* * *
Ullen ordered his legion into two arms, each of which would meet the Guard phalanx leading face at angles, hopefully to then wrap around and envelop. That was the best he could hope for. The Crimson Guard standard was held just a few ranks back from that face. The Avowed, he knew, would overcome any individual soldier who might oppose them, but eventually, if numbers should tell, they would find themselves beleaguered from all sides to be cut down by these stolid, grim Malazan and Talian heavy infantry veterans. Or so he told himself.
The two forces came marching towards one another out of the dark. The ruins of the Imperial pavilion smouldered just to the north. Ullen knew the Empress was nowhere nearby; yet for the Guard to march unopposed this far would be tantamount to victory, a tacit acknowledgement that the Imperial forces could no longer muster the wherewithal, or will, or spirit, to face them. The closest thing to defeat that becomes defeat in its realization.
When only a few paces separated the two lines Ullen raised his sword for the final charge. The Imperials sounded a low animal roar that swelled to a ferocious demanding invocation of rage, hate and battle-lust. They raised shields, leaning forward, the pressing shields of the ranks behind at their backs forcing them on. The two formations smashed together with a bone-breaking clash of shields smashing, blades probing, legs thrusting at the dirt. Line pushed against line; ranks slid across one another, mixing, milling. Men died but could not fall, so crushing was the press. The screaming cacophony melded into one undifferentiated rumble that punished Ullen's ears into a ringing, oddly muted, din. He knew he was yelling but he could not hear his own voice.
Sword held awkwardly in his left hand, for his right remained too weak, he thrust savagely between shields. The ground beneath the grunting, scrabbling mass became glutinous with shed blood. Sandalled feet slipped, bodies fell. Men and women cursed fallen friends and enemies alike when they entangled their feet, tripping them. As the lines shifted back and forth these fallen became trampled down into the mulch of mud and gore.
Anything that moved before him, Ullen stabbed. Blades hacked at his shield, cutting, some sticking. He flicked his sword over the top, slicing arms. A hand yanked at the shield, almost pulling it down; he bashed, pushing, sliced a leg. Men and women fell around him. Footing became treacherous. The Malazan regular on his right was hacked down by a stupendous blow that shattered his shield then helm, the sword continuing on down to split the skull, face, lodging in the collarbone and upper ribs. Without thinking of the terrifying power of that blow, he swung, severing the arm holding that blade at the elbow. An eruption of rage rocked him back. Ignoring the severed limb, that Guardsman turned on him. Lady's Pull, he'd found one.
The Guardsman threw his shield down, gripped Ullen's and yanked it, snapping the leather grip and breaking Ullen's elbow. A figure pushed forward at Ullen's side, Captain Moss, his twin blades slashing, but the man ignored the blows. His berserk all-white eyes remained fixed on Ullen. The Guardsman's fist lashed out and Ullen's head snapped backwards so far he saw the night sky. The rear of his helmet struck his own back between his shoulder-blades, flew from his head.
Things seemed to slow down. He watched while the man pulled his fist back once more. Scintillating lights gathered in his vision. All noise became a blurred murmur. All sensation seemed to flow away leaving an odd feeling of ease.
From behind Ullen's shoulder and sides spears thrust, impaling the man in a series of impacts. Snarling, he fought to push forward against the hafts, reached with his one remaining clawed hand for Ullen. Other hands pulled Ullen back into the ranks. He fought to remain. The Dal Hon lieutenant, Gellan appeared before him, held his face, fought to look into his eyes: ‘Commander!’ she shouted, or he thought she shouted, she sounded so far away.
He blinked, frowning. Commander?
‘We're breaking! We can't hold them!’
Breaking?
‘Where do we rally?’
What? Rally? He searched the grounds with his swimming vision. Knots of men and women were recoiling – too many Avowed, too closely concentrated. Ye gods, forty of them! Who could stop such a formation? They had nothing left. All that remained was to hunker down, hope to resist for the best terms. He tried to shake his head – the spinning! It would not stop. ‘The redoubt! Rally to the redoubt. We'll make our stand there.’
‘Aye,’ she shouted, still holding his head. ‘I will spread the word.‘ Aside, she ordered: ‘Take him south.’ Arms grasped him, urged him on. He pushed at them – leave me alone, damn you\ He recognized one of the men, Captain Moss, and he relaxed. He'd lost a gauntlet, wiped at his cold head. The hand came away blood-smeared. He stared at it, surprised. When had that happened? That punch, fool! It shattered your helmet!
