The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1263 page)

‘What are they doing?' demanded Staylock.

‘The trenches are proving indefensible against these munitions,' Erekala replied. ‘The half-blood officers have correctly determined the proper response to this – they must close with the marines. Their elevation and their numbers alone should win the day.'

The marines, he now saw beneath the fast thinning smoke, had overrun the archers' trench, and looked to be digging in all along the line – but Erekala had ensured that the earthworks were designed in such a manner as to expose them to attack from higher up the slope. Those trenches offered them nothing. The marines began scurrying in full retreat.

‘They're panicking,' hissed Staylock. ‘They've run out of toys, and now…'

The descending, elongated mass of Kolansii was like an avalanche racing after the straggly marines.

‘Hold up at the lowest trench,' Erekala pleaded. ‘Don't follow the fools all the way down!'

The sound of that charge, past the archers' trench and into the dip of the first trench, was like thunder.

There were officers in the lead ranks. Erekala saw them checking their soldiers—

The whole scene vanished in multiple eruptions, as if the entire slope had exploded beneath the Kolansii forces. The concussion rolled upwards to shake the summit, fracturing the wall and shaking the stone gates, taking hold of the wooden platform Erekala and the others stood on and rattling it so fiercely that they all lost their footing. Rails snapped and men and women tumbled over the sides, screaming.

Erekala grasped one side post, managed to hang on as successive shock waves slammed up the slope.
Wolves protect us!

Twisting now on the strangely tilted platform, he saw the clouds lifting to blot out the view to the north – dust and dirt, armour and weapons and sodden strips of clothing – all of it now swept down towards them, a grisly rain of devastation.

Unmindful of the deadly deluge, Erekala pulled himself upright. One of the legs of the platform had snapped and he was alone – even Staylock had plummeted to the broken ground below.

A sword tip stabbed deep into the pine boards just off to his left, the blade quivering with the impact. More rubble rained down.

He stared downslope, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. All but the highest, nearest trench – along with the levelled ground behind it – was torn chaos, the ground wounded with overlapping craters steaming amidst chewed-up corpses. Most of the Kolansii army was simply…
gone.

And then he saw movement once again, from the downward end – the same marines, swarming back up the slope, into the huge bites in the earth, up and over. Squads advancing, others drawing into tight clumps and beginning work on something.

Streams of Kolansii survivors, stunned, painted crimson, were retreating up towards the stone wall, clumping on the cobbled road. Most of the soldiers had flung away their weapons.

Just like that, the Kolansii are finished.

Strange crackling bursts of fire from the marines, and Erekala's eyes widened to see streaks of flame race out from squad positions, sizzling as they lunged up and into the air, arcing upslope.

Of the dozen terrifying projectiles launched, only two directly struck the crowded road.

The platform under Erekala pitched back, flinging him round. He lost his grip, slid past the embedded sword, and then he was falling. There was no sound. He realized that he had been deafened, and so in sweet, perfect silence, he watched the ground race up to meet him. And overhead, shadow stole the morning light.

 

Staylock had only just picked herself up – bruised and aching – when a closer detonation threw her back to the ground. The wall before her rippled, punching away the soldiers huddled against its protective barrier. And then, with a roar of fire, something descended on the gate to her right. The stones disintegrated in a flash of light. The sound of the impact threatened to crush her. Stunned, she staggered away from the blazing gate – saw Commander Erekala lying not ten paces away, in the wreckage of the toppled platform. Vague motions from his body drew her to him.

‘Brother Erekala!' she cried.

His eyes were open, but the whites were crazed with blood. His mouth opened and closed like that of a beached fish, but she could hear no breaths going in or out.

Just as she reached his side she heard a desperate gasp from the man, and all at once he was on his side, coughing.

‘Commander!'

But he did not hear her – she could see that. She looked up – entire companies of Perish had been thrown to the ground by multiple impacts.

This is not war.

This is slaughter.

And in her skull, she thought she could hear the howling of her gods. A sound of impotent rage and blind defiance. A sound that understood nothing.

