He grinned at the snapping crack of sharpers detonating behind him, along with the deadly whoosh of burners filling the basin with red, flaring light. The raid had been stopped in its tracks, and confusion had snared the attackers. Fiddler and the five marines trailing in his wake were low enough to keep their silhouettes from being backlit by the flames as they reached the base of the slope.
They had ascended halfway to the ridge when Fiddler held up a fisted hand.
Cuttle scrambled up beside him. ‘We won’t even have to duck on this one,’ he growled.
The sergeant raised his crossbow, sighting well above the crest line and settling the metal stock against his shoulder. He drew a breath, held it, and slowly pressed the release.
The iron ribs thunked, and the cusser quarrel leapt away, describing a graceful arc up and over the ridge. It sank out of sight.
Bodies were thrown skyward at the explosion, and screams filled the air.
‘Crossbows to bear,’ Cuttle snapped, ‘in case they come rolling over the—’
On the crest above them, the skyline was suddenly crowded with warriors.
‘Fall back!’ Fiddler shouted as he continued to reload. ‘Fall back!’
After sprawling into the thorn bush, Corabb dragged himself clear, spitting curses, and scrambled to his feet. The bodies of his comrades lay on all sides, struck down by heavy crossbow bolts or those terrible Moranth munitions. There had been more marines, hidden between the barrows, and now he could hear horses behind them, sweeping on to take the ridge—Khundryl—the bastards were in light armour only, and they had been ready and waiting.
He looked for Leoman, but could not see him among those warriors made visible by the sheets of flames left by the Malazan fire-grenados—and of those, few were still on their feet. Time had come, he decided, to withdraw.
He collected the tulwar from where it had fallen, then spun about and ran for the ridge.
And plunged headlong into a squad of marines.
Sudden shouts.
A huge soldier wearing the trappings of a Seti slammed a hide-wrapped shield into Corabb’s face. The desert warrior reeled back, blood gushing from his nose and mouth, and took a wild swing. The tulwar’s heavy blade cracked hard against something—and snapped clean just above the hilt.
Corabb landed hard on the ground.
A soldier passed close and left something on his lap.
Somewhere just up on the ridge another explosion ripped through the night—this one louder by far than any he had yet heard.
Stunned, blinking tears, Corabb sat up, and saw a small round clay ball roll down to land in front of his crotch.
Smoke rose from it—sputtering, foaming acid, just a drop, eating its way through.
Whimpering, Corabb rolled to one side—and came up against a discarded helm. He grabbed it and lunged back at the sharper, slamming the bronze cap over it.
Then he closed his eyes.
As the squad continued its retreat—the slope behind it a mass of blasted bodies from Fiddler’s second cusser, with Khundryl Burned Tears now crashing into the flank of the remaining attackers—Cuttle grabbed the sergeant’s shoulder and spun him around.
‘The bastard Koryk knocked down is about to be surprised, Fid.’
Fiddler fixed his gaze on the figure just now sitting up.
‘Left a smoking sharper in his lap,’ Cuttle added.
Both sappers halted to watch.
‘Four . . .’ The warrior made his horrific discovery and plunged to one side.
‘Three . . .’
Then rolled back directly onto the sharper.
‘Two . . .’
Thumping a helm down over it.
‘One.’
The detonation lifted the hapless man into the air on a man-high column of fire.
Yet he had managed to hold on to the helm, even as it lifted him still higher, up and over. Feet scything wildly in the air, he plummeted back down, landing to kick up a cloud of dust and smoke.
‘Now that—’
But Cuttle got no further, and both sappers simply stared in disbelief as the warrior scrambled upright, looked around, collected a discarded lance, then raced off back up the slope.
Gamet drove heels into his horse’s flanks. The mount pounded down into the basin from the west side, opposite where the Khundryl had come from.