He and his escort staggered, fumbling, southward, across the burnt black field littered in bodies. Ullen knew he'd taken a serious head-wound when he saw walking past them out of the gloom a figure from his youth – the unmistakable broad, armoured silhouette of Greymane. His guard pulled their weapons, arranged themselves around him. He raised his hand, ‘It's all right! I know him. Greymane!’ he called. The man swerved their way. ‘Greymane!’
Closing, he halted, breathing hard. His eyes appeared preter-naturally bright within the confines of his full-helm. They narrowed on Ullen. ‘You know me?’
‘Ullen Khadeve. I was with Choss long ago.’
‘Ah.’ The man glanced down. ‘I heard. I'm sorry.’
‘So am I – what are you doing here?’
The helm turned aside, he gestured north. ‘I'm here for Skinner.’
That statement from any other man or woman would've made Ullen laugh. He shook his head, dizzying himself. ‘There's too many Avowed. They'll cut you down.’
The hands in their iron gauntlets tightened into fists that almost shook. A curse sounded from within the helm. ‘Yes – you're right… for now.’ A chuckle of self-mockery. ‘So much for simple-minded delusions of satisfaction demanded on the field of battle, hey?’
‘Come with me. We're headed to that hillock, our last strongpoint. He'll be headed there next.’ Ullen pressed a hand to his searing brow. Had the man shattered his skull? ‘But I warn you – I may ask for terms. If the men agree, I'll not have you break them.’
A nod. ‘I understand.’
This way.’
But the armoured giant did not move; he was staring off to the north.
‘What is it?’
‘Something … something's coming. I'm sensitive to the Warrens. I can feel a damn huge disturbance … Coming very fast! Get down!’
The man stepped up before them, drew his blade – a slim longsword that looked comical in his huge hand. Ullen's guards ranged themselves behind him, Captain Moss included.
Ullen knew that through the darkness he could not see half of what was occurring but what little he did see terrified him. The air up the slope to the north began to ripple as if heated. Flashes like those of stars flickering permeated it. Before it, Skinner's phalanx paused, the tall standard hanging limp in the still night air. The ground suddenly shook as if hammered. An earthquake? The flickering coalesced into a dark-blue aurora that made him squint, shading his eyes and turning his head. Out of this light burst a hurtling wedge, striking the slope with a booming thunder that echoed from all the hills. Ullen had one glimpse of a massive column of riders, swords raised, mouths open in soundless yells, before that wedge slammed into Skinner's phalanx.
The solid ranks of Guardsmen melted before the onslaught like a stand of sticks before an avalanche. They disappeared beneath the crush of massed hooves. The standard snapped, mowed down. While Ullen watched, stunned, astounded, more came, rank after rank passing, trampling the same ground where before a solid formation had once stood. Its front rank curved away to the west and the column rode on, horses lathered, riders yelling their war cries. Wickans, Ullen saw as they swung by. Come through Warren!
After they passed, the deafening roar of their hooves diminishing, only dust swirled over the furrowed and churned ground of the slope. One rider closed upon them, reining up: an old man, his one good eye wide, the other a white, milky orb. A death-grin seemed frozen on his face. ‘That should put an end to your pogrom against us, eh, Malazan!’ he yelled with a crazed laugh.
‘You obliterated them,’ Ullen answered, his voice faint with shock.
The Wickan pointed a bloodied scimitar, his horse rearing to be off. ‘Witness! Give witness, Malazan!’ And he rode off, shouting a great ululating war cry.
Ullen watched the man disappear from sight. ‘Yes … I shall.’
Yet incredibly, unbelievably, shapes now stirred among the trampled and punished ground. Here and there Guardsmen stood, weaving, shaking themselves, straightening. The sight chilled Ullen's flesh and he stared, utterly appalled. Great Gods! Will nothing stop these Avowed? They are relentless. Like the Imass.
Greymane turned to him, wry humour in his eyes. ‘As you said, Ullen. They're too many. But the odds have levelled somewhat, I think. Now is my chance.’ Before Ullen could object the man ran down to the churned slope. If Ullen had had a helmet he'd have thrown it to the ground in frustration. ‘Dammit!’ He turned to his guard. ‘We have to follow him. We can't let him go alone.’
