The Malazan Empire, page 673
Atri-Preda Bivatt stood in a position at the edge of the old shoreline that permitted her a view of what would be the field of battle. As was her habit, she had sent away all her messengers and aides – they hovered watchfully forty paces back – and was now alone with her thoughts, her observations, and would remain so – barring Brohl’s visit – until just before the engagement commenced.
His escort halted a short distance away from the Atri-Preda and waved Brohl Handar forward with an easy smile.
How can he be so calm? Unless he’s one of those who will be standing guarding horses. Big as he is, he hasn’t the look of a soldier – well, even horse-handlers are needed, after all.
‘Overseer, you look…well rested.’
‘I appear to be just that, Atri-Preda. As if the spirits of my ancestors held close vigil on me last night.’
‘Indeed. Are your Arapay ready?’
‘They are. Will you begin this battle with your mages?’
‘I must be honest in this matter. I cannot rely upon their staying alive throughout the engagement. Accordingly, yes, I will use them immediately. And if they are still with me later, then all the better.’
‘No sign of the Kechra, then.’
‘No. Observe, the enemy arrays itself.’
‘On dry purchase—’
‘To begin, yes, but we will win that purchase, Overseer. And that is the flaw in Redmask’s tactic. We will strike hard enough to knock them back, and then it will be the Awl who find themselves mired in the mud.’
Brohl Handar turned to study the Letherii forces. The various brigades, companies and battalion elements had been merged on the basis of function. On the front facing the Awl, three wedges of heavy infantry. Flanks of skirmishers mixed with medium infantry and archers. Blocks of archers between the wedges, who if they moved down onto the seabed would not go very far. Their flights of arrows would be intended to perforate the Awl line so that when the heavies struck they would drive back the enemy, one step, two, five, ten and into the mud.
‘I do not understand this Redmask,’ Brohl said, frowning back at the Awl lines.
‘He had no choice,’ Bivatt replied. ‘Not after Praedegar. And that was, for him, a failure of patience. Perhaps this is, as well, but as I said: no choice left. We have him, Overseer. Yet he will make this victory a painful one, given the chance.’
‘Your mages may well end it before it’s begun, Atri-Preda.’
‘We will see.’
Overhead, the sun continued its inexorable climb, heating the day with baleful intent. On the seabed lighter patches had begun appearing as the topmost surface dried. But immediately beneath, of course, the mud would remain soft and deep enough to cause trouble.
Bivatt had two mages left – the third had died two days past, fatally weakened by the disaster at Praedegar – one lone mounted archer had succeeded in killing three mages with one damned arrow. Brohl Handar now saw those two figures hobbling like ancients out to the old shoreline’s edge. One at each end of the outermost heavy infantry wedge. They would launch their terrible wave of magic at angles intended to converge a dozen or so ranks deep in the centre formation of Awl, so as to maximize the path of destruction.
The Atri-Preda evidently made some gesture that Brohl did not see, for all at once her messengers had arrived. She turned to him. ‘It is time. Best return to your warriors, Overseer.’
Brohl Handar grimaced. ‘Rearguard again.’
‘You will see a fight this day, Overseer. I am sure of that.’
He was not convinced, but he turned away then. Two strides along and he paused and said, ‘May this day announce the end of this war.’
The Atri-Preda did not reply. It was not even certain she had heard him, as she was speaking quietly to the soldier who had been his escort. He saw surprise flit across her features beneath the helm, then she nodded.
Brohl Handar glared up at the sun, and longed for the shadowed forests of home. Then he set out for his Arapay.
Sitting on a boulder, Toc Anaster watched the children play for a moment longer, then he rolled the thinned flat of hide into a scroll and slipped it into his satchel, and added the brush of softened wood and the now-resealed bowl of charcoal, marrow and gaenth-berry ink. He rose, squinted skyward for a moment, then walked over to his horse. Seven paces, and by the time he arrived his moccasins were oversized clumps of mud. He tied the satchel to the saddle, drew a knife and bent down to scrape away as much of the mud as he could.
