malazans on equal terms. And in such a contest, we can naught but win!
In the dark, beyond the rough ground of the pickets, Bottle crouched a few paces away from the handful of sappers he had been assigned to protect. Cuttle, Maybe, Crump, Ramp and Widdershins. Nearby was a second group being covered by Balgrid: Taffo, Able, Gupp, Jump and Bowl. People he knew from the march, now revealed as sappers or would-be sappers. Insane. Never knew there were so many in our company. Strings was in neither group; he would be leading the rest of the squads into the breach before the smoke and dust settled.
Y’Ghatan’s walls were a mess, tiered with older efforts, the last series Malazan-built in the classic sloping style, twenty paces thick at its base. As far as anyone knew, this would be the first time the sappers would challenge the engineering of imperial fortifications – he could see the gleam in their eyes.
Someone approached from his right and Bottle squinted through the gloom as the man arrived to crouch down beside him. ‘Ebron, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, Ashok Regiment.’
Bottle smiled. ‘They don’t exist no more, Ebron.’
He tapped his chest, then said, ‘You got a squad-mate of mine in your group.’
‘The one named Crump.’
‘Aye. Just thought you should know – he’s dangerous.’
‘Aren’t they all?’
‘No, this one especially. He was tossed out of the Mott Irregulars back on Genabackis.’
‘Sorry, that don’t mean nothing to me, Ebron.’
‘Too bad. Anyway, consider yourself warned. Might think about mentioning it to Cuttle.’
‘All right, I will.’
‘Oponn’s pull on you this night, lad.’
‘And on you, Ebron.’
The man vanished into the darkness once more.
More waiting. No lights visible along the city’s wall, nor the flanking corner bastions. No movement among the battlements.
A low whistle. Bottle met Cuttle’s eyes, and the sapper nodded.
Meanas, the warren of shadows, illusion and deception. He fashioned a mental image of the warren, a swirling wall before him, then began focusing his will, watched as a wound formed, lurid red at first, then a hole burning through. Power poured into him. Enough! No more. Gods, why is it so strong? Faint sound, something like movement, a presence, there, on the other side of the warren’s wall…
Then…nothing.
Of course there was no wall. That had been simply a construct, a fashioning in Bottle’s mind to manifest an idea into something physical. Something that he could then breach.
Simple, really. Just incredibly dangerous. We damned mages must be mad, to play with this, to persist in the conceit that it can be managed, shaped, twisted by will alone.
Power is blood.
Blood is power.
And this blood, it belongs to an Elder God…
A hiss from Cuttle. He blinked, then nodded as he began shaping the sorcery of Meanas. Mists, shot through with inky gloom, spreading out across the rough ground, snaking among the rubble, and the sappers set out, plunged into it, and moved on, unseen.
Bottle followed a few paces behind. The soldiers hiding in that magic could see. Nothing of the illusion confounded their senses. Illusions were usually one- or at best two-sided; seen from the other sides, well, there was nothing to see. True masters, of course, could cheat light in all directions, could fashion something that looked physically real, that moved as it should, casting its own shadow, even scuffing up illusional dust. Bottle’s level of skill was nowhere near that. Balgrid had managed it – barely, it was true, but still…impressive.
But I hate this kind of sorcery. Sure, it’s fascinating. Fun to play with, on occasion, but not like tonight, not when it’s suddenly life and death.
They threw wagon-planks across the narrow moat Leoman’s soldiers had dug, then drew closer to the wall.
Lostara Yil came to Tene Baralta’s side. They were positioned at the picket line, behind them the massed ranks of soldiery. Her former commander’s face revealed surprise as he looked upon her.
‘I did not think to see you again, Captain.’
She shrugged. ‘I was getting fat and lazy, Commander.’
‘That Claw you were with is not a popular man. The decision was made that he was better off staying in his tent – indefinitely.’
‘I have no objection to that.’
Through the gloom they could see swirling clouds of deeper darkness, rolling ominously towards the city’s wall.
‘Are you prepared, Captain,’ Baralta asked, ‘to bloody your sword this night?’
‘More than you could imagine, Commander.’
Waves of vertigo rippled through Sergeant Hellian, nausea threatening as she watched the magics draw ever closer to Y’Ghatan. It was Y’Ghatan, wasn’t it? She turned to the sergeant standing beside her. ‘What city is that? Y’Ghatan. I know about that city. It’s where Malazans die. Who are you? Who’s undermining the walls? Where are the siege weapons? What kind of siege is this?’
‘I’m Strings, and you look to be drunk.’
‘So? I hate fighting. Strip me of my command, throw me in chains, find a dungeon – only, no spiders. And find that bastard, the one who disappeared, arrest him and chain him within reach. I want to rip out his throat.’
The sergeant was staring at her. She stared back – at least he wasn’t weaving back and forth. Not much, anyway.
‘You hate fighting, and you want to rip out someone’s throat?’