His guards, a mixed body of seven Malazan and Talian infantry, eyed one another, clearly unsure. ‘Our orders …’ one began.
‘Your orders are to follow me,’ Ullen said. Clenching his jaws, this one bowed his curt concurrence. Ullen turned to Moss, who nodded then lifted his chin to the field. ‘And we're not alone …’
Ranks of Imperial infantry were advancing from all around, small units pulling together from every direction. ‘Come!’ Supported by Moss, Ullen limped after Greymane.
The field was a charnel-house of trampled broken bodies. Stunned survivors staggered, blood-bespattered, ignoring them as they passed. All fighting, as far as Ullen could tell, seemed to have been snuffed by this cataclysmic charge. Sadly, a number of his own infantry seemed to have been caught in the charge as well. Ahead through the night, however, two swords clashed, ringing in the silence following the prolonged detonation of that charge. Ullen searched the dusty night for the combat. The grunts, blows and ringing of iron drew them on. They came to the wreckage of a train of Imperial supply wagons. Ullen glimpsed the duel as a blow from one threw the other backwards into a burning wagon, knocking it sideways, its wheels gouging the dirt. Greymane. The man was battered, helm gone, face a mass of blood. Bands of iron armour had been hacked away leaving hanging leather strapping. Skinner loomed forward into the light. A ponderous two-handed downward swing from him was dodged by the renegade to crash into the wagon's siding and bed, breaking it in two in a terrific explosion that sent up clouds of obscuring smoke and ash. Greymane answered but his blade skittered from the Avowed's unearthly glittering armour. They clashed again, grunting their effort in blows that would fell trees. A swiping riposte was met by Greymane's slimmer blade which burst like a sharper, shattering beneath the strain. But instead of flinching away the ex-Fist closed, grappling, and the two struggled from view. Ullen dodged through overturned wagons, butchered horses and burning spilt materiel in a frantic effort to catch sight of them again. Moss and the guards ran with him.
This was lunacy! Here he was with a broken right arm and a probable fractured skull searching for a nightmare out of the old wars of continental subjugation – and the worst of those! A champion that, should Greymane fail, could not be matched by anyone alive today; what could he possibly do? Ullen honestly did not know.
He glimpsed them, wrestling, crashing into wagons, rolling amid the wreckage, trading blows that echoed through the night. Greymane arose bent behind Skinner, a grip up under his chin, straining, his face writhing with effort. Yet, incredibly, the Avowed commander straightened beneath him, raising the man clear off the ground to heave him, armour and all, off into the night. A crash and clattering of iron from stones revealed a gully or slope nearby.
Skinner adjusted his long mail shirt, rolled one shoulder, grunting. He bent to pick up his helm and drew it on again to walk off towards the field. Ullen was torn – dare he challenge him? But what of Greymane? The man was wounded. His guards had already scampered down to find the renegade. That settled the matter for Ullen and he followed.
It was a shallow, rocky gully. They found Greymane lying amid stones at its bottom. The man was conscious, but barely so. Together all of them strained to drag him up the side. They laid him on the ground. His eyes – one carmine with blood from broken vessels – found Ullen's face and he snorted, shaking his head. ‘Cheating bastard. His blade's poison. Bastard poisoned me! Got me all riled up, he has. Lucky bastard. I almost used the sword on him – but not here … too close to the sanctuary it is. Who knows what might've happened?’
Ullen ignored the man's ramblings. His sword? What was the man on about? ‘Relax – we'll bring a healer.’ Ullen motioned one of his guards away. The man saluted and ran.
Ullen caught Captain Moss's eye, tilted his head after Skinner. The officer held his gaze for a long time, his own eyes dark and flat, his mouth held expressionless. A hand rose to rub at the scabbed gashes crossing his face and he nodded his assent. Ullen straightened from Greymane. He pointed to another of his remaining guards. ‘Stay with this man. The rest of you – follow me.’ He jogged after the Avowed commander, left hand hot and sweaty on the grip of his sword. Left! His bloody left hand!