 

A gloved hand grasped Stern by the shoulder and spun him round. Snarling, he reached for his sword, and then stared. ‘Fist!'

‘Cease the bombardment immediately!'

The corporal looked up and down the rough line of redbolt stations. The crates positioned behind them had each been cracked, and bundles of fleece-packed padding lay torn and scattered between the crates and the launch sites. He did a quick count of the nearest ones. ‘Still got four or five salvos left, sir – right down the line!'

‘I said stop! The High Fist does not want the Perish engaged!'

Stern blinked. ‘But we ain't engaging the Perish!'

‘Have you any idea how far those bolts are going?'

The corporal turned to spit grit from his mouth – there was another taste there, bitter, new to his tongue. ‘We're softening up that wall, that's all. Not one's gone beyond it, Fist. On my word!'

‘Pass it down,
cease your fire
!'

‘Aye, Fist! – oh, Fist – did you see that Fiddling Hedge Drum? Gods below – in all my days left I'll never forget—'

He stopped when he saw the black rage in her face. ‘We wanted them
broken
, sapper – not all dead!'

Stern scowled. ‘Sorry, Fist, but nobody told us that.'

For a moment he thought she might attack him. Instead, off she stormed. Stern watched her head laterally across the slope to where regulars and heavies were drawing up, struggling to stay on what was left of the cobbled road.
Shit, we're going to have to rebuild that, aren't we? But isn't that the secret truth of everything in the military? Order us to blow it up, and then order us to rebuild the fucker. Ah, the sapper's lot…

Manx crunched down at his side, his face flash-burned and smeared with greasy smoke. ‘Why're we holding up? Got plenty left!'

‘Fist's orders, Manx. Listen, pass word along – repack the crates, use all that extra padding.' He straightened, arched out the ache in his lower back, and then looked round. Enormous holes in the earth, huge craters steaming, heaps of shattered bodies, dust and dirt and blood still raining down through the choking smoke. He sighed. ‘Looks like our work here is done.'

 

Staylock helped Erekala to his feet. There was a storm in his head, a droning rush as if the heavens had opened to a deluge, and beneath that pounded the labouring drum of his own heart. Looking up, squinting through the pall of smoke and dust, he saw his soldiers swarming like wasps – officers were shouting, straining to assert some order in the chaos. ‘What – what is happening?' He heard his own question as the faintest of whispers.

Staylock replied from what seemed a thousand paces away. ‘There are Malazans on the other side of the pass, Commander – at least four companies.'

‘But that's impossible.'

‘They simply appeared, sir. Now we are trapped between two armies!'

Erekala shook his head, struggling to clear his thoughts.
This cannot be. We were told there was no other way through the mountains.
‘Form up into hollow squares, the wounded in the centre.' Staggering, he set out towards the southern stretch of the pass. Behind him, Staylock was shouting orders.

Pushing through his soldiers – appalled at their shattered discipline – Erekala moved through the camp, still half dazed, until he was beyond the last of the Perish tents. The smoke and dust flowed past him, carrying with it the stench of burnt meat and scorched cloth and leather. He thought back to what he had seen down among the trenches and shivered.
What has come to us? What have we become, to do such things?

Within sight of the Malazans, he halted. There was no mistaking this – the companies he now looked upon were the same as those he had seen earlier, down on the north side of the pass.
Warren. But…no one has such power – I doubt even the gods could open such gates. Yet, how can I deny what I see with my own eyes?
The enemy was drawn up, presenting a curious mix of heavy infantry, marines with crossbows, regulars and skirmishers. Beyond them a single small tent had been raised, around which soldiers clustered.

A messenger ran up to Erekala from behind. ‘Sir! The enemy has reached the highest trench and continues to advance.'

‘Thank you,' Erekala replied. He saw two figures emerging from the ranks, walking side by side, one tall, the other almost as tall but much broader across the shoulders. The ebon sheen of their skin cut a stark contrast to the bleached landscape.
Dal Honese or southeast Seven Cities – ah, I know these two men. The thin one – I remember him standing at the prow, facing down the Tiste Edur fleet. The High Mage, Quick Ben. Meaning the other one is the assassin. They do not belong here. But, among all the flaws afflicting me, blindness is not one of them.
Ignoring the soldier behind him, the commander set out to meet the two men.