Three knots of desert warriors had managed to weather the crossbow fire and munitions to assault one of the strong-points. They had driven the two hidden squads back onto the barrow as well, and the Fist saw his marines dragging wounded comrades into the trenchworks. Fewer than ten soldiers among the three squads were still fighting, desperately holding back the screaming raiders.
Gamet pulled his sword free as he urged his horse directly towards the beleaguered position. As he approached, he saw two marines go down before an onrush from one of the attacking groups—and the barrow was suddenly overrun.
The fugue gripping his senses seemed to redouble, and he began sawing the reins, confused, bewildered by the roar of sounds surrounding him.
‘Fist!’
He lifted his sword, as his horse cantered, as if of its own will, towards the barrow.
‘Fist Gamet! Pull out of there!’
Too many voices. Screams of the dying. The flames—they’re falling away. Darkness closing in. My soldiers are dying. Everywhere. It’s failed—the whole plan has failed—
A dozen raiders were rushing at him—and more movement, there, to his right—another squad of marines, fast closing, as if they’d been on their way to relieve the overrun strong-point, but now they were sprinting in his direction.
I don’t understand. Not here—the other way. Go there, go to my soldiers—
He saw something large fly from one of the marines’ hands, down into the midst of the warriors attacking him. ‘Fist?’
Two lances whipped out, seeking him. Then the night exploded.
He felt his horse lifted beneath him, pushing him down over the back of the saddle. The animal’s head snapped upward, impossibly so, as it continued arching back—to thump down between Gamet’s thighs a moment before he tumbled, boots leaving the stirrups, over the horse’s rump.
Down into a mist of blood and grit.
He blinked his eyes open, found himself lying in sodden mud, amidst bodies and parts of bodies, at the base of a crater. His helmet was gone. No sword in his hand.
I was . . . I was on a horse . . .
Someone slid down to slam against his side. He attempted to clamber away, but was dragged back down.
‘Fist Gamet, sir! I’m Sergeant Gesler—Captain Keneb’s 9th Company—can you hear me?’
‘Y-yes—I thought you were—’
‘Aye, Fist. But we dropped ’em, and now the rest of my squad and Borduke’s are relieving 3rd Company’s marines. We need to get you to a healer, sir.’
‘No, that’s all right.’ He struggled to sit up, but something was wrong with his legs—they were indifferent to his commands. ‘Tend to those on the barrow, Sergeant—’
‘We are, sir. Pella! Down here, help me with the Fist.’
Another marine arrived, this one much younger—oh, no, too young for this. I will ask the Adjunct to send him home. To his mother and father, yes. He should not have to die—‘You should not have to die.’
‘Sir?’
‘Only his horse between him and a cusser blast,’ Gesler said. ‘He’s addled, Pella. Now, take his arms . . .’
Addled? No, my mind is clear. Perfectly clear, now. Finally. They’re all too young for this. It’s Laseen’s war—let her fight it. Tavore—she was a child, once. But then the Empress murdered that child. Murdered her. I must tell the Adjunct . . .
Fiddler settled wearily beside the now dead hearth. He set his crossbow down and wiped the sweat and grime from his eyes. Cuttle eased down beside him. ‘Koryk’s head still aches,’ the sapper muttered, ‘but it don’t look like anything’s broken that wasn’t already broken.’
‘Except his helm,’ Fiddler replied.
‘Aye, except that. The only real scrap of the night for our squad, barring a few dozen quarrels loosed. And we didn’t even kill the bastard.’
‘You got too cute, Cuttle.’
The man sighed. ‘Aye, I did. Must be getting old.’
‘That’s what I concluded. Next time, just stab a pig-sticker in the bastard.’
‘Amazed he survived it in any case.’
The pursuit by the Khundryl had taken the Burned Tears far beyond the ridge, and what had begun as a raid against a Malazan army was now a tribal war. Two bells remained before dawn. Infantry had moved out into the basin to collect wounded, retrieve quarrels, and strip down the Malazan corpses—leaving nothing for the enemy to use. The grim, ugly conclusion to every battle, the only mercy the cover of darkness.