*
Conversation guided him through the detritus of burning equipment and scattered corpses. He caught sight of two men confronting Skinner. They were speaking with him, their words lost amid crackling flames and the shrill shrieks of a wounded horse. The two burly soldiers looked familiar yet he couldn't quite place them. Across the way figures emerged from the gloom, five Crimson Guardsmen, all Avowed, no doubt. They drew blades and began edging out to surround the two.
Ullen started forward but stopped as another man stepped directly in his path – where on earth had he come from?. Moss lunged forward, sabres raised, but the fellow held up empty hands. He was an ironwood-hued Dal Hon, scarred, in a fine mail shirt. His long kinked hair was pulled back tied in a leather strip and he regarded Ullen as if he knew him. And the man did look … but no, that cannot be … he was dead!
The ghost rested a hand on Ullen's shoulder. ‘You've done more than enough, Ullen,’ he said in that voice that sent chills down Ullen's spine. ‘The field is yours. My congratulations. Choss, I'm sure, would have been proud. Now leave this to us.’ Then the man's closed features softened with affection and he motioned to the gathering duel: ‘Those two, I swear they did this deliberately. Knew I couldn't let them face him alone.’ And he jogged off. The encircling Avowed flinched from his approach and he slipped within, to the side of the two facing Skinner.
No – it cannot be. How could it be him? Was it no more than a ghost from his past?
The three formed a triangle while the Avowed completed their encirclement. The newcomer faced Skinner who pointed a gauntleted hand, saying something lost in the roar of the burning wreckage. The newcomer didn't deign to answer. He drew his sword, a dark slim length. At a signal from Skinner all lunged in upon the three at once.
Ullen was stunned by what he witnessed, blades flashing in the firelight too fast for him to comprehend. Of the three defenders, one hunkered behind a square heavy infantryman's shield, calmly sliding blows that would batter walls only to jab, forcing back any of the Avowed who edged too close; the other, a burly Seti, fought with two sturdy long-knives each bearing bronze knuckle guards, parrying and delivering awful blows, lashing out to rock one Avowed with a swipe to the head. Ullen winced, thinking of his own wound.
But it was the duel between the Dal Hon and Skinner that took his breath. The man's smooth, economical grace was beautiful: tremendous swings from Skinner brushed aside with the seeming lightest of touches to be followed by lightning ripostes. It must be him! But how? In answer to a prayer?
Yet those ripostes all slid, rebounding, from the Avowed's stained dark armour. And Skinner laughed. In that laugh Ullen heard certainty of victory.
At his side, Captain Moss breathed, awed, ‘Who is that? I've never seen anything … He knew you – who is he? But that armour … Skinner will wound him. And then … just a matter of time.’
But Ullen shook his head. ‘No. He knows. He must know.’
The Avowed pressed, struggling to overbear the two guarding the Dal Hon's back. They took horrendous wounds attacking, but the two would not be forced or drawn out from guarding each other's flanks. One Avowed grasped the shield only to have his hand nearly severed: it flapped uselessly at the end of his arm as he continued fighting. The Seti was more aggressive, slashing at faces, torsos, inflicting wounds the Avowed silently absorbed until their legs ran glistening with blood and the ground darkened at their shuffling feet.
Try all you like, Avowed! No one ever penetrated the Sword, his bodyguard. He only fell to treachery. The Dal Hon continued punishing Skinner, landing blow after blow; yet each glanced away, turned by the man's seemingly impenetrable armour. While for his part, the Avowed could not pierce the man's virtuoso defence. All for naught, Ullen thought, for neither could bring the other down.
Didn't he comprehend? Why continue hacking at that mail coat? It was obviously Warren-invested, perhaps even aspected. Useless, utterly useless. Perhaps his dark thoughts tinged his vision but it seemed to Ullen that the two guarding the Dal Hon's back were tiring. It was to be expected – who could forestall Avowed forever? Soon, they would fall, then it would all be over. Skinner would finally prove victorious. He would return to the field to rally his Avowed, and they would sweep away any remaining organized resistance. The Guard would win.
The squat heavy infantryman's shield had been reduced to no more than a slivered handle of shattered slats. He now only parried with his shortsword. The Seti had abandoned counter-attacks and now merely defended. Only one of the Avowed had fallen: a woman who staggered off, hands pressing in her stomach where wet curves bulged out. She toppled face first a few short paces away where she lay, her appalling Avowed vitality sustaining her as limbs shifted weakly, kicking and writhing.