The Awl were gathered in their ranks off to his left, standing, waiting as the Letherii forces five hundred paces away jostled into the formations they would seek to maintain in the advance. Redmask’s warriors seemed strangely silent – of course, this was not their kind of battle. ‘No,’ Toc muttered. ‘This is the Letherii kind.’ He looked across at the enemy.
Classic wedges in sawtooth, Toc observed. Three arrowheads of heavy infantry. Those formations would be rather messy by the time they reached the Awl. Moving slow, with soldiers falling, stumbling and slipping with every stride they attempted. All to the good. There would be no heaving push at the moment of contact, not without entire front ranks of heavily armoured soldiers falling flat on their faces.
‘You will ride away,’ Torrent said behind him. ‘Or so you think. But I will be watching you, Mezla—’
‘Oh, put it to rest,’ Toc said. ‘It’s hardly my fault Redmask doesn’t think you’re worth much, Torrent. Besides,’ he added, ‘it’s not as if a horse could do much more than walk in this. And finally, Redmask has said he might want me close to hand – with my arrows – in case the K’Chain Che’Malle fail.’
‘They will not fail.’
‘Oh, and what do you know of K’Chain Che’Malle, Torrent?’
‘I know what Redmask tells us.’
‘And what does he know? More to the point, how does he know? Have you not wondered that? Not even once? The K’Chain Che’Malle are this world’s demons. Creatures of the far past. Virtually everywhere else they are extinct. So what in Hood’s name are they doing here? And why are they at Redmask’s side, seemingly eager to do as he bids?’
‘Because he is Redmask, Mezla. He is not as we are and yes, I see how the envy burns in your eye. You will ever despise those who are better than you.’
Toc leaned his forearms across the back of his horse. ‘Come closer, Torrent. Look into the eyes of this mare here. Tell me, do you see envy?’
‘A mindless beast.’
‘That will probably die today.’
‘I do not understand you, Mezla.’
‘I know. Anyway, I see that same look in your eyes, Torrent. That same blind willingness. To believe everything you need to believe. Redmask is to you as I am to this poor horse.’
‘I will listen to you no longer.’
The young warrior headed off, the stiffness of his strides soon deteriorating in the conglomeration of mud on his feet.
Nearby the children were flinging clumps of the stuff at each other and laughing. The younger ones, that is. Those carrying a few more years were silent, staring over at the enemy forces, where horns had begun sounding, and now, two well-guarded groups edging out to the very edge of the ancient shore. The mages.
We begin, then.
Far to the west the sun had yet to rise. In a nondescript village a day’s fast march from Letheras, where too many had died in the past two days, three Falari heavy infantry from 3rd Company sat on one edge of a horse trough outside the only tavern. Lookback, Drawfirst and Shoaly were cousins, or so the others thought of them, given their shared Falar traits of fiery red hair and blue eyes, and the olive-hued skin of the main island’s indigenous people, who called themselves the Walk. The idea seemed convenient enough, although none had known the others before enlisting in the Malazan Army.
The Walk civilization had thrived long ago, before the coming of iron, in fact, and as miners of tin, copper and lead it had once dominated all the isles of the archipelago in the trade of bronze weapons and ornamentation. Had they been of pure Walk blood, the soldiers would have been squatter, black-haired and reputedly laconic to the point of somnolent; as it was, they all possessed the harder, fiercer blood of the Falari invaders who had conquered most of the islands generations past. The combination, oddly enough, made for superb marines.
At the moment, amidst darkness and a pleasantly cool breeze coming in from the river to the south, the three were having a conversation, the subjects of which were Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy. Those two names – if not their pathetic ranks – were well known to all natives of Falar.
‘But they’ve changed,’ Lookback said. ‘That gold skin, it’s not natural at all. I think we should kill them.’
Drawfirst, who possessed the unfortunate combination of large breasts and a tendency to perspire profusely, had taken advantage of the darkness to divest herself of her upper armour and was now mopping beneath her breasts with a cloth. Now she said, ‘But what’s the point of that, Look? The cult is dead. It’s been dead for years.’
‘Ain’t dead for us, though, is it?’
‘Mostly,’ answered Shoaly.
