Return of the Crimson Guard

CHAPTER VI

Surrounded by command staff and bodyguard,Ullen stood next to Urko and the Moranth Gold commander atop a modest rise to one side of the marching columns of Talian and Falaran infantry. Toc, together with a troop of some forty, came riding up and reined in. ‘A good day for battle,‘ Urko called and Toc gave his assent. ‘Not too hot.’ Ullen peered at the sky; yes, overcast, though it might rain. He didn't look forward to that. They had left the fort before first light and been marching through dawn. The night had been relatively calm — the beast, Ryllandaras, if indeed it was he, had probed twice but been driven off by the massed ranks of Gold, backed up by a liberal dose of their munitions. Already flights of gulls, crows and kites crowded the skies over the line of march. How many generations of warfare, Ullen wondered, had it taken them to learn what the massing of so many men and women in armour might presage?

‘Commander V'thell,’ Toc greeted the Moranth in his armour hued a deep, rich gold like the very last gleam of sunset. The Moranth inclined his fully enclosed helmed head.

‘Still unmounted, I see,’ Toc said to Urko with something like a nostalgic smile.

Urko shrugged beneath his heavy armour of banded iron. ‘It reassures the soldiers. They don't like their commander being mounted when they ain't. Makes ‘em suspect you're gonna ride off as soon as things get hot.’

Toc's staff, all mounted, shared amused glances. Captain Moss caught Ullen's eye and winked. ‘And the carriage?’ Toc asked, gesturing down the gentle slope to where a huge carriage painted brilliant red and green waited while grooms fought its fractious team of six horses.

Urko rolled his eyes. ‘Bala. She'll be with me at the centre rear. I'll have the reserves. The Falaran cavalry and elements of the Talian and Falaran infantry. Choss is already with the south flank. You'll have the north — and where are those blasted Seti anyway?’

Toc scanned the north horizon. ‘Bands are appearing. They'll be here soon.’

‘Bloody better be.’

‘What of this force in the south? The Kanese?’ Toc asked.

‘Still arrayed around the south side of Pilgrim's Bridge. None too eager to take on the Guard — can't say I blame them. Amaron has some hints that they are to come out for Surl-’ Urko stopped, correcting himself, ‘for the Empress. But he's not sure. They might decide it's worth it, though, at any time.’

‘We'll keep an eye on them.’

‘Aye.’

‘And the Marchland Sentries?’

Urko paused, glanced away, his mouth drawing down even more. ‘Withdrawn to the west. Out of harm's way ‘n’ all. Too bad. Could've used them. But perhaps for the better, all things considered.’

‘Perhaps.’

V'thell bowed to the general. ‘Permission to join my people.’

‘Granted. And V'thell…’ The Moranth Gold turned back. Urko raised a fist. ‘You're the hammer. Break them.’

V'thell bowed again. ‘We shall.’

‘I should track down an ataman,’ Toc said. Urko nodded his assent. The cavalry commander rode off with his troop.

‘And myself?’ Ullen asked.

‘I want you here. If things go to pot I'll have to wade in and I want you to take over.’

Ullen was alarmed but struggled to disguise his unease. Wade in? You're not young any more, Commander. ‘Aye, sir.’

The general waved to the carriage. ‘Now go down and see what Bala has to say.’

Ullen less successfully hid a smile. ‘Yes, sir.’

Toc and his troop combed the rolling hills north-west of the assembly point. From high ground the dust of Laseen's forces was clear to the east. Midday, his instincts told him. They'd finish manoeuvring by midday. Where were Brokeleg and Ortal? It was unthinkable they should let him down. After all the years he'd spent among the Seti; after he'd fought with Kellanved for their interests. He'd even raised his own children among them: Ingen, Leese and little Toc the Younger.

A messenger pointed to the north where a broad cloud, more like an approaching dust storm, was darkening the sky. Soon, a van of horsemen could be seen galloping down a far broad slope. Tall pennants of white fur flew prominently, along with white fur capes. Imoten, not the atamans. Has the man usurped them completely?

He waited while the column closed. A standard-bearer led, a tall crosspiece raised above him hung with white pelts and set with what looked like freshly skinned animal skulls. The sight of that grisly standard made Toc profoundly uneasy. Imotan followed directly, together with his bodyguard, which had swelled to some seventy men and women, all sworn to their White Jackal god. Imotan drew his mount up next to Toc's and smiled, inclining his head in what seemed an almost ironic greeting. ‘Well met, Toc the Elder.’

‘Imotan. Where are the atamans? We should discuss the coming engagement.’

‘You will discuss the matter with me. I have direct authority over all warriors.’

I see. What has been the political infighting there in your encampment these last few days, shaman? Clearly, I have been away for too long. ‘Very well. Let us find a vantage point.’

Imotan nodded to the standard-bearer who dipped the pennant forward. Blood, Toc noted to his distaste, dripped liberally from the skulls and pelts of the macabre standard, having soaked the shoulders and hair of the bearer. The massed bodyguard burst into howls of enthusiasm. Moments later, in the distance the calls were echoed and a great thunder of hooves kicked to life, shaking the ground. All along the north horizon of hilltops and crests of mounds horsemen advanced. Toc stared, his heart lurching; it was a massing such as he could not have imagined. Where had Imotan gathered such numbers? Seemed the coming of their old foe and totemic animal Ryllandaras might have given Imotan limitless reach. The bodyguard surged ahead and Toc and his troop kicked their mounts to join their numbers.

Forward Seti scouts — the small bands Toc had seen riding the grounds — directed Imotan's column to a rise that offered a prospect of the assembling forces. Toc rested his new horse, a slim grey youngling, next to the shaman's large bay. A heavily overcast sky frowned down on a wide, very shallow basin. To the south-east, the top of the tall promontory that supported the Great Sanctuary of Burn could just be made out as a smear of yellow and umber. After jockeying and scouting through the night, elements of both forces had settled on this front in a mutual, unspoken accord. Small flags could even be made out marking the marshalling points for various units. Forward elements from both armies were already forming up.

Opposite, the skirmishers of whom Toc had been hearing so much were pouring into the basin from the south like a flood. So many, Where did Laseen get them all? She must have emptied the gutters of Unta and every town in between. And they seemed eager enough, too. Within their formless tide could be made out the ruled straight columns of marching infantry. Malazan heavies. The very forces he'd counted on in the past to anchor his own light cavalry and skirmishers now arrayed against him. It was an intimidating sight. And what was this? A banner at the fore, the sceptre underscored by a sword! The Sword of the Empire! So it was true. That Fist — what was his name? — from the Seven Cities campaigns had claimed the title. Wait until Urko sees that! He'll wrap the man's own sword around his neck.

Seti bands, Imotan's outriders, had stormed down into the basin and were already beginning to exchange arrow and crossbow fire with the skirmishers. Choss's own light infantry and skirmishers, pitifully few in number, were scrambling to catch up. Three separate columns of Moranth Gold then entered from the west, escorted by troops of Talian cavalry. They made for the centre where the standard of the Sword of the Empire had been planted.

‘That horde of skirmishers must be contained and swept aside,’ Toc told Imotan, who nodded, stroking his grey-shot beard. ‘Our intelligence tells us Laseen hasn't the cavalry to oppose you.’

‘So you say. Yet if that is true then why is she here?’

Toc's brows rose at the question. ‘Well, I suppose I would have to say that she has no choice. She has to oppose us — to do otherwise would be to admit defeat. And that is hardly in her nature.’

‘Is she counting on some hidden asset to deliver her? What of the Kanese?’

Toc shook his head. ‘I don't believe they'll cross. A lot to lose and too little to gain.’

‘They could gain much by arriving in time to deliver her…’

‘Imotan,’ Toc said, gesturing to the battle grounds, ‘once it looks as if she will lose they will throw in with us. If she wins, her rule will be absolute. No one will rise to oppose her for a generation.’

The White Jackal shaman flinched at that, glowering. ‘There is more to this continent than just Tali and Unta.’ He turned to his guards. ‘Send word to the warbands.’ The guard bowed and rode off. ‘What of this mercenary army? Why are they not with us? Didn't Urko offer enough?’

Toc almost laughed, mastering himself in time. ‘The Crimson Guard wants the Empire crushed. That's their goal. I suppose they're thinking — why bloody themselves when we'll mangle each other for them, hey?’

‘Then why not get rid of them?’

‘It's Choss's estimate that despite the Avowed they are not a viable threat. He believes they don't have sufficient forces.’

‘Estimates?’ Imotan echoed. ‘You would gamble when so much is at stake?’

Toc edged up his shoulders in a small shrug. ‘Every engagement is a gamble. You make your best choices and hope you made no major mistakes.’

The shaman grunted a reluctant acceptance of the point. ‘And Laseen? Where is she?’

Toc scanned the east. ‘Hasn't arrived yet. She's probably in the rear.’

A coarse laugh from Imotan. ‘So why don't I send my warriors to the rear and rid us of her?’

‘Because she's probably guarded by all the Claw and mage cadre on the continent, that's why.’

‘Ah, yes,’ the shaman sneered. ‘Your vaunted mages. Where are they now? Where is the Tayschrenn, the Hairloc or the Nightchill now? Why are we even here assembling soldiers when in the old days your mages would turn this valley into an inferno?’

Toc eased his seat in his saddle, eyed the man edgeways. What odd directions the man's thoughts were flying in. Pre-battle jitters, perhaps. ‘We formed rank back then too, Imotan. Even with Tayschrenn. Because mages can't hold territory. In the end, it always comes down to leather on the ground — the plain spearman or army regular. They win the wars.’

‘Myself, I would say otherwise.’ Imotan hooked a leg around the pommel of his saddle. ‘I would say that you Malazans foolishly squandered your talent. Burned them up and drove them mad as your reach exceeded your grasp.’ He regarded Toc squarely. ‘And now you have none left worth the name.’

Toc answered the man's steady gaze from under knitted brows. He wasn't certain how to respond to that claim — or provocation. Could it even be denied? What was the man getting at?

Imotan gestured to the field. ‘Ah. Something is happening.’

Toc glanced down. What was happening was complete murderous chaos. Laseen's skirmishers were not waiting for their own heavies to complete their formations. They charged forward in waves, kneeling and firing, then retiring while the next rank took their place. A steady hail of bolts punished the Gold, who displayed astonishing discipline in retaining ranks. The Talian and Falaran flanking phalanxes were forming clean enough. Toc turned to a staffer. ‘Send word to Urko to sign the advance!’ To Imotan, ‘I'm surprised Laseen unleashed her skirmishers so early; but then she may not have had any say in the matter. They seem to think they can win this battle all on their own. Your warbands should retake the open ground — if you would, Imotan.’

The shaman nodded his assent, signed to a guard who rode off.