Still the Dal Hon riposted and counter-attacked. Just one of his cuts would have flensed any other attacker to the spine, yet Skinner remained unharmed. Ullen almost screamed: You fool! Give it up! Disengage! Suddenly it was too much for him. For this man he would act; it was not even something to question. Ullen lurched forward, raising his sword left-handed. Moss's arm encircled his neck to yank him back.
‘Don't be a fool!’
Then, in the midst of yet another exchange of heavy cumbersome blows from Skinner and the Dal Hon's lightning flickering counter-assault, the Dal Hon lunged forward farther than he ever had before, the tip of his blade in one pass flicking upwards just under Skinner's helm. The Avowed commander snapped his head back. He clutched a gauntleted hand to his neck where blood coursed down his front. He backed away, hand gripping his throat, sword still raised, still steady. The four remaining Avowed shifted to cover his retreat. The Dal Hon alone followed, pressing the attack.
Backing away, parrying, Skinner shouted some garbled wet command or entreaty and the air behind him boiled. It seemed to froth, lightened from night-dark to ugly streaked grey. The Avowed all backed into the jagged mar to disappear, two supporting Skinner. The Dal Hon halted, motionless, his breath still calm and level. He sheathed his dark-bladed sword.
Ullen ran up to the two soldiers who leaned together supporting each other. When he glanced back to the Dal Hon swordsman, he too was gone. A curse from his side revealed Captain Moss making the same discovery. The broad squat infantryman threw down the shattered slats and loose bronze strapping that remained of his shield. He pulled off his helmet and took a skin of water from his belt to squeeze a jet over his head and drink, gasping. He tossed it to the Seti.
‘Where is – the other … the Dal Hon?’ Ullen said.
‘Weren't no other,’ the old bald infantryman ground out, his voice so hoarse as to be almost inaudible. ‘Never was, hey?’
‘But…’
Panting, gasping in great lungfuls and swallowing with effort, the veteran waved Ullen's objections aside. ‘No, just the two of us. Ain't that right, ah, Slim?’
‘Slim?’ the Seti growled. He wiped his glistening face with the back of a hand, leaving a smear of blood. ‘Naw. It's … Sweetgrass.’
‘Wha—’ The infantryman faced the Seti directly to stand weaving, exhausted. ‘Sweetgrass? All these years … none of us even knew?’
A truculent glower on the man's battered and cut face, chin thrust out. ‘What of it?’
‘Nothin’. Just surprising ‘s all.’ The two bent down attempting to pick up fallen gear, couldn't bend far enough and gave up, then turned away to head back to the field. They limped, stretching their backs, pausing now and then to bend over gasping for breath, coughing. Ullen, Moss and his guards following along exchanged mute glances of wonder.
‘What about you?’ the Seti, Sweetgrass, asked of the old veteran.
‘You don't want to know.’
‘What?’
‘No.’
‘C'mon.’
The old veteran stopped to lean over. He dry heaved, gagging, then hawked up a mouthful of catarrh that he spat. ‘No.’
‘Boulbum?’
‘No.’
‘Ishfat?’
‘No!’
Ullen looked to Captain Moss, who walked with the back of his hand pressed to his grinning mouth.
They returned to find mixed Malazans, Talians and Falaran elements being ordered into phalanxes by a battered and bloodied Braven Tooth and Urko. The four old veterans greeted one another with great back-slapping hugs. Then, to Ullen's shock and horror, Braven Tooth and Urko saluted him, sharing wicked grins. He answered the salute then waved aside their gesture. ‘No – you command, Urko.’
‘No. We ain't done yet. These ones all run off but we got a pocket of Guardsmen yet. Dug in on a hill. Fist D'Ebbin and his remaining forces and the Wickans are keeping them tight. Time we contributed. I'll be with one of the units. You can coordinate. Congratulations, Commander.’
The four veterans went to join units leaving Ullen to face his last remaining guard. He rubbed a hand at his wrenched, aching neck, feeling overcome. ‘Well … find a mount and send word to Fist D'Ebbin that we're coming.’
The guard saluted, jogged off. Horns sounded a general advance. After some ragged reordering the columns began marching south. It was now well past midnight. The fires had died down and the field of battle was a dark tangled nightmare of fallen twisted bodies, broken equipment and wounded, dying horses.
