* * *
From his position on the modest hillside overlooking the battle, Ullen felt sick. That horde of skirmishers was savaging their forces. Soon they might have no cohesive units left. If the Gold and Talian heavies could push through, force the Empress to retreat, then they would have a chance to bargain for terms. Otherwise, they faced a slow gnawing down to nothing. He wish Urko continued luck with his skirmish-line. Gods! A line! Forming line with Imperial cavalry still in reserve! But it was all they had. He turned to one of the messengers who waited along with his staff next to Bala's cumbersome carriage, now unhitched of all its horses, much to her annoyance. ‘Any news of Toc?’
‘None. Apparently he went after the Seti – hasn't been seen since.’
Poor man. They probably killed him out of shame. He examined the field. It was hard to tell – the dust kicked up by all those shuffling feet obscured any details – but it looked as though the skirmishers were bunching up favourably. He was about to tell Bala to send a message to V'thell when across the field Imperial pennants and battle-flags dipping and circling caught his attention. The Imperial cavalry – many boasting their own noble family banners – was on the move. Two wings came cantering out from the rear where a tall grey horizontal banner bore the Imperial sceptre. They arced around the battlefield to the north and south. But few. Very few. Less than a thousand all told, he calculated. His gaze flicked to Urko's thin skirmish-line. The risk they'd invited had been delivered. It suddenly seemed to him that perhaps they'd waited too long. ‘Bala! Bala!’
‘Do not bark! I am here!’ came her scornful voice from within the carnage.
‘Tell V'thell, now's the time! Open up!’
‘Yes, yes!’
A flash from the battlefield made him flinch. It was followed by an eruption of dirt and bodies that arced up high above the Gold formation, flying outwards in all directions, armoured bodies pin-wheeling, then spinning down. The thunderous echo of the explosion reached him like a distant roll.
Hood preserve us! A lucky crossbow bolt? Who could know? He almost laughed. His order might well be irrelevant now that the first munitions had been unpacked. V'thell would probably just go ahead now. And he watched sideways, half wincing, for the firestorm to come. His gaze caught the top of the distant outcropping to the south, golden now in the late afternoon sun. And the Guard. What would they do? Should Laseen win would they throw their weight against her now that she was weakened? Yet what could they hope to accomplish? Someone else would merely claim the Throne. And what if Urko and Choss down in the chaos below should prevail? Would the Guard simply leave, the terms of their Vow sufficiently fulfilled?
‘What do you sense of the Guard?’ he asked of Bala.
‘Ahh! You are perhaps no fool after all, little Ullen. They have not deployed – yet. But they watch. And wait. And bide their time.’
Some ally this mage of theirs was proving to be!
A moment later a rider charged up from behind Ullen's position, sawed his reins. ‘Seti approaching from the rear, sir,’ he gasped. ‘A long column/ Ullen's staff and guards repositioned themselves, swords drawn. Shortly afterwards five Seti horsemen galloped up. Ullen raised a hand and kneed his mount to the fore. The lead Seti was a bull of a man in layered ringed armour bearing a score of lances, javelins and two long-handled axes crossed over his back, long-knives sheathed at his hips. Under his blunt bronze helmet his scarred, sun- and wind-darkened features were those of a startlingly old man.
An intuition whispered to Ullen and he inclined his head, ‘You are this Wildman of the Plains?’
‘I am. And I am come to offer a measure of restitution, Malazan, for my countrymen's betrayal.’
‘That is?’
‘We will ride against the Imperial cavalry – just the cavalry and only them! What say you?’
This unlooked-for offer, the answer to his despair, made Ullen's gaze blur. His throat clenched so tightly he was unable to talk. Thank the capricious laughing Gods!
‘Well? Speak, damn you!’
Ullen fought to breathe. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Your arrival is timely.’
‘Damned right – we've been watching.’ The man straightened in his saddle, raised a hand signalling and rode onward. A roar of cheers arose from behind Ullen's position; then came a rumble of hundreds of galloping horses. They came charging past, yipping and chanting, lances raised. Most carried no animal fetishes at all, though some bore wolf, lion and ferret pelts and tufts tied to their lances or worn over their backs.
Thank you, whoever you are. And thank whatever old grudge it is that drives you to lend a hand.