Below, signal flags waved frantically between the League elements. As one the Gold drew their heavy curved blades and advanced. Urko seemed to have sent the command already — or V'thell had simply lost patience. The flanking phalanxes moved forward as well, covering them. The skirmishers palpably shrank back. Far across the basin tall Imperial banners signalled Surly — Laseen, Toc corrected himself — entering amid a column of Untan cavalry, many bearing noble banners, and flanked by marching Malazan heavy infantry.

A Talian message rider stormed up to Toc, reined savagely. ‘General Urko inquires as to the disposition of the Seti,’ the man panted, his face flushed.

I don't doubt that he does — though not in those words. ‘Sweeping back the irregulars momentarily.’

The rider saluted. ‘Aye, sir.’ He reined around and gouged the iron spikes of his stirrups into his mount's flanks, galloping off in a flurry of thrown dirt.

Imotan caught Toc's gaze, directed it to the ridge line. ‘The Seti are here — just as promised, Toc the Elder.’

Riders climbed the ridges and crests to the north, a curving, undulating skirmish-line of thousands of light cavalry lancers. Below, on the broad open plain a great moan went up among the Untan irregulars. The flights of crossbow bolts — so thick at times it was hard to see through their waves — faltered, thinning to nothing. The exposed men and women swarmed, bunching up like ants around three squares of infantry in their midst, seeking sanctuary within. Toc could well imagine the brutal exigency of those infantry pushing back their own allies — to allow entrance to any would mean compromising the integrity of their own formation. Still, so many! If they should recover, take a stand of any kind…

‘And now, Toc,’ Imotan said, a hand raised, his voice climbing. ‘Because we Seti remain a free people — free to choose! We choose to go!’ And he signalled to the standard-bearer, who circled the tall crosspiece hung with its freshly skinned white pelts and animal skulls. Droplets of blood pattered down on Toc's bare head and he flinched, ducking. Go? Does he mean attack?

All along the crests of the shallow hills, the mounted figures turned and rode off, descending out of sight. Toc gaped, turning left and right. What? What was this? Imotan's white-caped bodyguards pushed their mounts between him and the shaman as the man turned his horse around.

What? ‘Wait! Wait, damn you! You can't do this!’ He reached for his sword. All of the nearest bodyguard, some twenty, went for their weapons and Toc's staff set their hands to their grips. Toc lifted his hand away carefully. ‘Imotan!’ he bellowed to the shaman cantering his mount. ‘This is wrong! You can still salvage your honour! Imotan! Listen to me!’ Listen…

‘We should get word to Urko,’ a staffer said, his voice faint.

‘I'm sure he can see clearly enough,’ Moss suggested.

Still staring after the retreating back of the shaman, his shoulders as rigid as glass, Toc said, ‘Everyone go to Urko. He'll need all the cavalry he can get.’ None moved; all sat regarding their commander. He turned to scan their faces one by one and all glanced away from the complete desolation written there in the man's eyes. ‘Go! All of you!.. And tell him… tell him, I'm sorry that in the end, I failed him.’ Toc kicked his mount to ride after the White Jackal shaman.

After glancing amongst themselves for a time, uncertain, the assembled staffers and messengers turned their mounts down on to the plain. All but one, who lingered behind.

For a few leagues the Seti ignored Toc, the lone rider attempting to push his way past the surrounding screen of the escort. The dull roar of battle had fallen away long ago. The guards swung their lances, urging him off, laughing, as if he were no more than an unwanted dog.

Eventually, either in disgust or from a feeling of safety that the battle had been left far enough behind, the group slowed and halted. After they searched him and took his every weapon, including his famous black bow, Toc was allowed to pass through the crowding guards. Still mounted, he was led before Imotan, who waited, glowering his impatience.

‘Do you wish to die, Malazan?’ he snarled.

‘What you have done is wrong, Imotan,’ Toc said, calmly. ‘You have stained the Seti with the name of betrayers. But you-’

‘Wrong!’ the shaman shrieked. ‘You betrayed your promise, Malazan! You promised us Heng! You turned away from that promise and so now we turn away from you.’

Toc knew it was useless but he held out his open hands. ‘Imotan, after this battle we can turn all our resources to Heng-’

‘Too late, Malazan? Spittle flew from the man's lips. His hands knotted themselves within the strips of his reins. ‘Another false promise! More of your empty words. All too late. Now we have our ancient patron returned to us! With him we will level Heng ourselves. Why should we die for you, eh?’ The rheumy, lined eyes slitted as the man eased into a satisfied smile. ‘And now such alliances as this are no longer necessary, Malazan. Have you any last words?’

Toc forced himself to relax. Useless, how useless it all was. ‘Ryllandaras can't destroy Heng, Imotan. Never could, never will.’

‘We shall see,’ and he signed to his guards.

Two lances pierced Toc's sides, physically raising him from his saddle, then withdrew. He gasped at the overwhelming pain of it. His world narrowed to a tunnel of light and roaring agony. He was only dimly aware of the troop heading off leaving him hunched in his saddle.

After a time his mount moved a restless step and he unbalanced, sliding off to fall without even noting the impact. He lay staring at the sky through a handful of dry golden blades of grass until a dark shape obscured his view, sat him up.

A sharp stinging blow upon his face. He blinked, squinted at someone crouched before him, wet his lips. ‘Ah, Captain Moss. Thank you… but I don't think there's much hope…’

The captain was studying him. The scar across his face was a livid, healing red. Sighing, Moss sat, plucked a blade of grass and chewed it. Slow dawning realization brought a rueful grin to Toc's lips. ‘But… you're not going to try.’

‘No, sir.’

Toc laughed, convulsing, and coughed. Wetness warmed his lips. He touched it, examined his bloody fingers. ‘So. She sent you, did she? I thought the Claw was compromised.’

‘I'm freelance. I sometimes tie up loose ends for her.’ Moss looked away, scanned the horizons. After a moment, he said, ‘I've come to admire you — I really have. I want you to know that. I'm sorry.’ He shifted his sitting position, checked the grounds behind him. ‘She wants you to know that she's sorry too. So long as you kept away she was willing to look the other way. But this…’ he shook his head, took out the blade of grass, studied it and flicked it aside.

‘I suggest you try Urko next,’ Toc breathed wetly. ‘Get real close first…’

‘Tell me about these Marchland Sentries. What or who are they guarding?’

His head sinking, Toc tried to edge it side to side — perhaps he succeeded — he wasn't sure. He dragged his fingers through the dirt, raised the handful of black earth mixed with blood to his face. ‘I'm glad to die here,’ he said, slurring. ‘Glad. The sunlight. The wind. Beautiful

The man rose, dusting his leathers. After a moment hoofbeats shook the ground. Then, nothing. The wind knocked the heavy grasses. Insects whirred. The sun warmed the side of Toc's face. Then came movement again. He had no idea how much time had passed; each breath seemed an eternity of pained inhaling followed by wet exhaling. Someone else now stood before him — a Seti in moccasins and leathers. The man examined his wounds, raised his face, but Toc saw only a dark blur. The man said something to him, a question, but Toc only noted how the sunlight now held such a golden glow. The man left accompanied by many horses. The silence of the prairie that was in truth no silence returned. Toc felt himself join it.

At first Nait couldn't believe it when the Seti withdrew. He thought it was some kind of diversion or awful cruel trick. He'd been sure they were goners. Now, though, he joined in the great roaring cheers that followed their disappearance. The tall banner marking where the Sword's command was locked in combat with the Moranth Gold waved its encouragement. The steady crushing advance of the Gold into the Malazan phalanx faltered. In front of Nait the irregulars punched their arms into the air, hugged the infantry who moments before had been beating them away with the flats of their blades.

Then almost as if with one mind the skirmishers melted away and Nait saw the Falaran infantry phalanx closing double-time. Obviously, they now saw their only chance in breaking the Imperial units. Iron mail skirting chased in bronze flashed as the Falarans stepped in unison. They held broad, engraved leather-covered shields locked and steady, shortswords thrust straight out between the shields. Squared Falaran helmets framed eyes, some narrowed in calculation, searching their targets, others wide in eager bloodlust. ‘Hold!’ the master sergeant was bellowing to Nait's right. ‘Hold!’

Nait would have run if he could have. This wasn't what he'd signed up for! To be cut down in some stupid pointless battle! But he was pressed within the second rank and couldn't even raise his elbows. He could only watch as the opposing ranks closed, the marching feet shaking the ground, the stink of piss and fear assaulting him from the men and women around him, and perhaps from himself as well. His mouth was cracked dry in terror, his hand numb on the grip of the light duelling longsword he'd picked up during the Guard's assault of Unta.

The front lines crashed, jamming together as shields slid clashing into shield. Nait was squeezed breathless in the press. He couldn't even raise his sword, so ruthlessly were the two bodies of soldiers jostling for momentum. Dust kicked up by the shuffling pushing feet blinded him and caught in his throat as he sucked in great gasping breaths. Soldiers screamed around him, in rage, in pain, in panic, the noise melding with the clash of sword and crack of shields, until it all became a meaningless unintelligible roar that simply sounded like a beast thirsty for his blood. Not me, was all his mind could repeat like a personal prayer, not me, not me. Not me!

The man before him fell to a blow to the neck and the press forced him forward though he had no wish to step into that gap. In a ferocious will to preserve his skin he smashed his shield into the Falaran opposing, flicked the longsword to his eyes then down around his shield to catch the inside of his thigh and cut, withdrawing. The man fell to one knee and Nait punched his face with the boss of his shield. Immediately the Falaran behind lunged forward to smash Nait's own shield into his face. Stunned, he barely fended off the man's attacks. That taught him, though, and he settled into a stubborn, reserved defence, using his longer reach to thrust his opponents back.

What was happening just two soldiers away came to be completely irrelevant to him. His world shrank to just the enemy facing him and his shieldman and — woman flanking. For fleeting moments when the line of locked shields moved smoothly as one he had the feeling of being part of something far greater than himself. Something far stronger, almost omnipotent. It was the most intoxicating sensation of his life. Something he'd never even suspected could exist in the world. And almost immediately he felt addicted to the power of it.

How much time passed he'd no idea. All he knew was exhaustion such as he'd never imagined. Everything was wrung from him in the panicked heart-hammering effort to live. Yet he drew the strength from somewhere within to raise his shield one more time, to thrust and block. For to do otherwise would mean his death. Eventually, in a haze of pink, he sensed the pressure against him lessening. Falaran soldiery were breaking off, turning and running. Crossbow bolts took them in a withering gale like dark wings passing overhead. Nait flinched, rocked, as a number of bolts punched his shield. He opened his mouth to complain but no sound came.

Before him the men and women of the Untan Volunteer Citizen Militia now scrambled over an open field of fallen. ‘Right! Right face!’ came a roaring order. The phalanx turned, armour clashing. ‘March?