With Moss at his side, Ullen picked his way south carefully. After a time, the captain leaned close and glanced about, troubled. The savage gashes that crossed his face appeared livid, raw. ‘Where's your staff?’
‘Scattered.’
‘You need more of an escort.’ He gestured aside. ‘We should join that column.’
Ullen shrugged. ‘If you think it best.’
But the man halted. His hands snapped to the bright ivory grips of his sabres. ‘Something …’
Dust swirled up around them; Ullen shaded his gaze, wincing. ‘Captain?’ The clash of blows exchanged, iron grating iron. Ullen fumbled to draw his sword left-handed. Then an impact into his back like the clout of a sledgehammer. Cold iron slid deep inside him. Gasping, he turned to see a woman, her long white hair wild in the wind, eyes slitted, lips snarling. A flash of silvery-grey then that head tilted, falling, blood jetting, body jerking. Ullen fell as well.
Starry night sky then Captain Moss leaning over him, saying something, but all Ullen could hear was his pulse roaring in his ears. He couldn't breathe! He strained, but nothing would enter his burning, aching lungs. Damn! This wasn't right.
What of—
Couldn't he—
The roaring pulse slowed. Night closed, obscuring Moss's face, his mouth moving. One beat sounded like a heavy, slow hammer echoing.
Wait—
CHAPTER III
Vision dims, memory fades,
All forestalled is discounted,
And so returns upon the ignorant
In violent refrain.
Lessons from the field of the Crossroads
Waden Burdeth, Unta
KYLE, K'AZZ AND THE LOST BROTHERS FOUND THAT A flotilla of makeshift rafts had been pulled up along the north shore of the Idryn. Lying sprawled on the approach to the Pilgrim Bridge and piled in its mouth lay a trail of slaughtered Kanese soldiery. Facing the dead was one Crimson Guardsman. He was leaning against the stone wall of the bridge, legs wide, sword planted before him, his body and limbs feathered in arrows.
‘Baker,’ K'azz said, his voice thick.
The man stirred, his head rising. A sad smile crept up beneath long, tangled ginger hair. ‘M'Lord.’ He struggled weakly to straighten.
The Guard commander eased him back. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered gently. ‘We need you to guard the north.’
A wry smile pulled Baker's mouth to one side. ‘Oh, aye, sir.’
The brothers were collecting shields from among the fallen. Kyle joined them. Each held as many as they could carry under both arms. Kyle offered one to K'azz who took it with a bob of his head. They jogged up the bridge.
Ahead, a deep sonorous roar, like the continuous detonation of thunder, raised the hair on Kyle's neck and arms. It was a low, reverberating, animal growl of anticipation uttered from thousands of throats, so loud it almost drowned out the clangour of weapons clashing and shields striking. They met the struggle near the bridge's mid-point. Four Avowed, back legs braced, faced the pressing solid wedge of Kanese infantry. Shield thrust against shield, spears and other pole-weapons jabbed, while a fifth Avowed remained a step back, watching, resting. Armour hung hacked and torn from all, helmets battered, arms black with drying gore. The rear Avowed, a short, broad woman, saluted them. The side of her head glistened, one raw wound; her sliced scalp hung down as a flap. Underfoot lay a litter of broken shields, fallen swords, spears, lances, arrows and shattered pieces of armour. Blood darkened the set stones of the bridge crimson.
‘You are most welcome, my Lord!’ the woman shouted to be heard through the din. ‘But we didn't call for reinforcements.’ The woman frowned then, eyeing K'azz up and down. ‘Being away didn't agree with you, I think. But you should leave. We will hold until we fall!’
‘So will I! Good to see you too, Lean.’ K'azz readied his shield, raised his long-knife. Other than this, the man was unarmed. Lean shook her head. ‘No – you're reserve.’ She nodded to Kyle and the cousins. ‘Don't I know you?’
‘Stalker, Coots, Badlands, Kyle,’ K'azz shouted. ‘They're up to it.’
‘Wecome, brothers!’ She pointed to the Avowed hacking at the exposed front line of massed soldiery, rank upon rank of which held spears and javelins which they raised high or thrust at the defenders in a forest of jabbing, waving stalks. ‘Amatt, Cole, Black and Turgal.’