‘That’s you all right, Shoaly,’ Lookback said. ‘Always seeing the dying and dead side of things.’
‘So go ask ’em, Look. And they’ll tell you the same. Fener cult’s finished.’
‘That’s why I think we should kill them. For betraying the cult. For betraying us. And what’s with that gold skin anyway? It’s creepy.’
‘Listen,’ Shoaly said, ‘we just partnered with these squads. In case you forgot, Lookback, this is the company that crawled out from under Y’Ghatan. And then there’s Fiddler. A Hood-damned Bridgeburner and maybe the only one left. Gesler was once high-ranked and so was Stormy, but just like Whiskeyjack they got busted down and down, and down, and now here you are wanting to stick ’em. The cult got outlawed and now Fener ain’t nowhere a god’s supposed to be but that ain’t Gesler’s fault. Not Stormy’s neither.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Lookback retorted. ‘We should just leave ’em and that’s that?’
‘Leave ’em? Drawfirst, explain it to this fool.’
She had pushed her breasts back into their harness and was making some final adjustments. ‘It’s simple, Look. Not only are we stuck here, with Fid and the rest. We’re all gonna die with ’em, too. Now, as for me – and probably Shoaly here – we’re gonna stand and fight, right at their sides. Gesler, Stormy, those cute heavies they got. And when we finally fall, nobody’s gonna be able to say we wasn’t worth that standing there beside ’em. Now, maybe it’s because you’re the last heavy in Primly’s squad. Maybe if Masker was still with you, you’d not be talking the way you’re talking. So now you gotta choose, Lookback. Fight with us, fight with Reliko and Vastly Blank in Badan Gruk’s squad, or fight on your own as the sole fist in Primly’s. But every one of those choices is still fighting. Creep up behind Ges or Stormy and I’ll lop your head off myself.’
‘All right all right, I was just making conversation—’
Sounds from their left drew the heavies upright, reaching for weapons. Three figures padding down the main street towards them. Strap Mull, Skim and Neller.
Skim called out in a low voice, ‘Soldiers on the way. Look sharp.’
‘Letherii?’ Shoaly asked.
‘No,’ she replied, halting opposite them while the other two marines continued on into the tavern. ‘Picture in your heads the ugliest faces you ever seen, and you then kissin’ them big and wet.’
‘Finally,’ Drawfirst sighed, ‘some good news for a change.’
Beak and the captain made their way back to where Fist Keneb waited at the head of the column. There had been Tiste Edur ahead of them for some time, unwilling to engage, but now they were gone, at least between here and yon village.
The captain drew close to the Fist. ‘Beak says they’re marines, Fist. Seems we found some of them.’
‘All of them,’ Beak said. ‘The ones who got far ahead of the rest. They’re in the village and they’ve been killing Tiste Edur. Lots of Tiste Edur.’
‘The munitions we heard yesterday.’
‘Just so, Fist,’ Beak said, nodding.
‘All right, finally some good news. How many?’
‘Seven, eight squads,’ Beak replied. He delighted in being able to talk, in person, with a real Fist. Oh, he’d imagined scenes like this, of course, with Beak there providing all kinds of information to make the Fist do all the heroic things that needed doing, and then at last Beak himself being the biggest hero of all. He was sure everyone had dreams like that, the sudden revealing of some hidden, shy side that no-one else knew anything about and couldn’t ever have guessed was even there. Shy, until it was needed, and then out it came, amazing everyone!
‘Beak?’
‘Fist?’
‘I was asking, do they know we’re here?’
‘Yes sir, I think so. They’ve got some interesting mages, including an old style warlock from the Jakata people who were the first people on Malaz Island after the Stormriders retreated. He can see through the eyes of all sorts of creatures and that must have been helpful since the coast. There’s also a Dal Honese bush shaman and a Dal Honese Grass Dancer. And a Nathii swamp necromancer.’
‘Beak,’ said Keneb, ‘do these squads include Fiddler? Gesler and Stormy?’
