The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (422 page)

And into the camp.

Corabb Bhilan. Thenu'alas rode at his commander's side, a long-hafted weapon that was half sword, half axe, in his right hand. Leoman was the centre of a curved sweep of attackers, protecting a knot of additional horse warriors from which a steady whirring sound rose. Corabb knew what that sound signified—his commander had invented his own answer to Moranth munitions, employing a pair of clay balls filled with oil and connected by a thin chain. Lit like lamps, they were swung and thrown in the manner of bolas.

The desert warriors were among the huge supply wagons now, and Corabb heard the first of those bolas whip outward, the sound followed by a whooshing roar of fire. The darkness vanished in a red glare.

And then Corabb saw a figure running from his horse's path. He swung his long-bladed axe. The impact, as it struck the back of the fleeing Malazan's helmed head, nearly dislocated Corabb's shoulder. A spray of blood spattered hard against his forearm as he dragged the weapon free—it was suddenly heavier, and he glanced down at it, to see that the blade had taken the helm with it, having cut fully half through. Brains and bits of bone and scalp were spilling from the bronze bowl.

Swearing, he slowed his mount's wild charge and tried to shake the axe clear. There was fighting on all sides, now, as well as raging flames engulfing at least a dozen wagons—and squad-tents. And soldiers appearing, more and more of them. He could hear barked orders in the Malazan tongue, and crossbow quarrels had begun flitting through the air towards the horse warriors.

A horn sounded, high and wavering. His curses growing fiercer, Corabb wheeled his horse round. He had already lost contact with Leoman, although a few of his comrades were in sight. All of them responding to the call to withdraw. As he must, as well.

The axe dragged at his aching shoulder, still burdened with that damned helm. He drove his horse back up the broad track between the mess-tents. Smoke tumbled, obscuring the view before him, stinging his eyes and harsh in his lungs.

Sudden burning agony slashed across his cheek, snapping his head around. A quarrel clattered against the ground fifteen paces ahead and to one side. Corabb ducked low, twisting in search of where it had come from.

And saw a squad of Malazans, all with crossbows—all but one cocked and trained on the desert warrior, with a sergeant berating the soldier who had fired too early. A scene taken in, in its entirety, between heartbeats. The bastards were less then ten paces distant.

Corabb flung his axe away. With a scream, he pitched his horse sideways, directly into the wall of one of the mess-tents. Ropes tautened and snapped heavy stakes skyward, poles splintering. Amidst this stumbling chaos, the warrior heard the crossbows loose—but his horse was going down, onto its side—and Corabb was already leaping clear of the saddle, his moccasined feet slipping out from the stirrups as he dived.

Into the collapsing tent wall, a moment before his horse, rolling with a scream, followed.

The pressure of that waxed fabric vanished suddenly and Corabb tumbled into a somersault, once, twice, then skidded onto his feet, spinning round—

—in time to see his horse roll back upright.

Corabb leapt alongside his mount and vaulted up into the saddle—and they were off.

And in the desert warrior's mind: numb disbelief.

 

On the opposite side of the avenue, seven Malazan marines stood or crouched with spent crossbows, staring as the rider thundered off into the smoke.

‘Did you see that?' one asked.

Another frozen moment, shattered at last when the soldier named Lutes flung his weapon down in disgust.

‘Pick that up,' Sergeant Borduke growled.

‘If Maybe hadn't fired early—'

‘I wasn't sure!' Maybe replied.

‘Load up, idiots—there might be a few left.'

‘Hey, Sergeant, maybe that horse killed the cook.'

Borduke spat. ‘The gods smiling down on us this night, Hubb?'

‘Well…'

‘Right. The truth remains, then. We'll have to kill him ourselves. Before he kills us. But never mind that for now. Let's move…'

 

The sun had just begun to rise when Leoman drew rein and halted his raiders. Corabb was late in arriving—among the last, in fact—and that earned a pleased nod from his commander. As if he'd assumed that Corabb had been taking up the rear out of a sense of duty. He did not notice that his lieutenant had lost his main weapon.

Behind them, they could see the columns of smoke rising into sunlit sky, and the distant sound of shouts reached them, followed moments later by the thunder of horse hoofs.