Through the screen of the shifting, darting irregulars, Nait could see only the tall shields and helms of Moranth Gold closing in their slow deliberate pace. Then, Imperial infantry appeared, jogging from the front. A troop of Imperial cavalry came roaring back and in their midst bobbed the tall banner marking the Sword.

The leading Imperial phalanx had broken.

And now, Braven Tooth's command, with him jammed inside, was moving across to seal the gap. Nait felt his own flesh cringing from the coming confrontation. ‘Halt!’ The phalanx froze, feet stamping as one. ‘Left face!’ They turned. ‘Relief!’ The ranks shifted, edging past one another. Nait found himself three ranks back from the front. An extraordinary weight left his shoulders and suddenly he could breathe. But the feeling was short-lived for he knew that if things went badly it would be his turn again too soon.

‘Corporal! Corporal Nait!’

The woman next to Nait nudged him. ‘Someone wants you, Jumpy.’

Movement behind through the ranks and a hand cuffed Nait's shoulder. He turned, fist rising. Captain Tinsmith caught the hand. ‘Still with us, I see,’ Tinsmith said, impressed.

Nait tried to speak, had to struggle to wet his mouth. ‘Ah, yes, sir.’

The captain's brows rose. ‘Sir, now, is it? Well, collect your saboteurs. There's fallen Moranth out there and those fool irregulars are collecting munitions. Confiscate it all. Saboteurs only! Quickly!’

‘Yes, sir!’

Nait edged down the ranks picking men and women from the lines as he went. Reaching a flank, he pushed outside the phalanx, slung the heavy broad shield on to his back. Suddenly he felt completely exposed, naked. He cuffed the lads nearest him. ‘Let's go! Collect munitions — search the Hood-baiting skirmishers for it!’ The men and women saluted him and he jerked, startled. Oh yeah — and don't that feel good too!

The open plain of battle was a seething mass of running skirmishers jockeying for position. Troops of Talian and Falaran cavalry would suddenly appear without warning, scything through, running down irregulars, swords flashing, only to circle away before concerted fire could be brought to bear. Yet the League cavalry were too few. For the instant the horsemen passed, the skirmishers straightened and once more fire returned to punish the shield walls of the Gold and Malazan League formations.

Nait ran, directing his squad of ten to the trail of the Gold advance. In the middle distance a great shout went up from the north League phalanx. Swords thumped shields like a roll of thunder. Nait stopped, straightening; through the charging surging mass of skirmishers he glimpsed Imperial infantry fleeing the north — Fist D'Ebbin's phalanx had broken. Now, only Braven Tooth's command faced the remaining League elements. Part of him longed to return to the newfound security of that formation — part of him was damned glad he wasn't. He curtly gestured his squad on.

A troop of Falaran cavalry came charging past running down skirmishers. Sabres flashed, red and silver. A fat bearded fellow on a huge dappled warhorse led it. He sported crossbow bolts stuck to his scaled armour like decorations. Nait's squad hunched low until they thundered past, then headed on. They reached the trail of fallen Gold Moranth and Nait crouched down next to one body thatched in crossbow bolts. Everything not attached to the corpse was gone. The irregulars had thoroughly looted the trail. Someone had even tried prising the Gold's chitinous armour from his arms, but the plates appeared sutured on. One of his squad, May, called, waving, and Nait ran to the woman. She was kneeling holding a leather satchel containing a wooden box divided into compartments. It was empty. Nait tossed it away — Hood-damned fools! They're gonna blow themselves up! ‘Let's go before we get chopped to pieces.’

‘Aye.’

Nait led them back around, heading for the flank of Braven Tooth's command. One of his squad, Brill — was that his name? — called to him, pointing in a panic to the west. There, past a screen of intervening irregulars, Nait saw a moving line of blue and green soldiery, shields raised, marching forward. It extended far to the north and south. Shit! League reserves advancing in a skirmish-line! They're going to try to sweep back the Imperial lights.

‘What're we gonna do?’ Brill asked, wiping his running nose.

‘How in the Abyss-’ Nait caught himself, cursed under his breath. ‘Let's find someone in charge out here in this mess. C'mon!’

They hunched low, jogging, and passed a natural depression in the rolling plain where a knot of irregulars had gathered, all clustered around something, crossbows loose at their sides. Nait ran over.

‘Do you crack ‘em?’ someone was asking within the crowd.

‘Naw. I think you scratch ‘em.’

‘You try’

‘No — you try.’

Nait's bowels tightened in sudden gelid terror. He surged forward. ‘Who's in charge here!’

Sullen, sneering faces turned on him. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘I do!’

‘Who're you?’

‘Corporal Jumpy, that's who!’ Brill bellowed, pointing a warning finger.

Silence, then gales of raucous laughter all around. ‘Corporal Jumpy! That's a good one!’

Nait hung his head. Gods, Brill… ‘Yeah, yeah. Listen, you're gonna blow yourselves up — worse than that, you're gonna blow me up. I know how to use those so hand them over…’

‘Piss off!’

The crowd melted. Men and women legging it in all directions. ‘Wait, dammit!’ None halted. In seconds all that remained were four skirmishers; the youngest of the lot. They wore plain leather caps and soft leather hauberks set with rings and studs. The faces of three were ravaged by pimples and pox scars. They peered up at him suspiciously.

‘You a real sapper?’

‘Yeah, kid.’

‘You'll show us how to use ‘em?’

‘Yeah.’

They exchanged narrowed glances. ‘Well, OK — but we get to throw ‘em!’

In a heroic effort, Nait squelched the urge to grab them by their ankles and shake them until they dropped the munitions. ‘Sure, kid. You'll get to throw them.’ He motioned everyone to the lip of the depression. There, they knelt for a peek. The lads cocked their crossbows. The smallest lay on his back, pushing both feet on the goat's foot lever, straining, until it caught. Nait was amazed, and appalled. He did that just as fast as any soldier could. Crazy brave kids. Just what he needed.

The Imperial skirmishers were now facing a fluid, shifting battle on two fronts. To the west, the League skirmish-line was making steady progress against the irregulars, who were giving ground. The line was long and loose but three deep, staggered. Shieldmen advanced, covering their own bowmen or crossbowmen. Their superior discipline was showing over the Imperials who simply retreated, making no effort to pull together an organized line. The remaining League cavalry swept back and forth across the grounds before the skirmish-line, swords scything, scattering any knots of resistance.

To the east waited the swollen merged wedge of League elements and Moranth Gold. And it was obvious to Nait that the skirmishers were now bunching up dangerously close. Braven Tooth's command must have absorbed enormous punishment holding all that back, but it still held. Behind, the reserve phalanx under High Fist Anand was closing to reinforce. With it came the Sword's banner. Oh, great! Now he's gonna wreck another one. Nait motioned aside.

They ducked and wove through the massed irregulars. Crossbow bolts sang overhead like angry insects, so close that Nait almost stopped to chase down one or two offenders but they scattered when he turned and he gave it up as useless. He led his squad to a position as close to the Gold shieldwall as he dared. All around skirmishers knelt, loading and firing. The whine and singing of bolts through the air was unrelenting. They'd passed a number of skirmisher bodies displaying bolts in their backs — the occupational hazard of friendly fire. Occasionally, the irregulars would dare to advance and a wave of javelins arcing out of the Moranth formation drove them back. The shouting and clash of weaponry from the ferocious engagement of heavies just beyond was deafening. Hunkered down, Nait waved his squad close. ‘Okay,’ he shouted. ‘I want you lot to spot one of them Gold carrying something — it might be on his back or at his side. It'll be about so big — a pack or a box…’

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.

The detonation that followed his boys all tossing their sharpers at the Moranth Gold carrying a munition box exceeded Nait's expectations by a hundredfold. It kicked him and his squad backwards though they were lying down. Dirt, gravel, shattered equipment and other wet pieces of things he didn't want to think about came pelting down in a thick passing rain. After the echoes of the concussion ceased, he sat up, knocked a hand to his ear to try to regain some hearing. All around the battle had paused, and a shiver seemed to pass through every soldier present as each now realized the very terrible turn this engagement had just taken. His squad, recovering, jumped up and down in what to Nait was silent, childlike glee. Around the circle of fallen Gold Moranth, helms, he noted, were turning their way. He frantically motioned for a retreat and started hustling his squad back. A flight of javelins hurried them on.

They pushed their way back while the crowded irregulars babbled at them asking how they did that, and whether they could have one too. Brill, his big chin thrust out, told them all that Corporal Jumpy had just blown up half the Moranth Gold and that there was more of it to come. Nait just slapped his shoulder. ‘Would you shut up!’ He turned to the youths. ‘How many more you got?’

Their grins disappeared. Their eyes darted. ‘I dunno — how many you got?’ one asked another.

‘How many you got?’ he retorted.

Gods, they're saboteurs already. ‘All right! All right. Let's just put everything we got down here on my shield. OK?’

Eyeing one another sullenly, the youths knelt. Nait unslung his shield. Reluctantly, they dug hands into pockets and pouches and one by one, piece by piece, the extent of their haul was revealed. Nait was thrilled and horrified at the same time. Lad turn away! Eight sharpers, two melters and a collection of smokers! And… Lady's Grace! He ran a hand over the dark gold ovoid. A cussor. They're carrying cussors into battle! So that's what happened.

A band of skirmishers came jogging up, bent over, crossbows held high. Nait's lads threw themselves on top of their treasure. ‘Hey!’ one called, ‘Was that you? We got some too. Show us how you did that!’

Nait waved them in. ‘That was a one-off. We ain't gonna see anything like that again.’

‘You Jumpy?’

Nait raised his fists as if about to grasp a handful of the fellow's shirt. Then he let them fall, his shoulders slumping. ‘Yeah. That's me.’

‘OK! We want some of this.’

‘All right-’ Beyond the lad, from the Gold shieldwall, Nait glimpsed a wave of dark objects flying high out over the crowded ranks of skirmishers. His heart clenched. ‘Down!’ He threw himself on top of the lads and the assembled munitions.

A staccato of punching eruptions burst all up and down the field. Skirmishers shrieked as the jagged slivers packed into Moranth sharpers lanced through their crowded ranks. ‘Retreat!’ Nait hollered with all his strength. ‘Retreat!’

He and the lads picked up the shield and ran. But they could not get far. They quickly bunched up against irregulars firing at the advancing League skirmish-line. Behind them the punishment of Gold munitions continued. Staggered explosions split the air. Smoke wafted over the field in white and black clouds. It seemed from where Nait stood that the skirmishers were being slaughtered between the two lines, and that unless someone did something he'd join them soon enough.