Sergeant Gesler appeared out of the gloom and joined them at the lifeless hearth. He drew off his gauntlets and dropped them into the dust, then rubbed at his face.
Cuttle spoke. ‘Heard a position was overrun.’
‘Aye. We’d had it in hand, at least to start. Closing in fast. Most of the poor bastards could have walked away from that barrow. As it is, only four did.’
Fiddler looked up. ‘Out of three squads?’
Gesler nodded, then spat into the ashes.
Silence.
Then Cuttle grunted. ‘Something always goes wrong.’
Gesler sighed, collected his gauntlets and rose. ‘Could have been worse.’
Fiddler and Cuttle watched the man wander off.
‘What happened, do you think?’
Fiddler shrugged. ‘I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. Now, find Corporal Tarr and get him to gather the rest. I need to explain all the things we did wrong tonight.’
‘Starting with you leading us up the slope?’
Fiddler grimaced. ‘Starting with that, aye.’
‘Mind you, if you hadn’t,’ Cuttle mused, ‘more of those raiders could have followed down to the overrun barrow through the breach. Your lobbed cusser did its work—distracted them. Long enough for the Khundryl to arrive and keep them busy.’
‘Even so,’ the sergeant conceded. ‘But if we’d been alongside Gesler, maybe we could have saved a few more marines.’
‘Or messed it up worse, Fid. You know better than to think like that.’
‘I guess you’re right. Now, gather them up.’
‘Aye.’
Gamet looked up as the Adjunct entered the cutters’ tent. She was pale—from lack of sleep, no doubt—and had removed her helm, revealing her short-cropped, mouse-coloured hair.
‘I will not complain,’ Gamet said, as the healer finally moved away.
‘Regarding what?’ the Adjunct asked, head turning to scan the other cots on which wounded soldiers lay.
‘The removal of my command,’ he replied.
Her gaze fixed on him once more. ‘You were careless, Fist, in placing yourself at such risk. Hardly cause to strip you of your rank.’
‘My presence diverted marines rushing to the aid of their comrades, Adjunct. My presence resulted in lives lost.’
She said nothing for a moment, then stepped closer. ‘Every engagement takes lives, Gamet. This is the burden of command. Did you think this war would be won without the spilling of blood?’
He looked away, grimacing against the waves of dull pain that came from forced healing. The cutters had removed a dozen shards of clay from his legs. Muscles had been shredded. Even so, he knew that the Lady’s luck had been with him this night. The same could not be said for his hapless horse. ‘I was a soldier once, Adjunct,’ he rasped. ‘I am one no longer. This is what I discovered tonight. As for being a Fist, well, commanding house guards was a fair representation of my level of competence. An entire legion? No. I am sorry, Adjunct . . .’
She studied him, then nodded. ‘It will be some time before you are fully recovered from your wounds. Which of your captains would you recommend for a temporary field promotion?’
Yes, the way it should be done. Good. ‘Captain Keneb, Adjunct.’
‘I concur. And now I must leave you. The Khundryl are returning.’
‘With trophies, I hope.’
She nodded.
Gamet managed a smile. ‘That is well.’
The sun was climbing near zenith when Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas reined in his lathered horse alongside Leoman. Other warriors were straggling in all the time, but it might be days before the scattered elements of the company were finally reassembled. In light armour, the Khundryl had been able to maintain persistent contact with the Raraku horse warriors, and had proved themselves fierce and capable fighters.
The ambush had been reversed, the message delivered with succinct precision. They had underestimated the Adjunct.
‘Your first suspicions were right,’ Corabb growled as he settled down in his saddle, the horse trembling beneath him. ‘The Empress chose wisely.’
Leoman’s right cheek had been grazed by a crossbow quarrel, leaving a crusted brown line that glistened in places through the layer of dust. At Corabb’s observation he grimaced, leaned to one side and spat.