Leoman bared his teeth. ‘And now comes the real objective of our attack. Well
done thus far, my soldiers. Hear those horses? Seti, Wickans and Khundryl—and that will be the precise order of the pursuit. The Khundryl, whom we must be wary of, will be burdened by their armour. The Wickans will range cautiously. But the Seti, once they sight us, will be headlong in their pursuit.' He then raised the flail in his right hand, and all could see the bloody, matted hair on the spike ball. ‘And where shall we lead them?'

‘To
death
!' came the roaring reply.

 

The rising sun had turned the distant wall of spinning, whirling sand gold, a pleasing colour to Febryl's old, watery eyes. He sat facing east, cross-legged atop what had once been a gate tower but was now a shapeless heap of rubble softened by windblown sand.

The city reborn lay to his back, slow to awaken on this day for reasons of which only a scant few were aware, and Febryl was one of those. The goddess
devoured
. Consuming life's forces, absorbing the ferocious will to survive from her hapless, misguided mortal servants.

The effect was gradual, yet, day after day, moment by moment, it
deadened
. Unless one was cognizant of that hunger, of course. And was able to take preventative measures to evade her incessant demands.

Long ago, Sha'ik Reborn had claimed to know him, to have plumbed his every secret, to have discerned the hue of his soul. And indeed, she had shown an alarming ability to speak in his mind—almost as if she was always present, and only spoke to occasionally remind him of that terrifying truth. But such moments had diminished in frequency—perhaps as a result of his renewed efforts to mask himself—until, now, he was certain that she could no longer breach his defences.

Perhaps, however, the truth was far less flattering to his own proficiencies. Perhaps the influence of the goddess had lured Sha'ik Reborn into…indifference.
Aye, it may be that I am already dead and am yet to know it. That all I have planned is known to the woman and goddess both. Am I alone in having spies? No. Korbolo has hinted of his own agents, and indeed, nothing of what I seek will come to pass without the efforts of the Napan's hidden cadre of killers.

It was, he reflected with bitter humour, the nature of everyone in this game to hide as much of themselves from others as they could, from allies as well as enemies, since such appellations were in the habit of reversing without warning.

None the less, Febryl had faith in Kamist Reloe. The High Mage had every reason to remain loyal to the broader scheme—the scheme that was betrayal most prodigious—since the path it offered was the only one that ensured Reloe's survival in what was to come. And as for the more subtle nuances concerning Febryl himself, well, those were not Kamist Reloe's business. Were they?

Even if their fruition should prove fatal…to everyone but me.

They all thought themselves too clever, and that was a flaw inviting exploitation.

And what of me? Eh, dear Febryl? Do you think yourself clever?
He smiled at the distant wall of sand. Cleverness was not essential, provided one insisted on
keeping things simple. Complexity beckoned error, like a whore a soldier on leave. The lure of visceral rewards that proved never quite as straightforward as one would have imagined from the start.
But I will avoid that trap. I will not suffer deadly lapses, such as has happened to Bidithal, since they lead to complications—although his failings will lead him into my hands, so I suppose I should not complain too much.

‘The sun's light folds over darkness.'

He started, twisted around. ‘Chosen One!'

‘Deep breaths, old man, will ease your hammering heart. I can wait a moment, for I am patient.'

She stood almost at his side—of course he had seen no shadow, for the sun was before him. But how had she come with such silence? How long had she been standing there? ‘Chosen One, have you come to join me in greeting the dawn?'

‘Is that what you do, when you come here at the beginning of each day? I'd wondered.'

‘I am a man of humble habits, mistress.'

‘Indeed. A certain bluntness that affects a quality of simplicity. As if by adhering to simple habits in the flesh and bone, your mind will in turn strive towards the same perfection.'

He said nothing, though his heart had anything but slowed its thundering pace.

Sha'ik then sighed. ‘Did I say perfection? Perhaps I should tell you something, then, to aid you in your quest.'

‘Please,' he gasped softly.