He motioned to the lads to pick up their munitions, then hefted his shield and faced his squad. ‘We're gonna break the skirmish-line here, or die!’ He pointed to the youths. ‘You lot. You're gonna throw when I shout! Then keep throwing at any damned Talians who come running to reinforce. Understood?’ Sweaty pale faces nodded, terror-strained. ‘Good! OK.’ He drew his longsword. ‘Follow me!’

Nait ran for the skirmish-line. As soon as he judged the distance right he yelled, ‘Throw!’ Then, ‘Down!’ and he knelt behind his shield. Moments later sharper bursts buffeted him. Slivers sliced into his shield with high-pitched trills. He straightened in the dense smoke, bellowed, ‘Charge!’ and ran forward. He hoped to Trake that enough stupid and crazy brave men and women were within earshot to follow.

Pushing through the smoke, he suddenly faced a Talian infantryman holding a shattered arm. Nait shield-bashed that arm, raising a shriek of pain, then ran his sword through the man as he lay writhing. Another Talian heavy nearby still held a shredded shield and Nait tried to knock him backwards and though he was obviously stunned by the explosions the broad fellow didn't yield a hair's breadth. He chopped at Nait and the two exchanged blows. Three more Talian heavies straightened from where they'd lain to take cover and Nait knew he was in deep trouble. Over his shoulders and past his elbows crossbow bolts snapped through the air, plucking at his surcoat. One nicked his arm, another his leg. The heavies grunted, raising their shields. Brill and others crashed into them at a full run, overbearing them backwards, long-knives flashing. Nait passed that writhing mob to clash shields with yet another Talian heavy running to close the gap. A thrusting shortsword gouged Nait's side, caught in his hauberk and punched the breath from him. He bowed double, stepping back, and a blade crashed from his helmet. Another fusillade of crossbow bolts whipped around him singing in his ears; something smacked into the back of his mailed hand knocking the sword flying from his grip. The Talian shield-bashed him, sending him staggering backwards. Then a horde of skirmishers trampled both of them. The Talian went down beneath a storm of thrusting blades and the flood continued on. Nait halted, gasped in great lungfuls of the choking, smoky air. They were through. He leaned on his shield, his legs suddenly weak. He sat heavily in the crushed, smouldering grass. This wasn't what he'd signed up for. No, not at all.

Horrified, Ullen watched while the tide of Imperial lights slowly engulfed section after section of the League skirmish-line. Even the Seti column, engaging the heavier Imperial cavalry, could do little to stem the bleeding. At the front, the Gold and Talian phalanx had advanced with the shock of the munition barrages, but a good wedge of the Imperial formation, including the banner of the Sword, yet remained. And that was it; all either side could do. All reserves had been committed on both sides. Soon the irregulars would be free to concentrate their fire once more. As he watched, another barrage of munitions punished the Imperial phalanx facing the Gold, plus the surrounding irregulars. The Imperials refused to break; Ullen had to admire their inspired obstinacy.

After a number of passes the Seti drove the Imperial cavalry from the field. Many bright and shining Untan family pennants had fallen to the man leading the charges. This man, the Wildman, peeled off from the column with a small escort and rode back to Ullen's position. He reined in his mount, hooves stamping. Blood and lather soaked the animal's forequarters. The rider's lances were all gone, as were his javelins. One war-axe was missing, shattered perhaps. His armour was rent across the hips, shiny where blows had fallen, scraping the iron. His helmet was gone and blood sheathed his neck. Blood and gore darkened his gauntlets. The fellow appeared to be ignoring wounds that would have left anyone else prostrate.

‘My thanks,’ Ullen called to him. ‘Though I do not think it is enough.’

The man wiped a handful of bunched cloth across his face, gestured back to the field. ‘It isn't. Let's just call that the settling of old debts.’ He regarded Ullen levelly, his eyes hardening. ‘What will you do? Will you yield the day? Men and women are dying down there for no good reason.’

Ullen was already nodding. Yes, that was all that was left, though he could not bring himself to actually speak it. He gestured to a messenger, swallowed the tautness of his throat. ‘Raise the surrender.’ This messenger glanced about the assembled staff, none of whom spoke. His face paled to a sickly grey but he nodded, kneed his mount forward.

The Wildman inclined his head to Ullen in grudging admiration of what it must have taken to reach that decision, and he turned his mount to descend again to the battlefield.

‘Bala!’ Ullen called, his voice savage.

‘Yes, yes,’ she answered, just as testy. ‘I am still here. Do you think I have fled already?’

‘No, of course not! Send word to Urko, Choss and V'thell. Surrender.’

‘Shall I inform the Imperial High Mage?’

Ullen's clenched stomach lurched. ‘The what?’

‘She's been watching. Had I intervened in the battle she would have struck. And though I do not consider her worthy of the title, her attack would no doubt have eliminated you and your men.’

‘Thank you so very much, Bala,‘ Ullen ground out. He waited for a retort but none came. ‘Bala?’ Silence. Ullen dismounted, walked to the carriage on legs weak and numb from sitting all day. He wrenched open a door and peered in. Empty. Completely empty. Not even a dropped cloth or a fleck of dirt.

Possum spent the entire battle keeping an eye on the grand pavilion raised to house Laseen. Certainly, a number of Claw operatives had no doubt been posted by his lower echelon commanders. But Possum no longer knew whom to trust. Frankly, he'd always been of that policy, and it had served him well all through his career, saving his life more often than he could count. Now, however, he had more than his usual nagging suspicions and doubts. He had material indications of a parallel command structure organized by a subordinate, Coil, pursuing her own ends. This he could not tolerate — mainly because those ends no doubt did not include him.

And so he did what he did best, watched and waited. Laseen had imposed a moratorium against any head-hunting for the time being and so he did not have to be on the job. He could wait. He did not think Coil so clumsy as to ignore that edict. He stood, sorcerously hidden, in the shade of a small tent that offered a view of the rear of the Imperial residence, and waited. He kept watch both over the mundane grounds and through his Warren of Mockra.

The noise and turmoil of the battle to the west rose and fell and frankly Possum did not give a damn. It was not his job. Staffers, higher-ranking soldiers and nobles came and went. Noncombatants as well — servants, cooks, craftsmen, chamberpot emptiers — everyone necessary to the maintenance of such an august dwelling. It was these who interested Possum the most. The faceless servants who came and went without notice. How often had he himself taken advantage of the selective blindness of his social betters?

The day waned; the late afternoon sun broke through to clear sky far to the west and found his position against the tent canvas. Possum squinted. Sweat dripped down his arms. Nothing. All day and nothing. He was offended… No, more than that: he was disgusted! What was his profession coming to? Surely he was not alone in his — how should he put it… his professional curiosity? He decided to replay through the day's comings and goings, searching for a pattern. Some betraying slip or detail. And after sorting through so many individual moves, glances and gestures of those who passed, he believed he found it. A woman. Civilian. An officer's woman — wife or mistress. Seven times the woman's errands and apparently random wanderings had taken her in a near circumnavigation of the tent's walls. And her walk and carriage! No camp-follower her. Each time she made a show of coming to watch the battle but she spent more time studying the tent and its guards than looking west. A pity, really; more training and experience and she'd be almost undetectable.

Possum edged up and down slightly on his toes to keep his legs limber, ran his fingers along the pommels of the knives slipped up his sleeves. Come back, little lady. Who are you? But more importantly — who do you work for?

He waited and he waited. The noise of battle waned. A flurry of message riders came and went. Had someone won the blasted dreary battle? They had, he supposed. A crowd gathered of the camp-followers, wounded and servants, kept distant by the Imperial guards. Yes, from everyone's excited smiles he imagined they must have won. And then there she was. He stepped out after her, wrapped in veils of Mockra, deflecting attention.

No raised Warren flickered about her that he could sense. She gawked westward for a time, shot glances to the Imperial tent, then headed away back to the encampment. A slim wisp of a thing; a pleasure to watch. Long black hair. From time to time Possum wasn't the only one following her. Her path took her back to the officers’ tents. He saw no gestures that betrayed her awareness of his presence. She entered the tent of a rather lower-ranked officer, a lieutenant perhaps, lifting the canvas flap then letting it fall behind her. Possum paused next to the neighbouring tent. Really, now. That's a give-away. There's no way talent like that would settle for a lieutenant. Her walk alone rated a captain. He sensed as passively as possible past and through the tent. No active Warren magics that he could detect. She was there, sitting. Very well. He dropped his favoured blades into his hands. Time to earn his pay.

He pushed aside the tent flap, his Warren dancing on the tips of his fingers, both blades raised, faced where she had been sitting and a hand clasped itself at his neck like the bite of a hound and pushed him to the dirt floor. Face jammed into the dirt he slashed, kicking. He raised his Warren once again but the hand clenched even impossibly tighter, grating the vertebrae of his neck. Such strength! Inhuman! A woman's voice breathed in his ear: ‘Don't.’

He recognized that voice. He'd heard it before the day of the attack of the Guard. This was the second time this girl-woman had got the better of him. He let his Warren slip away. ‘Good.’ She yanked the blades from his hands as if he were a child, dug one against the side of his neck. ‘Now,’ she whispered, so close her breath felt damp. ‘What should I do with you? By that I don't mean let you go… oh, no. What I mean is — how shall I kill you? I will let you choose. Do you want me to push this blade up under your chin or into your eye? Shall I ease it through your ribs into your heart?’ She crouched even lower so that her lips touched his ear. ‘Tell me what you want,’ she breathed huskily.

Despite the stark certain knowledge that he was about to die a lustful rush for this girl-woman murderess possessed him. He wanted her more than he could express. He opened his mouth to tell her what he wanted when the tent flap opened and a woman shouted deliriously, ‘They've surrendered!’ Then she screamed.

The murderess snarled something in a language unknown to Possum. He twisted, throwing her off. He jumped up, fresh weapons drawn but she was gone. He pushed the screaming woman aside to search outside. Of course there was no sign. He calmed the woman with a wave of Mockra.

‘Thank you. You know, their surrender saved my life.’ He bowed to leave then paused, turning back; he looked her up and down — not bad. A little bit more his type and he might've… well, duty and all… He headed to the Empress's tent.

Far along the western horizon the setting sun had passed beyond low clouds and Nait sat letting the slanting light warm his old bones. Old! Ha! Just this morning he'd thought of himself as young. But now he felt old — especially in the company of these sprouts. Old and wrung out. It was too much effort even to open his eyes. He thought of all the stupid things he'd done and he vowed never to ever do anything like that again. And it wasn't like he was some kind of glory-seeker or any dumb shit like that; no, he'd done all of it merely to preserve his precious skin.

Someone tapped his outstretched booted foot. Squinting, shading his eyes against the orange-gold glow, he peered up to see an Imperial officer. ‘Yeah? Ah — yes, sir?’ He saluted.