There was room for only eight or so Kan soldiers to stand shoulder to shoulder, though the layered ranks behind could reach with spears and halberds. Lean bashed her own spear to her shield and the four Avowed yielded a step, adjusted their footing and hunkered down. The Kan soldiery surged forward to be met by quick ruthless thrusts from the Avowed. Their wounded and fallen comrades choked and encumbered all those who struggled forward to fill the ranks. Eyeing the fighting, Stalker threw down his load of shields. He kept one and picked up a fallen spear. Instinctively, the brothers followed suit, as did Kyle.
Lean paced back and forth behind the defending Avowed, keeping close watch, and perhaps making sure K'azz did not push forward to join the line. She tapped Black on the back of his leg, waved Badlands forward.
‘Relief!’
Black curled away, spinning, and the startled Badlands was caught surprised. But he leapt forward, knocking aside the hafts of jabbing spears to thrust himself in, bulling in with all his weight. Lean watched narrowly, gauging.
Stalker came and touched Kyle's arm. He pointed to his waist: ‘Use that.’
Kyle glanced to the sword strapped into the outsized scabbard. His gift from Osserc; he hadn't even drawn it yet. ‘No reach,’ he yelled back.
‘It must be something!’ Stalker answered.
Kyle shrugged.
One by one Lean relieved the Avowed until only Cole – whom Kyle recognized from Kurzan – remained, and it was Kyle's turn. K'azz objected but apparently Lean was in charge of this particular contingent and so her judgement ruled. The relieved Avowed, Black, Amatt and Turgal, stood panting, faces glistening. They bore horrific wounds; Amatt coughed up blood; Black's iron cuirass leaked blood at every overlapping band; Turgal, who bore a huge Malazan infantryman's rectangular shield, had it strapped to his mangled, broken left arm.
His turn coming, Kyle readied his spear, tucking it tightly under his arm. He was suddenly deathly thirsty but knew that while he needed water it was best to be thirsty in case of a stomach wound. He tried not to think of what was about to come, and Lean, perhaps sensing his gathering dread, did not wait. ‘Relief!’ she bellowed, and Cole ducked away. Kyle lunged forward. Almost immediately his spear entangled amid the forest of jabbing, swinging pole weapons. Strikes on his shield rocked him, numbing his arm and shoulder. He could not bring his weapon to bear. It was hung up, useless.
The Hooded One's laughter! He was going to die, spitted like a boar.
Javelins thrust around him, Lean and others driving back the ranks for him to straighten out his spear. He recovered, bending forward into the press. From the edges of his vision he saw that the Lost brothers were up to the challenge. Coots and Badlands fought like grinning, savage dogs, at home in their element, while Stalker was calm, pacing himself, yielding nothing. They were holding their ground and again Kyle wondered: who were these men seemingly equal to the Avowed in their strength, ferocity and endurance?
As for himself… Kyle and the Kanese soldiery opposite both sensed almost immediately that he was the weak link in this line. A thrown javelin cannoned from his helmet, briefly stunning him. A solid blow to his shield snapped it backwards to smack into his forehead, sending blazing agony across his vision. Blinking, everything a blur, he missed a strike to his own haft that levered his spear from his grip. The two Kanese facing him and the ranks behind roared, surging forward. Hands steadied him from behind, javelins thrusting. In a panic Kyle pulled his sword free, snapping the straps that kept the slim curved blade in the scabbard. He brought it up, fending off thrusting, clanging spears and halberds, and was dumbfounded as the dark golden blade cut through each haft as easily as if passing through a candle.
The Kanese flinched away, eyes huge under the lips of their helmets. The severed hafts clattered to the stones, loud in the sudden silence. ‘Beru Bless us!’ Lean cursed behind him, awed.
Osserc's own weapon! Could it be, truly?
Kyle edged forward, recovering his lost footing. He crouched down behind his shield. Now I am ready. Beside him Coots and Badlands exchanged savage, elated grins.
Kyle remained in line while the others traded off. After his blade sliced shields in half and shattered swords no one would face him. The respite allowed the Avowed to recover, though for Black and Amatt the fight was over. Loss of blood left them unable to stand. The rest traded off in quick succession and in this system, presided over ruthlessly by Lean, they held.