‘Fiddler’s the one with the fiddle who played so sadly in Malaz City? The one with the Deck games in his head? Yes sir, he’s there. Gesler and Stormy, they’re the Falari ones, but with skins of gold and muscles and all that, the ones who were reforged in the fires of Tellann. Telas, Kurald Liosan, the fires, the ones dragons fly through to gain immunities and other proofs against magic and worse. Yes, they’re there, too.’
See how they stared at him in wonder! Oh, just like the dream!
And he knew, all too well, how all this was going to turn out and even that couldn’t make him anything but proud. He squinted up at the darkness overhead. ‘It’ll be dawn in a bell or so.’
Keneb turned to Faradan Sort. ‘Captain, take Beak with you and head into the village. I’d like to see these squads presented – barring whatever pickets they’ve set out.’
‘Yes, Fist. Plan on dressing ’em down, sir?’
Keneb’s brows lifted. ‘Not at all, Faradan. No. I might end up kissing every damned one of them, though.’
So once more Beak walked alongside Captain Faradan Sort, and that felt good and proper now, as if he’d always belonged with her, always being useful when that was what she needed. False dawn was just beginning and the air smelled wonderfully fresh – at least until they came to the pits where the Edur bodies had been dumped. That didn’t smell good at all.
‘Gods below,’ the captain muttered as they skirted one of the shallow pits.
Beak nodded. ‘Moranth munitions do that. Just…parts of people, and everything chewed up.’
‘Not in this pit,’ she said, pointing as they passed another mass grave. ‘These ones were cut down. Swords, quarrels…’
‘Aye, Captain, we’re good at that, too, aren’t we? But that’s not why the Edur left – there was almost a thousand of them gathered here, planning on one more push. But then orders came to withdraw and so they did. They’re now a league behind us, joining up with still more Edur.’
‘The hammer,’ Faradan Sort said, ‘and somewhere ahead, the anvil.’
He nodded again.
She paused to search his face in the gloom. ‘And the Adjunct and the fleet? Beak?’
‘Don’t know, sir. If you’re wondering if they’ll get to us in time to relieve us, then no. Not a chance. We’re going to have to hold out, Captain, for so long it’s impossible.’
She scowled at that. ‘And if we just squat here? Right in this village?’
‘They’ll start pushing. There’ll be four or five thousand Edur by then. That many can push us, sir, whether we want them to or not. Besides, didn’t the Fist say he wanted to engage and hold down as many of the enemy as possible? To keep them from going anywhere else, like back behind the city walls which would mean the Adjunct’s got to deal with another siege and nobody wants that.’
She glared at him for a moment longer, then set out again. Beak fell in step behind her.
From just behind a black heap of tailings at the edge of the village a voice called out, ‘Nice seeing you again, Captain.’
Faradan Sort went on.
Beak saw Corporal Tarr rise from behind the tailings, slinging his crossbow back over a shoulder then dusting himself off before approaching on an intercept course.
‘Fist wants to knock before coming in, does he?’
The captain halted in front of the stolid corporal. ‘We’ve been fast-marching for a while now,’ she said. ‘We’re damned tired, but if we’re going to march into this village, we’re not going to drag our boots. So the Fist called a short halt. That’s all.’
Tarr scratched at his beard, making the various depending bones and such rustle and click. ‘Fair enough,’ he said.
‘I am so relieved that you approve, Corporal. Now, the Fist wants the squads here all out in the main street.’
‘We can do that,’ Tarr replied, grinning. ‘Been fighting for a while now and we’re damned tired, Captain. So the sergeants got most of us resting up in the, uh, the tavern. But when the Fist sees us, well, we’ll be looking smart as can be, I’m sure.’
‘Get your arse into that tavern, Corporal, and wake the bastards up. We’ll wait right here – but not for long, understood?’
A quick, unobtrusive salute and Tarr headed off.
‘See what happens when an officer’s not around enough? They get damned full of themselves, that’s what happens, Beak.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Well, when they hear all the bad news they won’t be anywhere near as arrogant.’
‘Oh, they know, sir. Better than we do.’ But that’s not completely true. They don’t know what I know, and neither, Captain my love, do you.
They both turned at the sound of the column, coming up fast. Faster than it should be, in fact.