‘Are you Corporal Jumpy?’

‘Ah, no and yes, sir.’

‘Your captain wants you. Something about a commendation.’

‘That so, sir? Thank you, sir.’

The officer moved on. Nait made an effort to stir himself, failed. He fell back against his shield right where he'd sat when the skirmish-line broke. He felt as if all the brothers of all the girls he'd stolen kisses and gropes and more from had caught up with him and beaten him all over with wooden truncheons. Incredibly, his worse wounds had been inflicted by the skirmishers themselves. After the adrenalin rush of battle drained away he'd been surprised to find that a crossbow bolt had passed entirely through the inside of one thigh. Another had gouged his neck with a slice that would not stop bleeding, while another had lain open the back of his hand, and another had almost cut his ears off by knocking his helmet all this way and that. And he knew he was damned lucky.

More shapes moved about the darkening battlefield; stunned wounded walked aimlessly; camp-followers searched for loved ones and secretly looted on the sly; healer brigades collected wounded. Nait could not be bothered to get up. Around him his squad sprawled, equally quiet, sharing waterskins and pieces of dried flatbread. He took a mouthful of water, washed it around his mouth and spat out the grit and blood. He searched around for loose teeth — he'd taken such a clout in the jaw.

Someone else approached. Glancing over Nait recognized him and stood up wincing, favouring his leg. Tinsmith. The captain looked him up and down. ‘You look like Hood's own shit.’

Thank you, sir.’

‘But you're alive.’

‘Yes, sir.’ His eyes tightened on the captain. ‘Sorry, sir?’

Facing the west, the captain smoothed his moustache. ‘You and Least. And Heuk.’

Him and Least. And Heuk. That was all? So Hands and Honey Boy bought it. Big sensuous Hands dead and cold. Hood be damned — what a waste! He thought of all the awful things he'd said and done to her and his face grew hot, his breath shortening. She'd taken all those things to Hood with her; no chance for him now to take them back, or apologize, or tell her she was probably damned right. ‘I'm sorry, sir.’

‘Yes. Me too. But…’ and he cuffed Nait's arm, ‘congratulations. You are now officially a sergeant.’ He held out a grey cloth armband. ‘From what I hear you earned it.’

Nait took it loosely in his fingers. Him a sergeant! Now what would they think back home! It was what he'd wanted all this time but now that he had it he realized he was just a damned fraud. It would be an insult to Hands and Honey Boy for him to wear this. He suddenly remembered the captain still standing there with him. ‘Ah, yes. Thank you, sir.’

‘You're welcome, Sergeant.’ Tinsmith inclined his head aside, ‘These your boys?’

‘Yeah. Squad of ten, sir.’

‘Very good. Your first detail is to help with the fortifications around the encampment. They've been going up all day. High Fist Anand wants a ditch and a palisade, or a wall of spikes. Whatever you ‘n’ the other sappers can manage.’

Eyes still on the cloth, he said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Puzzled, he looked up. ‘Why, sir?’

‘Why?’ Tinsmith's pale watery eyes watched him with something like compassion, or gentleness. ‘A sea of blood's been spilt here, Nait. Night's coming. He'll be coming. We have to get ready for him.’

Him. Him! Oh, Burn save them! Him! He faced the squad. ‘Up, you louts! We have shovel detail! C'mon! At the camp. They got hot food up there, I hear! Now, c'mon.’

He turned back to Captain Tinsmith, called after him, ‘Sir! What happened to that old duffer, what's his name, the master sergeant?’

The captain was still for a time. ‘You haven't heard?’

‘No, sir.’

‘He faced down the Gold the whole time, Nait. Stopped them cold. He's the reason we didn't break, him ‘n’ Braven Tooth. They finally got him though. Blew him up with their munitions there at the end.’

‘Too bad.’

‘Aye. Too bad. See you at camp.’

Damn. Another one. He waved his men on. Seemed the old fart knew his business after all.

It was a grim crossing to the east. The stink of spilled entrails and loosened bowels drove Nait to cover his face. In places it was difficult to find a clear spot to walk. From the sprawled bodies it was plain the lightly armoured skirmishers had taken a savaging while at the same time inflicting mass murder on the Talian and Falaran regulars. Wounded called, or just moaned, gesturing helplessly to them as they passed. His boys and girls promised to send help to each — what more could they do? Gulls, crows and vultures hovered overhead and hopped among the bodies, glistening with fluids and quarrelling. Nait threw rocks at them.

‘Sergeant,’ a man called in accented Talian. Nait turned. It was that Falaran cavalry commander. He lay pinned on his side under his dead horse. Crossbow bolts stood from the two like feathers. Nait squatted next to him, pulled off the fellow's helmet. ‘My thanks,’ he said, smiling behind his big orange-red beard.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘Nothing. I cannot complain. I've a good horse with me.’

‘Maybe some water?’

The man grimaced his revulsion. ‘Water? Gods, man, whatever for? No — but there is a flask of good Falaran brandy in my waistbag there…’ he gestured with his chin. Nait fished through the bag and as he did so he saw that one of the man's arms was pinned beneath him while the other was stitched to his side by three crossbow bolts. He found a beaten and dented silver flask, uncorked its neck. He tipped a taste into the man's mouth. Pure bliss lit the commander's face as he swallowed. ‘My thanks.’

Nait waved his squad on. ‘We have to go.’

‘Yes, I know. But I've a favour to ask of you, soldier.’

Oh Gods no. Not that. ‘No… I'm sorry.’

‘Ah, well, I understand. It's just the birds, you see. Evil beasties flapping closer all the time. And I… well…’ he glanced down to his useless arms.

Soliel's mercy! How could he leave the man to… that? But he was no killer. What could he- ‘Brill!’

‘Sir?’

Nait shoved the flask to the man. ‘Stay here with this wounded officer — wave down a healer.’

Brill saluted, his long gangly limbs jerking, thrust out his chin. ‘Aye, sir.’

‘OK. Let's go.’

As they turned away, Nait heard the cavalry commander asking Brill, ‘So, have you ever been to Falar then?’

By the time they reached the Eastern border of the battlefield their trousers and cloth leggings were painted red to the knees from pushing through the soaked grasses. Flies tormented them, and the setting orange-red sun cast its light almost parallel with the plain, limning the field of slaughter in rich honey tones. Nait glimpsed dun-hued shapes loping across the hills in the distance and he shivered. Jackals or wolves. They were already here — and he was coming. He waved to his boys — that is, his men and women, all gone quiet now over the harrowing course of their trek — to pick up their pace.

The rain that had been threatening all day fell with the cooling night. After labouring in the downpour beside his men finishing the defences of the Imperial compound, deepening the pooling outer trench, helping to shore up the logs of the palisade, Ullen, along with a handful of other officers, was separated out. They were marched to the main gate. Entering, he strained to look back to the set, grim faces of the Talian soldiers watching him go within while they remained without. Many saluted their farewell. He was escorted to a brig of sharpened stakes. Here he found Urko, V'thell and other surviving League officers, including Choss, who lay in the lap of a Captain Roggen, near unconscious from loss of blood. Urko was hunched nearby, wearing only a torn padded linen jerkin, apparently unhurt despite everyone attesting that he'd been trampled by horsemen three times. V'thell sat nearby as well, his battered and cracked armour reflecting deep red-gold from the torches. Ullen knew that Urko could walk right out if he wished, but he — and Laseen no doubt — also knew that he wouldn't because of reprisals against his men.

He knelt on his haunches before his commander. The chill rain slapped against his back. ‘General — the men are being kept outside the compound.’

Urko slowly raised his head. ‘What?’

‘All the Talian regulars. They're being kept out.’

‘What?’ Urko lurched up, peered into the slanting mist of rain. He crossed to the wall of stakes, grasped hold and shouted to a guard, ‘Get me your commander! Right now!’

‘No need for that,’ a voice answered from the thin rain. A dark shape approached flanked by guards. Squinting, Ullen made out the bulky armoured figure of Korbolo Dom. ‘Urko and Cartharon Crust,’ the man called, stopping at the wall of stakes. ‘Amaron, Grinner, Nok, Surly… Do you have any idea what it was like to grow up on Nap in the wake of such names?’

‘Fener can shit on that! My men are outside the compound with that monster on the loose — on whose orders?’

‘Mine.’

‘You!’ A stake shattered in Urko's fist.

‘Kill me and your men will surely die!’

Urko subsided, his shoulders twitching beneath his padded gambeson.

‘Anonymity,’ Korbolo continued. ‘You doomed us all to anonymity. Can you think of the name of any Napan of the last generations?’

‘There's my grand-nephew Tolip.’

‘Well, a new name has finally eclipsed yours. All the mouths on the island and in the Empire will finally be speaking that new name — Korbolo Dom — Sword of the Empire. And it is only right and proper that a fellow Napan has finally defeated you.’

‘I'd say it was just Oponn's decision. The fortunes of war. Listen, let the men in… I'll guarantee their cooperation.’

‘The loser would invoke fortune, wouldn't he?’

‘And the winner wouldn't, would he?’ Urko hunched his shoulders, biting down anything more. He finally asked, ‘What do you want from me?’

Korbolo straightened, adjusted his layered cloaks against the rain. ‘I have what I have always wanted. Look at you, squatting in the mud like an animal. You are defeated, squalid. I need not even attend your execution in Unta — you are already dead to me.’

Urko bared his teeth. ‘You don't want to know what I'm lookin’ at.’

Korbolo turned away, walked off into the night escorted by his guards.

‘Listen, Hood take you!’ Urko called. ‘Never mind about me. Do what you want with me — but let my men in!’ He wrenched another stake from the wall, broke it in his fists, almost launched himself out after the man, but mastered himself to finally sink down into the mud.

Ullen sat as well. To one side Choss coughed wetly, murmuring. Roggen held a cloth out over his slack face. Reaching out, Ullen tried to warm the man's ice-cold hand in his. The chill damp was sapping even Choss's strength. He doubted his old mentor would see the dawn.

Lights approached, torches flickering and hissing held by guards, and in their midst a short slim figure, the rain beading and running from her dark hair, the wet silk cloth of her tunic outlining her muscular arms, slim chest. Ullen had not seen her in decades but she looked exactly as when he had last set eyes upon her. Surly — Laseen. So small and unprepossessing! Yet all those around were unable to ignore her presence; even the captive Talian officers found themselves drawn to stand in respect. She acknowledged their gesture with a slight nod. Urko, however, refused to look up. She simply waited, clasped her hands at her back. After a time Urko finally glanced up, then away, and kept his face averted.

‘I expected better of you than this, Surly,’ he grated.

‘I've come with a request, Urko,’ she said.

He pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. ‘A request? You come with a request of me? Well, it just so happens I have one for you.’