‘The Whirlwind Wall is virtually opaque, barring that diffuse sunlight. And so I am afraid I must correct you, Febryl. You are facing northeast, alas.' She pointed. ‘The sun is actually over there, High Mage. Do not fret so—you have at least been consistent. Oh, and there is another matter that I believe must be clarified. Few would argue that my goddess is consumed by anger, and so consumes in turn. But what you might see as the loss of many to feed a singular hunger is in truth worthy of an entirely different analogy.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yes. She does not strictly
feed
on the energies of her followers, so much as provide for them a certain
focus
. Little different, in fact, from that Whirlwind Wall out there, which, while seeming to diffuse the light of the sun, in fact acts to trap it. Have you ever sought to pass through that wall, Febryl? Particularly at dusk, when the day's heat has most fully been absorbed? It would burn you down to bone, High Mage, in an instant. So, you see how something that appears one way is in truth the very opposite way? Burnt crisp—a horrible image, isn't it? One would need to be desert-born, or possess powerful sorcery to defy that. Or very deep shadows…'

Living simply, Febryl belatedly considered, should not be made synonymous with
seeing
simply, since the former was both noble and laudable, whilst the latter was a flaw most deadly. A careless error, and, alas, he had made it.

And now, he concluded, it was too late.

And as for altering the plans, oh, it was too late for that as well.

Somehow, the newly arriving day had lost its glamour.

The sound of flies and wasps was a solid, buzzing hum in the hot air of the gorge, and already the stench had grown overpowering. Fist Gamet loosened the clasp on the buckle and lifted the battered iron helmet from his head. The felt liner was sodden with sweat, itching against his scalp, but, as the flies swarmed him, he did not remove it.

He continued watching from the slight rise at the south end of the gorge as the Adjunct walked her horse through the carnage below.

Three hundred Seti and over a hundred horses lay dead, mostly from arrows, in the steep-sided ravine they had been led into. It could not have taken long, even including rounding up and leading off the surviving mounts. There had been less than a bell between the advance Seti riders and the Khundryl, and had Temul not ordered his Wickans back to cover the main army…
well, we would have lost them as well.

As it was, those Wickans had prevented another raid on the supply train, their presence alone sufficient to trigger a sudden withdrawal by the enemy—with not a single drop of blood spilled. The warleader commanding the desert horse warriors had been too cagey to see his force ensnared in an out-and-out battle.

Far better to rely upon…errors in judgement. The Seti not assigned as flank
ing riders to the vanguard had defied orders, and had died as a result.
And all the bastard needs from us is more stupid mistakes.

Something in the scene below was raising the hairs on his neck. The Adjunct rode alone through the slaughter, her back straight, unmindful of her horse's skittish progress.

It's never the flies that are the trouble, it's the wasps. One sting and that well-bred beast will lose its mind. Could rear and throw her off, break her neck. Or could bolt, straight down the gorge, and then try to take one of the steep sides…like some of those Seti horses tried to do…

Instead, the horse simply continued picking its way over the bodies, and the clouds of wasps did little more than rise and then wheel from its path, alighting once more upon their feast as soon as mount and rider had passed.

An old soldier at the Fist's side coughed and spat, then, at Gamet's glance, mumbled an apology.

‘No need…Captain. It's a grisly sight, and we're all too close…'

‘Not that, sir. Only…' he paused, then slowly shook his head. ‘Never mind, sir. Just an old memory, that's all.'

Gamet nodded. ‘I've a few of those myself. So, Fist Tene Baralta wants to know if he needs to send his healers forward. The answer you may bring him lies before you.'

‘Aye, sir.'

He watched the grizzled old soldier back his horse clear then swing it round and ride off. Then Gamet fixed his attention once more upon the Adjunct.

She had reached the far end, where most of the bodies lay, heaped up against blood-splashed stone walls, and, after a long moment, during which she scanned the scene on all sides, she gathered the reins and began retracing her path.

Gamet set the helm on his head once more and closed the clasp.

She reached the slope and rode up to halt alongside him.

He had never before seen her expression so severe.
A woman with few of a woman's charms, as they say of her, in tones approaching pity.
‘Adjunct.'

‘He left many of them wounded,' she said. ‘Anticipating, perhaps, that we'd reach them in time. Wounded Malazans are better than dead ones, after all.'

‘Assuming that warleader seeks to delay us, aye.'

‘He does. Even with the Khundryl supply lines, our resources are strained as it is. The loss of the wagons last night will be felt by everyone.'

‘Then why didn't Sha'ik send this warleader against us as soon as we crossed the Vathar River? We're a week or less away from the Whirlwind Wall. She could have purchased another month or more, and we'd be in far worse shape when we finally arrived.'

‘You are correct, Fist. And I have no answer for you. Temul has gauged this raiding party's strength at just under two thousand—he was fairly certain that the midday contact on the flank revealed the enemy's full force, since he sighted supply horses as well as those taken from the Seti. Thus, a rather large raiding army.'