K'azz was in communication with Shimmer through the Brethren. She reported that Skinner and his remaining Avowed had quit the field, abandoning their remaining loyal Guardsmen regulars. Shimmer and the majority of the surviving Guard had established a strongpoint. She claimed to have reached a temporary truce with the Imperials. In any case, the Wickans that had smashed Skinner's command now merely encircled Shimmer, content with containment. Later K'azz reported that Shimmer expected formal negotiations to begin any time and that they had to hold off the Kanese in order that she could press for as favourable terms as possible. K'azz concurred.
Just after this report from Shimmer, Kanese horsemen came fording laboriously up the middle of the bridge. They forced their way through the press of soldiers like ships over a heavy sea, beating their way through the men with switches and kicks. At a bellowed command from the leading figure the infantry stepped back, spears levelled. Into the resultant ringing silence the fellow yelled, ‘Who commands here?’
‘I do!’ Lean answered, stepping forward. She pushed her scalp up and pressed it in place.
He drew off his helmet. He was a dark fellow with a neatly trimmed moustache and beard. He bowed as well as he could while mounted. ‘Commander Pirim ‘J Shall at your service.’ He motioned to the rider behind: ‘Invigilator Durmis.’ The robed man bowed far more awkwardly, his pained gaze fixed far beyond them to the north cliffs.
‘We commend you, Guardsmen, on a heroic defence – though it has cost us dear. But we come bringing news. Are you by any chance in communication with the main body to the north?’
An unsure glance back from Lean. ‘We are.’
‘Then, the Invigilator Durmis is most insistent—’
‘What do they sense?’ the robed man cut in.
‘Sense?’
‘Yes, damn you! Inquire through your Brethren.’
Lean glanced back again, bloodied brows wrinkled. K'azz nodded. ‘A moment,’ she reported.
K'azz straightened, calling, ‘They report disturbances among the Warrens.’
‘And growing,’ the Invigilator added. ‘Something is coming blasting its way through the Warrens like a collapsing tower and it's headed right for here!’
Commander waved a hand deprecatingly. ‘He may be exaggerating … the Invigilator's job is to be wary of such irresponsible abuses among the men and women you name Talents – such as may threaten our Confederacy. A main reason, by the way, why we did not resort to such extreme measures to eliminate you from our path. For to do so would be to invite retaliation and escalation from your formidable Avowed mage cadre, yes? Thus costing us significantly more personnel than otherwise, yes?’ A smug smile. ‘In any case, the office's more enthusiastic members have been known from time to time—’
Invigilator Durmis kneed his mount to bump into the commander's. ‘This is real,’ he ground out.
‘Like the warning earlier this night? Of impending thaumaturgic transgression? The mere arrival of a few horsemen?’
‘Who knows who they could have been? They may have been allies of the Guard! In any case, those horsemen won the battle for the Empress.’
‘A point curiously moot to us here on this bridge!’
Lean cleared her throat. ‘Gentlemen! We are still in parley?’
Commander Pirim returned his attention to the front. He pulled on his long, cream-hued jupon to straighten it, adjusted his helmet under his arm. ‘Invigilator Durmis insisted upon this exchange of intelligence. To my mind formalities have been observed. We are done.’ He bowed.
Lean answered the bow, her hand still pressed to her head.
The commander struggled to turn his mount and, from the gathering rage and dismay on his face, found that he could not. He cut his switch viciously at the men pressed in around him. ‘Make way, damn you! Way!’
Lean turned an arched brow on Kyle and those of the line. Coots gave a mocking hoot. Invigilator Durmis, however, remained motionless on his mount. He sat slumped, hands folded before him. ‘It is here,’ he said, sounding defeated.
Kyle risked a quick glance behind. Above the cliffs the night sky of the north-west seemed to swirl, stars rippling. A pink and orange glow gathered, streaming into banners and crown-like circles that widened, fading. ‘What is it?’ he breathed.
Then a flash like an immense distant fire blossoming only to be snuffed out. Shortly afterwards a muted roll of thunder reached them. Lean looked to K'azz. ‘Something has struck the battlefield,’ he reported. ‘Cut a swath through units on the west flank. Left a trail of wreckage.’
Commander Pirim's brows rose in almost comical surprise and alarm. He looked to Lean. ‘I suggest a truce – for the time being.’
Lean bobbed her head, wincing. ‘Agreed.’