‘Yes. Strange, that. I would speak with you and V'thell.’ At the mention of his name the Gold commander bowed. His right arm and side were a weeping, gouged and mangled mess.

‘I would want their cooperation. Urko. V'thell.’

‘You'll have it,’ Urko swore. V'thell bowed again.

‘I will still have to keep you and the officers as guarantors…’

‘We understand,’ V'thell said.

‘Very well.’ She signed to a guard.

‘What of Korbolo?’ Urko asked.

‘He is not your concern.’

That statement, delivered with such assurance and command, struck Ullen as a true note of Imperial rule and it must have echoed similarly with Urko as well for he straightened, giving a small nod of his head, with a look of something like surprised wonder on his craggy, rain-spattered face.

Nait, followed by the two heavies of his squad, Tranter and Martin, and one of his regular infantry saboteurs, Kal, walked the lines of the defences. ‘You seen a soldier named Brill?’ he asked every picket he met. ‘A stupid-looking gawking awkward fella? Anyone? Out on the field?’ But no one had and the fellow hadn't reported back. How stupid could he be? Had he just fallen asleep somewhere without reporting? If so, he was gonna tear his head off!

A soldier caught up with them and tapped his arm. ‘You lookin’ for a man out on the field?’

‘Yeah. Brill.’

‘Brill. Brill? Maybe. I was with a healer detachment. He waved us over but wouldn't leave the field. Said he was ordered to stay with his man. Don't know why though — the fellow was dead.’

Nait stared, then shuddered with cold. He wiped the rain from his face, saw the soldier regarding him curiously. ‘Right! Ah, thanks, solider.’ The man saluted. Nait stared again until he realized that he ought to respond; he answered the salute and the soldier jogged away into the rain. He looked to Tranter, Martin and Kal. Their eyes slid aside to the darkness out beyond the crossed stakes. Poliel's Pustules! Hood's Kiss! Fucking dumbass anus-for-brains! Nait threw his helmet into the mud.

‘I haven't heard anything about no inspection,’ the guard at the gate said, frowning in his confusion. Nait shrugged under his cloak. ‘It's not like it's official or anything — we're just worried about the wall of the palisade collapsing — that's all.’

The guards exchanged alarmed looks. ‘Collapsin'?’

‘Yeah. In the rain.’ He pointed to the wall of sunken poles. ‘Look — they're tiltin’ out already.’

‘OK, OK. You wanna go out there, that's your worry.’ The guards lifted the barrier aside. Nait waved forward the five with him but out of the rain came four more, the young new recruits shuffling up beneath outsized capes that dragged in the mud. Nait glared, motioning them away, but they saluted.

‘Reportin’ for the inspection,’ the eldest, Kibb, said, winking.

His back to the guards, Nait raised a fist to them. The youth tapped something bulky with him under his cape. Nait's brows climbed his forehead; the youth gave a smirking, knowing assent.

‘You goin’ or what?’ the guard asked.

‘On our way, Cap'n.’ Nait waved the squad through impatiently.

Out of earshot, in the dark with the rain pelting down, he turned on the youths. ‘What'd you think you're doing! This ain't no pleasure hike!’

‘We know!’ Kibb said, annoyed. ‘We came armed for bear.’ And they pulled up their capes.

‘The Gods’ golden shit!’ The exclamation was torn from Nait as if he'd been poleaxed. Under their capes each carried one of the Moranth munition boxes. The rest of Nait's squad flinched back a step.

‘Will you put those away!’ Nait yanked down their capes, glared out at the darkness as if expecting to be arrested. ‘How did you get them?’

Kibb tapped a finger to the side of his nose. ‘We marked the tent they was hiding all the confiscated munitions. An’ in the rain an’ the dark an’ all it was easy.’ He shrugged.

‘Well, you're not comin’ with us. It's too dangerous. You're going to stay here and wait until we come back and then you're going to return those like nothing's ever happened! OK?’

‘Bullshit!’

‘Bullshit? Don't shit me, soldier!’

‘Well, you're talkin’ it.’

Nait set his fists on his hips. Why, the little runts! It's just like he was back home dealin with his swarm of younger brothers. ‘OK, fine. You wanna come then you have to follow my orders and… Abyss, I don't even know all your names — what in Fanderay are your names anyway?’

‘Kibb.’ Yes, Kibb. What a dumb name. What's it supposed to mean?

‘Poot,’ said one. Poot? Aw, you poor skinny pox-faced kid! What were your parents thinking? Maybe I'll start calling you ‘Pimple’-that'd be an improvement.

‘Jawl.’ Jawl? What kind of a name is that for a girl?

Blushing furiously, the smallest just shook his head. ‘No name at all?’ He squirmed.

‘Stubbin.’

Stubbin? Stubbin! You poor kid. Your parents really did a number on you. Gods, he couldn't have come up with a worse selection than their parents had managed spontaneously. ‘Okay. Let's go.’

As far as Nait was concerned, he was the only person he knew entirely free of any self-delusions. He knew he wasn't brave or a particularly good fighter. He knew sure as Beru that he wasn't exactly an inspiring figure. He also knew that he wasn't leading his squad out on to a gruesome battlefield at night haunted by the worst curse ever to afflict Quon because he was some kind of glory-drunk fool. No, he was just gonna collect his man then get the Abyss off the field all real quiet and as fast as his little pitter-pattering feet could carry him.

The rain let up though it was still as dark as the inside of a cave and for that he was thankful. He misstepped a few times, slipped on things all slithery and occasionally stuck his hand into something wet and soft that sucked when he yanked it free but he didn't look, didn't want to know what that thing was. His squad was real quiet and for that he was thankful as well. No talkers. Some men or women get all talky when they're scared or nervous; that was something he couldn't abide.

The stink wasn't quite so bad yet — not so bad as you'd lose your meal. The flies, though, they were vile. Assaulting his nose, eyes and ears as if they preferred live meat over the endless banquet prepared for them. He had a fair idea where they'd found the Falaran commander and he led his squad as quickly as he could to that spot, without detour or bothering to keep to low-lying ground. Growling and snarling warned them off the skulking carrion-eaters and he figured they wouldn't attack — not when their stomachs were full and there was plenty left for everyone.

They found the man's big horse and him still beneath it — unmarred by the sharp beaks of any birds. But no sign of Brill. The image flashed into Nait's mind of the man asleep in the compound and he almost fainted in a gasping white fury. Then Martin hissed, pointed to his feet. There the man lay, blissfully asleep amidst all the gory horror. What could allow such a thing? A clean conscience? An utter lack of any imagination? It was one of the Queen's own mysteries to Nait. They kicked him awake and he sat up, yawning and rubbing his face.

He peered at them, completely unsurprised. ‘Yeah?’

Nait waved everyone down. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.

‘Waitin’ for you.’

‘Waitin’-’ Nait stopped himself from reaching out to throttle the ape. But he had to do something — he pulled off his helmet and hit him with it. ‘You damned fool! Don't you ever do anything like that again!’

‘But you ordered me to-’

‘I don't care what I said — you use your blasted empty head! Now, c'mon. Let's go.’ He started up but Stubbin waved everyone down. ‘What?’

Stubbin made a motion for quiet.

‘What is it?’ Nait whispered.

The boy waved furiously for silence.

Oh, right. He listened. He didn't hear a damned thing. That is, except for the wings of night feeders, the growls and snapping of fighting jackals and plains wolves, the moaning of one or two wounded still alive somewhere out there in the dark. ‘I don't hear-!’ A hand grasped him and another covered his mouth, stifling his yell of surprise. He was yanked around to face the sweaty, dark, scarred features of Master Sergeant Temp. He relaxed and was released. ‘It's you!’

‘Yeah. Damned unfortunate.’

‘They said you were blown up.’

‘That's the story. ‘Predate you keeping to it.’

‘Uh, OK. Why?’

‘Let's say I first left Imperial service under sharp circumstances.’

Nait's squad gathered around. ‘What's up? Kibb asked.

The man was a gruesome sight, hacked and slashed, the front of his layered iron hauberk and scale gauntlets dark with the remains of blood and gore. His shield was gone, but from his short time in the phalanx Nait knew it was common to go through two or three or four shields in any one engagement. ‘What're you doing out here?’

‘Same as you, I expect.’ He flicked the cloth tied around Nait's arm. ‘What's this?’

Nait thought maybe he blushed and was thankful for the dark. ‘Made sergeant.’

‘Handin’ them out to anyone these days.’

‘Listen — we're headin’ back. You coming or not?’

‘No, you're coming with me.’

‘Coming with you? What in Fanderay's ass for?’

‘There's Seti poking around out there and I want to know who and why.’

‘What? Who cares? Ryllandaras is out here. We gotta get back!’

The master sergeant dragged Nait up. ‘Ryllandaras ain't gonna bother with little ol’ us so don't bother with your cover story.’ He motioned to the squad. ‘Fall in, double-column.’

‘Cover story? What d'you mean cover story?’

‘I know why you came out here with your saboteur squad.’ He shook Nait by the arm. ‘Got yourself some munitions, don't cha? Gonna bag yourself the big one, ain't ya?’

‘What? No!’

‘The old fart's got a point,’ Kibb said aside.

The veteran waved a gauntleted hand. ‘It's all right. You'll get your chance for everlastin’ fame and glory. I just want a quick parley with these Seti here, then we'll hustle back to camp and I'll help you ambush Whitey.’

‘For the last time, I don't-’

‘Shhh.’

The master sergeant led them west past the killing fields out on to horse-trampled prairie. Farther west Nait could just make out a party of Seti horsemen, dismounted and gathered together. They seemed to be just waiting, watching the east, towards the Imperial encampment.

The master sergeant whispered into Nait's ear:

‘Call for the Boar.’ ‘What? Nait hissed. ‘No, you call!’

The veteran nudged him none too lightly. ‘G'wan.’

Eyes on the master sergeant, who winked his encouragement, Nait cleared his throat. The Seti all dropped from sight as if felled. ‘Ah — is the Boar there?’ he called in a strained whisper.

After a time the answer came in Talian: ‘Who is asking?’

‘Tell him,’ whispered the master sergeant, ‘his sword-brother.’

Nait cleared his throat once more. ‘Ah — his sword-brother.’

A man stood, short and very stocky, long arms akimbo. ‘Sword-brother? Stand up then, damn you!’

The master sergeant stood. ‘I know that voice!’ ‘And I know that silhouette.’

The two men started forward towards one another through the grass, slowly though, warily, until close they threw themselves into each other's arms, pounding each other on the back.

‘Am I seein’ things,’ Kibb asked. ‘Or are those two guys hugging?’