Gamet ruminated on this for a time, then he grunted. ‘It's almost as if we're facing a confused opposition, one at odds with itself.'

‘The same thought had occurred to me. For the moment, however, we must concern ourselves with this warleader, else he bleed us to death.'

Gamet swung his horse around. ‘More words with Gall, then,' he said, grimacing. ‘If we can get them out of their great-grandfathers' armour, they might actually manage a ride up a hill without leaving their horses blown.'

‘I want the marines out tonight, Fist.'

His eyes narrowed. ‘The marines, Adjunct? On foot? You wish the pickets bolstered?'

She drew a deep breath. ‘In the year 1147, Dassem Ultor was faced with a similar situation, with a much smaller army and three entire tribal nations mauling him virtually every night.'

After a moment Gamet nodded. ‘I know the scenario, Adjunct, and I recall his answer. The marines will be sent out tonight.'

‘Be sure they understand what is expected of them, Fist Gamet.'

‘There's some veterans among them,' he replied. ‘And in any case, I plan to command the operation myself.'

‘That will not be—'

‘Yes, it will, Adjunct. My apologies. But…yes, it will.'

‘So be it.'

It was one thing to doubt his commander's measure, but another entirely to doubt his own.

 

There were three types of scorpion common in the odhan, none of which displayed any toleration for either of the others. Early in the second week Strings had drawn his two fellow sergeants aside to unveil his scheme. Both Gesler and Borduke had proved agreeable, particularly at the offer of splitting the profits three ways. Borduke was first to draw the odd-coloured stone and was quick to choose the Red-backed Bastard—outwardly the meanest of the three scorpion types. Gesler had followed, choosing the amber In Out—so named for its transparent exoskeleton through which, if one was inclined to look carefully, various poisons could be seen racing beneath its carapace.

The two sergeants had then looked with pity upon their hapless companion. The Lord's luck that the man with the idea in the first place should be left with the Birdshit scorpion—puny and flat and black and looking like its namesake. Of course, when it came to the three-way split of the main profits, none of that really mattered. Only in the private wagers between the three sergeants would Strings come out wanting.

But Strings had affected only mild disappointment at being left with the Birdshit, answering with naught but a slight shrug as he collected the handful of pebbles they had used in choosing the order of selection. And neither Gesler nor Borduke caught the old sapper's twitch of a smile as he turned away, nor his seemingly casual glance to where Cuttle sat in the shade of a boulder—a glance answered with the slightest of nods.

The squads were then set to the task of finding their respective champions
whilst on the march, and, when that failed, at dusk when the horrid little creatures were wont to scuttle out from their hiding places in search of something to kill.

Word quickly spread, and soon the wagers started pouring in. Borduke's soldier, Maybe, was chosen for the task of bet-holder, given his extraordinary ability to retain facts. And one Holder was selected from each squad, who then in turn selected a Trainer.

The afternoon following the raid and the slaughter of the Seti, Strings slowed his pace during the march, until he fell in step with Bottle and Tarr. Despite his casual expression, the truth was, the bile roiled sour in his stomach. The Fourteenth had found its own scorpion, out there in the wastes beyond, and it had just delivered its first sting. The mood of the soldiers was low, and uncertainty gnawed at their confidence. None had believed, it was clear, that the first blood they tasted would be their own.
Got to get their minds off it
.

‘How's little Joyful, Bottle?'

The mage shrugged. ‘As hungry and nasty as ever, Sergeant.'

Strings nodded. ‘And how's the training coming along, Corporal?'

Tarr frowned beneath the rim of his helm. ‘All right, I suppose. As soon as I figure out what kind of training it needs, I'll get right on it.'

‘Good, the situation sounds ideal. Spread the word. First battle's tonight, one bell after we set camp.'

Both soldiers swung their heads round at this.

‘Tonight?' Bottle asked. ‘After what just—'

‘You heard me. Gesler and Borduke are getting their beauties primed, same as us. We're ready, lads.'

‘It's going to draw quite a crowd,' Corporal Tarr said, shaking his head. ‘The lieutenant won't help but wonder—'

‘Not just the lieutenant, I'd imagine,' Strings replied. ‘But there won't be much of a crowd. We'll use the old word-line system. Run the commentary back through the whole camp.'