 

‘Look at us now,' Quick Ben muttered.

‘Never mind us,' Kalam growled in reply. ‘I see the commander – that's Erekala, right? See the ranks behind him? They're a mess.'

‘You know,' the wizard said, ‘I didn't think it was possible. Opening two gates at the same time like that, and the size of them! Gods below, he really
is
the Master of the Deck.'

Kalam glanced across at him. ‘You were sceptical?'

‘I'm always sceptical.'

‘Well, impressive as it was, Paran came out half dead – so even he has his limits.'

‘Minala's all over him – jealous, Kalam?'

The assassin shrugged. ‘That's one bone I never had in my body, Quick.'

‘Her and Rythe Bude – what is it with Ganoes Paran anyway? All these women slobbering all over him.'

‘He's younger,' Kalam said. ‘That's all it takes, you know. Us old farts ain't got a chance.'

‘Speak for yourself.'

‘Wipe that grin off, Quick, or I'll do it for you.'

They were closing on Erekala now, and would meet approximately halfway between the two armies. The way it should be. ‘Look at us,' Quick Ben said again, low, under his breath. ‘What do we know about negotiating?'

‘So leave it to me,' Kalam replied. ‘I mean to keep it simple.'

‘Oh, this should be fun.'

They halted six paces from the Perish commander, who also stopped, and the assassin wasted no time. ‘Commander Erekala, High Fist Paran extends his greetings. He wants you to surrender, so we don't have to kill all of you.'

The man looked like he'd been caught in the blast-wave of a cusser or sharper. His face was speckled with tiny cuts and gashes. Dust covered his uniform and he'd lost one chain-backed gauntlet. Erekala opened his mouth, shut it, and then tried again. ‘Surrender?'

Kalam scowled. ‘Those sappers have only just started. You understanding me?'

‘What have you done?'

Kalam grimaced, glanced away, hands now on his hips, and then looked back at the commander. ‘You're seeing how it's going to be – the old way of fighting is on its way out. The future, Erekala, just stood up and bit off half your face.'

Erekala was clearly confused. ‘The future…'

‘This is how it'll be. From now on. Fuck all the animals – they'll all be gone. But we'll still be here. We'll still be killing each other, but this time in unimaginable numbers.'

The commander shook his head. ‘When all the beasts are gone—'

‘Long live the cruellest beast of all,' Kalam said, suddenly baring his teeth. ‘And it won't end. It'll never end.'

Erekala's eyes slowly widened, and then his gaze shifted past Quick Ben and Kalam, to the waiting ranks of Malazan soldiers. ‘When all the beasts are gone,' he whispered, and then raised his voice, once more addressing Kalam. ‘Your words…satisfy me. Inform your High Fist. The Perish Grey Helms surrender.'

‘Good. Disarm – we'll collect your weapons on our way through. Sorry we can't help with your wounded, though – we're in something of a hurry.'

‘And what do you intend to do with my brothers and sisters?'

Kalam frowned. ‘Nothing. Just don't follow us – your role in this whole Hood-damned mess is now done. Look,' the assassin added, ‘we had to get through the pass. You got in our way. We got no qualms killing the Assail and their Shriven – that's what we're here to do. But you Perish – well, the High Fist made it clear enough – you ain't our enemy. You never was.'

 

As they made their way back Quick Ben shot Kalam a look. ‘How did you know?'

‘Know what?'

‘The thought of us humans slaughtering each other for ever and ever – how did you know that he'd settle with that?'

The assassin shrugged. ‘I just told him how it was going to be. Soon as he heard it, he knew the truth of it. They may be fanatics but that don't make them fools.'

Quick Ben snorted. ‘Beg to differ on that one, Kalam.'

Grunting, Kalam nodded and said, ‘Soon as I said it…all right, try this. Even a fanatic can smell the shit they're buried in. Will that do?'