The Seti chief, or warleader, Nait wasn't sure what he was, gave instructions to his band. They mounted and rode off to the north-east without him. ‘Gonna ambush Whitey on his way back if they can,’ the master sergeant explained. The man then came east with them. Turns out he was some kind of Malazan veteran who'd served with the master sergeant. The two led the way back, talking in low gravelly tones.

‘I thought the Seti was all for the jackal,’ Jawl whispered to Nait.

‘Seems this Boar fella's against him.’ He studied the faces of his squad as they pushed their way through the cold wet grass. Here he was asking them to pick through the killing fields for the second time. If they hadn't yet had all their delusions about warfare squeezed from them by now, they would have before this night was done. Tranter and Martin humped their broad shields on their backs, their eyes scanning the dark, never resting in any one place. His infantry saboteurs, Kal, Trapper, Brill and the woman, May, walked more or less together while the Untan kids kept together. He was proud of them, the way they'd handled the horror of seein’ all this. But then, they'd been here when it was delivered. Gone was the fear — you can only sustain a terror-pitch for so long — but gone also were the grimaces of pale nausea and flinches of disgust. It looked to Nait as if walking through the field of the fallen was pushing them down into the worst mood for any soldier, flat sadness. He crossed to them.

‘Hey — when we get back maybe I'll see about getting you lot kitted out proper. How ‘bout that?’

Looking up, Poot brightened. ‘Really? Like with real armour ‘n’ such?’

‘Yeah, could be.’

Kibb and Jawl started taking about what kind of weapons and armour they'd want. Poot just smiled dreamily at the thought of it. But little Stubbin wouldn't be drawn in — nothing could pull his eyes from scanning the fields.

Ahead, the master sergeant and the Seti had stopped to let them catch up. Temp signed for everyone to stay low. ‘What is it?’ Nait asked. Both veterans signed angrily for silence. Kneeling, everyone listened. At first Nait couldn't hear anything unusual over the same noises of snarling of the sated jackals and the moans of wounded suffering out there among the many, and now tormented by thirst. Then came a distant roaring, as of countless throats shouting — a riot far away, or battle. And a louder echoing bellow and snarl. Everyone's eyes brightened in the dark. The master sergeant and the Seti leapt to their feet. ‘C'mon! Forward!’

It was the worst engagement of Ullen's life though he himself was in no danger. Men and women, his soldiers, pulled themselves by their clawed hands up the mud-filled trench they'd just worked to dig. They threw themselves three, four, five deep against the crossed spikes and makeshift palisade of timbers and logs, begging for weapons, for mercy, for everyone inside to die miserable deaths. Soldiers at the barricade pushed them back with spears, poleaxes and lances. And he and Urko could do nothing. Guarded, they'd been marched close to wagons where Imperial soldiers tossed swords and shields out over the barricade to the clamouring horde beyond. Swords and shields only, no armour or bows or crossbows. Nearby stood Laseen, surrounded by her guards, making it clear what authority lay behind this relief — if delayed.

Out in the darkness beyond the reach of the compound torches, the man-eater, Ryllandaras, roared and slaughtered. His explosive bellowing shook the boards of the wagons, vibrated the mud upon which they stood. Ullen caught fleeting glimpses of a huge grey shape, astonishingly fast. But the Talians and the Gold fought. Weapons were passed along or thrown further across the press to the front where new hands carried them against the beast, or picked them up from dead ones.

Fists at his head, Urko spun to Laseen, pleading, ‘For the love of Burn, allow a sortie!’

‘What would stop your men from attacking them, pillaging their arms and armour and fleeing? Or attacking?’

‘My word! My bond!’

The Empress's gaze snapped to Urko. ‘You pledge to me?’

‘Yes!’

Stepping closer, she said, her voice so low Ullen barely heard, ‘You did before.’

‘I-’ the man's stricken gaze was pulled inexorably to the tumult outside, the shrieks and the cries of the wounded. ‘Please — for the men! Yes, I pledge!’

‘Your life? Obedience?’

‘Yes! I swear.’

Laseen's face betrayed no emotion, though the lines bracketing her thin mouth were severe. This was the only hint of her passion Ullen could see. ‘Very well, Urko. I accept.’ She turned to the captain of the guard detachment with her. ‘Send Fist D'Ebbin with a hundred heavy infantry.’

The clash of a salute. ‘Aye.’

‘I was to lead!’ Urko called.

‘I did not agree to that,’ Laseen snapped. ‘Did I?’

Urko's jaws worked as he ground through all that he might say. Finally, he admitted, reluctantly, ‘No.’

‘Now go speak to them, Urko.’

A slow salute. ‘Aye.’

Laseen nodded to the guards who allowed him to pass.

A cavalry detachment rode up led by Korbolo Dom. He took in the wagons, the weapon distribution, and shook his head. ‘It will do no good.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Laseen said.

‘A useless gesture. I go now to collect its head!’ And he pulled on his helmet, kicked his mount forward, his troop following.

‘Oponn go with you,’ the Empress called after him.

Ullen turned to V'thell, who had not turned away from the barricade the entire time. ‘Still they fight,’ the Moranth commander said, musing. ‘Despite everything. They know it is their only hope.’

‘They could run.’

‘No. Your hapless civilians might but your soldiers know their strength resides in the unit. The group. Your soldiers are like us Moranth in this regard. It is one of the reasons we allied.’

Ullen was struck by the amazing things one learned at unlooked-for times. ‘I didn't know.’

V'thell's helmed head cocked aside. ‘Very few do, I imagine.’

At the barricade Urko was bellowing: ‘I have begged the Empress for a sortie and she has agreed! Relief is coming! Imperial infantry! They come to defend you and to fight at your side! Honour that! Do you hear me! Honour that!’

A column of heavy infantry came marching to the nearest gate, double-time; the Empress had been assembling them already. Ullen could only shake his head. What chance did they have against such planning? Yet — had it not been a close thing? What if the Seti hadn't turned against them? What if- He cut off that line of thinking. The ‘what if's were infinite and meaningless. All that mattered was what occurred. Align yourself with that, man, and perhaps you will stand a chance of remaining sane.

A great thunderous cheer went up outside the barricades. Ullen could imagine the armed and armoured heavy infantry working to interpose themselves, attempting to push back the beast. Certainly many of them would fall, but with far less ease, and at far greater cost. The timbre of the battle changed. The raw, naked screams of men and women being torn by talon and teeth lessened. The clash of armour and shield rose. Snarls of frustration rent the air. The thump of hooves now joined the turmoil, together with the high-pitched shriek of wounded horse. And so the battle continued. At one point a shield came winging through the air like a kite. Before it fell into the massed crowd Ullen thought he saw that an arm still gripped it. Eventually, however, numbers told — or so Ullen assured himself, listening to the tide of the attack. Perhaps the beast had simply sated his bloodlust for the moment — or perhaps easier targets could be found elsewhere. In any case, Ryllandaras withdrew. A massive, swelling, raucous cheer gripped those gathered outside and within. Ullen yelled; Urko shook his fists at the dark. Men and women rattled the barricade. It was gone. The horror had been pushed back.

Urko returned, directed a salute behind Ullen, who turned, startled; Laseen had remained through it all. ‘I still wish I'd led that sortie,’ he growled.

‘I still need you.’

His brows knotted, his eyes slitted almost closed. ‘The Guard.’

Laseen nodded her assent.

The damp flesh of Ullen's arms prickled with a chill. Gods, the Guard! She anticipates an attack. But why? For who? They have no sponsors. The Talian League has been crushed. Defeating this army, even killing Laseen, would not destroy the Empire. The times cannot be reversed to how they were before the consolidation. What possible purpose could it all serve? But then, by that measure, what purpose did today's battle serve? He pressed a hand to his slick forehead, took a long slow breath. Stop it! I am so tired. My thoughts turn darker and darker.

Ullen jerked as the unmistakable reports of bursting Moranth munitions echoed from somewhere out on the plain. His first reaction was to turn to V'thell who was nodding his helmed head. ‘Excellent,’ V'thell said. ‘Knowing he would come allowed the opportunity for ambush.’ He bowed his admiration to Laseen.

Urko now also turned to the Empress. The old commander's surprise was obvious. ‘Hood's Gate, Surl — Laseen. Seems we've done nothing but underestimate you.’

‘So have a great many others…’ she answered absently. Her dark eyes glittered as she studied the night. ‘I wish I could take credit but I cannot.‘ She motioned to a member of her staff. ‘Find out who that is.’ The woman saluted and ran to a horse. ‘And now,’ she said, ‘I suggest we try to get some sleep before dawn. Urko, V'thell, you may speak with your soldiers but only through the barricade. Until tomorrow.’

V'thell bowed. Urko gave a curt jerk of his head. Both crossed to the spikes of the barricade. Wiping his hands down his face, Ullen joined them.

Knocking on the front pole of her tent woke Ghelel. She rose, found the sheathed dirk she kept next to her cot then pulled on a thick warm cloak, tucking the blade under it. ‘Yes?’

‘Apologies, Prevost,’ came the Marquis's voice, ‘but news has arrived.’

‘Come in.’

The thick canvas hissed, brushing. She heard the man moving about within the outer half of her quarters. The light of a lamp rose. She pushed aside the inner hanging. ‘Yes, Marquis?’

The man was pouring himself a glass of wine. He wore a plain long shirt and trousers; his considerable bulk plainly consisted of equal muscle and fat. He turned to her. ‘We've lost.’

‘Lost?’

‘The battle.’ He frowned down into his glass. ‘The Talian League has been shattered. Toc presumed dead. Urko, Choss, the Gold commander captured.’

Her knees went numb; she searched for a chair then stiffened herself, refusing to display such weakness. ‘So quickly…’

‘I'm sorry.’

‘Yes…’

‘Will you have a drink?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

He poured another, crossed to hand it to her. ‘Had been there you would now be captured — probably dead.’

Ghelel took the glass, smiled sadly. ‘Had we been there, Marquis, we might have won.’

‘Yes, well.’

‘Now what?’

‘We must move. No doubt the Kanese will come to hunt us down to curry favour with the Empress.’

‘Where will we go?’

‘Back to my province, north Tali. We'll be safe there. There will be some reprisals, of course. A winnowing of the aristocracy. Reparations. Funds will be extorted to weaken Tali. But that will be the worst, I expect.’

‘And myself, Marquis? What will I do?’

The man's face flushed and he glanced aside. ‘That should be obvious… Ghelel. You will be the Marchioness. My wife.’

Ghelel felt the need for that chair. What? How dare he! I would die first! She tossed the glass aside. ‘So, what now? Throw me down on the cot? Rape me?’ She slipped a hand within her cloak to close on the dirk.