‘Joyful's going to get skewered,' Bottle muttered, his expression growing sorrowful. ‘And here I been feeding her, every night. Big juicy capemoths…she'd just pounce real pretty, then start eating until there wasn't nothing left but a couple wings and a crunched-up ball. Then she'd spend half the night cleaning her pincers and licking her lips—'

‘Lips?' Smiles asked from behind the three men. ‘What lips? Scorpions don't have lips—'

‘What do you know?' Bottle shot back. ‘You won't even get close—'

‘When I get close to a scorpion I kill it. Which is what any sane person would do.'

‘Sane?' the mage retorted. ‘You pick them up and start pulling things off! Tail, pincers, legs—I ain't seen nothing so cruel in my life!'

‘Well, ain't that close enough to see if it's got lips?'

‘Where's it all go, I wonder?' Tarr muttered.

Bottle nodded. ‘I know, it's amazing. She's so tiny…'

‘That's our secret,' Strings said quietly.

‘What is?'

‘The reason why I picked a Birdshit, soldiers.'

‘You didn't pick…'

At the suspicious silence that followed, Strings simply smiled. Then he shrugged. ‘Hunting's one thing. An easy thing. Birdshits don't need to get…elaborate, killing a maimed capemoth. It's when they have to fight. Protecting territory, or their young. That's when the surprise comes. You think Joyful's going to lose tonight, Bottle? Think your heart's going to get broken? Relax, lad, old Strings here has always got your tender feelings in mind…'

‘You can drop that “Strings” bit, Sergeant,' Bottle said after a moment. ‘We all know who you are. We all know your real name.'

‘Well, that's damned unfortunate. If it gets out to the command—'

‘Oh, it won't, Fiddler.'

‘Maybe not on purpose, but in the heat of battle?'

‘Who's going to listen to our screams of panic in a battle, Sergeant?'

Fiddler shot the young man a look, gauging, then he grinned. ‘Good point. Still, be careful what you say and when you say it.'

‘Aye, Sergeant. Now, could you explain that surprise you were talking about?'

‘No. Wait and see.'

Strings fell silent then, noting a small party of riders approaching down the line of march. ‘Straighten up, soldiers. Officers coming.'

Fist Gamet, the sergeant saw, was looking old, worn out. Getting dragged out of retirement was never a good thing, he knew, since the first thing that an old soldier put away was his nerve, and that was hard, if not impossible, to get back. That stepping away, of course, marked a particular kind of retirement—and one a cautious soldier usually avoided. Abandoning the lifestyle was one thing, but surrendering the deadly edge was another. Studying the Fist as the man rode up, Fiddler felt a tremor of unease.

Accompanying Gamet were Captain Keneb and the lieutenant, the latter so grim-faced as to be near comical.
His officer mask, with which he tries to look older and thus more professional. Instead, it's the scowl of a constipated man. Someone should tell him…

The threesome reined in to walk their horses alongside Fiddler's own squad—somewhat unnerving to the sergeant, though he offered them a nod. Keneb's eyes, he noted, were on Cuttle.

But it was Ranal who spoke first. ‘Sergeant Strings.'

‘Aye, sir?'

‘You and Cuttle, please, off to one side for a private conversation.' Then he raised his voice to the squad marching ahead. ‘Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy, back with us on the double.'

‘Four should be enough,' the Fist rumbled, ‘to see the instructions properly delivered to the other squads.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Ranal, who had been about to call over Borduke.

When the four marines were assembled, Fist Gamet cleared his throat, then began, ‘It's clear you are all veterans. And Captain Keneb informs me that you have marched in these lands before—no, I need no more details of that. My reliance depends on that very experience, however. The Adjunct wishes the marines to answer the desert raiders tonight.'

He fell silent then.

And no-one spoke for a time, as the significance of the Fist's words slowly settled in the minds of the four marines.

Finally, Captain Keneb said, ‘Aye, Dassem's answer, all those years ago. It's fortunate, then, that you'd planned on using the word-line this evening. Simple enough to keep it going once the three-way fight's finished.' He leaned over slightly in his saddle and said to Fiddler, ‘You've the Birdshit, Sergeant? What are the odds running at right now?'

‘Maybe says it's about forty to one,' Fiddler replied, keeping his face straight.

‘Even better than I'd hoped,' Keneb replied, leaning back. ‘But I should add, Sergeant, that I've convinced the Fist to back your Birdshit as well.'