‘Nothing so melodramatic, I assure you. No, in time you will come around. You will see the union of our families as the political necessity it is. The Tayliin line must be preserved, after all. I'm sure you understand that.’ He returned to the table, set his glass down. ‘We failed this generation — but perhaps our sons or daughters or theirs…’ He glanced back, his blunt features softening. ‘I know it… 7… am not what you've dreamt of. But think carefully. It is for the best.’ He gestured to the entrance. ‘And do not try anything foolish. You are of course under guard for your own safety. Good night.’

She longed for that wine glass to throw at him as he left. Once the cloth flap fell she dropped into the nearest chair. Where could she go? What could she do? She was his damned prisoner! Stirring herself, she went to the table for that wine. Perhaps she could collect the food and slip out the back. Movement behind her spun her around, her hand going to the dirk. It was Molk. The man was pulling himself up from under the edge of the tent where she'd thrown the glass.

‘Still hard on your tableware, I see,’ he commented, studying the broken glass.

‘Where have you been?’ she hissed.

The man rolled his bulging eyes, his mouth widening. ‘Around. Listening. Watching.’

‘Some bodyguard you are! I'm a prisoner!’

‘Keep your voice down,’ he warned. ‘You've been safe so far, haven't you?’

‘So far!’

‘Exactly. But now I'm worried you're about to try something stupid.’

‘Me?

‘Yes. Such as running off in a huff without thinking things through.’

Lowering her voice even further, she whispered, carefully, ‘There's nothing to think through.’

‘Yes, there is.’ The man went to the table, selected a cut of smoked meat, poured a glass of wine. ‘Why should you be the one to leave?’ he asked, innocently.

‘I'm sorry…?’

He turned to her, shrugging. ‘I could make it look like the Claw…’

Ghelel stared, her hand fell from the dirk. Make it look like the… Dessembrae, no! What a terrifying offer! She felt sick, wiped her palms on her cloak. ‘What an awful thing to suggest.’

He gave a thoughtful frown. ‘Yes, I suppose it would be best to wait until you are actually married. Then kill him.’

‘That's not what I meant!’ she shouted, then slapped a hand to her mouth. Molk listened, cocking his head. After a moment he waved off any worries. ‘No? Really? Well, of course the problem is that the man's already married.’

‘What?

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then what…’

A shrug of regret. ‘Well, her blood is not nearly as rich as yours…’

‘He wouldn't…’

Molk sipped his wine. ‘An ambitious man, our Marquis.’

Through clenched teeth Ghelel hissed, ‘You're enjoying this far too much, Molk.’

He stepped closer, lowered his voice even further. ‘This is what I do, Ghelel. What I'm good at. My business… Now you face an important choice. A major fork in the path of one's life, so to speak. Do you want to stay in the business or do you want out? Which will it be?’

Ghelel almost said immediately that she wanted out but a small voice whispered: just what are his orders from Amaron regarding me? To guard me and, if failing that… to kill me? Is that what he means by ‘Out’? She walked away, saying, ‘I have to think,’ then turned back with the dirk bared and ready. ‘What if I said I did want out, Molk. What would you do?’

His broad mouth stretched in a large smile. He gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘I would say too bad — you have the right crafty turns of mind. But no, nothing like that. Suffice it to say that if I wanted to kill you — you'd be dead already.’

Ghelel did not lower the blade. ‘So you say now. But how can I believe you?’

The smile melted away. He raised a hand, cupping the fingers, and a darkness blossomed within. A dancing flame of night. ‘Believe me.’

Oh. She straightened, sheathed the dirk. ‘I see. Now what?’

‘Get dressed for travel. We'll leave tonight.’

Assenting, she pulled aside the inner hangings.

When they were ready, Ghelel having gathered all the food and water they could pack, Molk went to the rear wall of the tent and stood listening for a time. He waved her over then pulled up its staked lip. She gave him a glare and he shrugged. ‘Simplest is always best,’ he mouthed, and urged her on.

She didn't know if he used his arts to disguise their passage, but they made it out of the camp without being seen or any alarm sounding. They climbed a hill north of the sheltered, hidden forest depression the Sentries had chosen as their retreat and she could now hear the roar of the distant falls, Broke Earth Falls, where they tumbled down Burn's Cliff on their way to Nap Sea. ‘Now what?’ she asked him.

‘We'll cross at the falls. Lots of rafts ‘n’ such there. After that I'll escort you back.’ He looked to her. ‘I presume you do mean to return to Quon?’

‘Yes. And you'll… let me go?’

A waved agreement. ‘Oh yes. It's plain to me you don't have the, ah, stomach for this life. Way too many scruples. No, best get out before you're killed, or become something you despise…’ He looked away, clearing his throat. ‘And I wish you luck.’

The night was perilously old by the time they reached the lagoons east of the falls. The flat diffuse light of a false dawn lit the swampy shore with its ghostly tangle of logs, uprooted trees and broken timbers all clogged downriver of the falls. A cool mist kissed Ghelel's face. The roar of the falls was a deep bass rumbling that seemed to vibrate her entire body.

They crouched for a time in the cover of the nearest treeline. Molk studied the apparently deserted lakeside. Standing, he waved her forward. They reached the littered shore. ‘Now, we just have to find one of the rafts or a small boat. There's lots about. Locals-’

The man was knocked backwards off his feet and lay face up, the finned end of a crossbow bolt standing from his chest. ‘Oh shit!’ he gasped.

Ghelel cried her shock and surprise and spun, drawing her sword and heavy fighting gauche. There, a slim man in charcoal-hued clothes tossed away a strange thin crossbow. He flexed his arms and long-bladed throwing daggers appeared in his hands. Coming towards her, he waved them in a knife-fighter's dance. She shifted to face him sidelong, struck her guard.

He straightened then, cursing, and quickly disappeared in a flurry of shifting shadows. Oh come on! Ghelel cried to herself, outraged. As if this wasn't bad enough! She spun, slashing the air around her and saw that Molk was gone as well. The Warrens! They're duelling! Get him, Molk! Not knowing what else to do she slashed again. Then she thought — the water! She ran.

Where she'd stood something burst like a branch exploding in a fire but she did not turn, did not slow. She slogged into the swampy muck until the water reached her thighs, then she tuned to face the shore. Come for me now, bastard!

She scanned the clutter of fallen branches, the stands of wind-brushed marsh grasses, her heart almost choking her. She strained, listening for any betraying sound; logs bumping out in the current spun her round; an animal splashing into the lake upstream almost made her scream. Come on! End this one way or another!

Within the root mat of a fallen tree grey shadows suddenly writhed. A shape of darkness squirmed from the shadows. It writhed, limbs twisting, black flakes exfoliating from it, and a high keening of excruciating pain reached her. Gods! Not Molk, she prayed. It disintegrated into nothing while she watched. Ice stabbed as a blade slashed the meat of her forearm followed by a splash. She gasped, throwing herself forward. Two bodies grappled in the water behind her. Blood bloomed. Wincing, hunched, she watched, sword raised one-handed. The water foamed, steaming and churning as if boiling, then stilled, hissing with bubbles that spread, dissipating. A body touched the surface and by the barbed crossbow bolt standing from its back she recognized it as Molk. She pushed forward to grab him. The water burned her legs and hand. Snarling her pain she dragged him back, flipped him over and pulled him to shore with one hand, the other at her side, useless.

She fell next to him, studied his boiled beet-red face. ‘Molk!’

He coughed, spat up a great gout of water. His face twisted its agony. ‘Damn! That…’ he gasped a breath ‘… went poorly.’ He cracked open an eye. ‘Ghelel?’

‘Yes.’

‘Apologies. Should've guessed. Hubris, hey? Thought I was so smart.’

‘Relax, don't talk.’

‘No, have to. Won't last. You'll have to hide deep now. Those two were mages. It will be noticed. They'll send someone even better to take up the trail. Run now. Cross over, head west. Best of luck staying… free of all this ugliness. I hope you succeed.’

‘I might as well run back to the Sentries now. They'll just track me down.’

Molk smiled smugly, then coughed, spitting up blood. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I let the Kanese know where they are.’

‘No! You didn't! You scheming, tricky…’

‘Knew you'd come around. Now go. I'd like to think that a little good might've come of all of this…’

She rested a hand at his brow. ‘Yes. I'll go. I'll get away, thanks to you.’ She kissed his cracked blood-wet lips. ‘Thank you. You're not… you're not what I thought at all.’ She grabbed the dropped pack and ran to find a boat.

Behind her, alone, Molk lay flat on his back. His breaths came slower, more shallow and laboured. Finally, he offered a weak rueful laugh to the brightening sky. ‘Neither of us were.’

After abandoning the leaky boat in the weeds she jogged west, keeping to the wettest, soggiest patches of land she could find. At dawn she reached the great escarpment of Burn's Cliff. South of her now ran the main beaten road that switch-backed up one of the shallowest portions; she decided against it. Instead, she selected a slim meandering path traced out by locals. A mule-trail. This she followed to the top then found a copse of trees to hide in. She sat for a time on her knees, thinking through her options. As the day brightened and the insects gathered, she pulled off her helmet and, one-armed, began stripping off her armour. She used her dirk to dig a pit and into it went the armour, her surcoat, leggings, gauntlets, helmet, even her boots. Ghelel Rhik Tayliin and Prevost Alil, she decided, had to die.

But her sword. Her old familiar blade. Without it she'd be defenceless. How could she give up her weapon knowing what was after her? No, it had to go. It all had to go. What good would a sword do if a Claw should find me in any case? She lengthened the hole and pushed the blade down. Even the pack she emptied and jammed in. She filled the depression, stamped down the dirt. Wearing only a linen shirt, the dirk underneath, her hair unbounded and mussed, her arm bandaged and the food and remaining skin of water in a shoulderbag, she set out.

The sun on her back warmed her and seemed to help push her on her way. Here I am in the most dire straits so far of my life, alone, undefended, yet I feel incredibly free and light. Even reborn. I could go anywhere, do anything. So, what am I to do? And I will have to be careful. These people will never give up. Still, the future, once no better than a prison, now seemed completely unbounded. For the first time since that bloody day at the Sellath estate she felt in control of her own destiny. Come what may, at least she would be the one deciding.

At the shore of the Idryn she came to a squalid hamlet so small it no doubt boasted no name. She passed the few wattle-and-daub buildings to walk straight down to the shore where a shallow, single-masted cargo-boat was being readied for a trip upriver. The youths loading stopped their work to watch her and she smiled. ‘Who's the owner? I'd like to ask about heading upriver. I came following the army but my man's dead, so I'm going home. I have a few coins.’

‘M'father,’ said one, his eyes growing huge.

‘Could you get him?’

The lad dropped his basket to run down the shore. ‘Da! Da!’

Ghelel winced at that but followed. She did have coin — more than this fellow had probably seen in all his life. Enough, she hoped, for his silence. Enough, she hoped, to cover whatever cost the Gods deemed necessary to buy one's life back.