‘Hood curse those damned marines,’ Corabb continued. ‘If not for their grenades and those assault crossbows, we would have taken them all down. Would that I had found one of those crossbows—the loading mechanism must be—’
‘Be quiet, Corabb,’ Leoman muttered. ‘I have orders for you. Select a worthy messenger and have him take three spare horses and ride back to Sha’ik as fast as he can. He is to tell her I will be continuing with my raids, seeking the pattern to this Adjunct’s responses, and will rejoin the Chosen One three days before the Malazan army arrives. Also, that I no longer hold any faith in Korbolo Dom’s strategy for the day of battle, nor his tactics—aye, Corabb, she will not listen to such words, but they must be said, before witnesses. Do you understand?’
‘I do, Leoman of the Flails, and I shall choose the finest rider among us.’
‘Go, then.’
Chapter Twenty
Shadow is ever besieged, for that is its nature. Whilst darkness devours, and light steals. And so one sees shadow ever retreat to hidden places, only to return in the wake of the war between dark and light.
Observations of the Warrens
Insallan Enura
THE ROPE HAD VISITED THE EDUR SHIPS. CORPSES LAY EVERYWHERE, already rotting on the deck beneath squabbling, shrieking gulls and crows. Cutter stood near the prow and watched in silence as Apsalar walked among the bodies, pausing every now and then to examine some detail or other, her measured calm leaving the Daru chilled.
They had drawn the sleek runner up alongside, and Cutter could hear its steady bumping against the hull as the morning breeze continued to freshen. Despite the enlivening weather, lassitude gripped them both. They were to sail away, but precisely where had not been specified by the patron god of assassins. Another servant of Shadow awaited them . . . somewhere.
He tested his left arm once more, lifting it out to the side. The shoulder throbbed, but not as badly as yesterday. Fighting with knives was all very well, until one had to face an armoured sword-wielder, then the drawbacks to short-bladed, close-in stickers became all too apparent.
He needed, he concluded, to learn the use of the bow. And then, once he’d acquired some competence, perhaps a long-knife—a Seven Cities weapon that combined the advantages of a knife with the reach of a three-quarter-length longsword. For some reason, the thought of using a true longsword did not appeal to him. Perhaps because it was a soldier’s weapon, best used in conjunction with a shield or buckler. A waste of his left hand, given his skills. Sighing, Cutter looked down at the deck and, fighting revulsion, scanned the corpses beneath the jostling birds.
And saw a bow. Its string had been cut through, and the arrows lay scattered out from a quiver still strapped to an Edur’s hip. Cutter stepped over and crouched down. The bow was heavier than it looked, sharply recur
ved and braced with horn. Its length was somewhere between a longbow and a horse warrior’s bow—probably a simple short bow for these Edur. Unstrung, it stood at a height matching Cutter’s shoulders.
He began collecting the arrows, then, waving to drive back the gulls and crows, he dragged the archer’s corpse clear and removed the belted quiver. He found a small leather pouch tied near it containing a half-dozen waxed strings, spare fletching, a few nuggets of hard pine sap, a thin iron blade and three spare barbed arrowheads.
Selecting one of the strings, Cutter straightened. He slipped one of the cord-bound ends into the notch at the bow’s base end, then anchored the weapon against the outside of his right foot and pushed down on the upper rib.
Harder than he’d expected. The bow shook as he struggled to slip the loop into the notch. Finally succeeding, Cutter lifted the bow for a more gauging regard, then drew it back. The breath hissed between his teeth as he sought to hold the weapon taut. This would, he realized as he finally relaxed the string, prove something of a challenge.
Sensing eyes on him, he turned.
Apsalar stood near the main mast. Flecks and globules of dried blood covered her forearms.
‘What have you been doing?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘Looking around.’
Inside someone’s chest? ‘We should go.’
‘Have you decided where yet?’
‘I’m sure that will be answered soon enough,’ he said, bending down to collect the arrows and the belt holding the quiver and kit pouch.
‘The sorcery here is . . . strange.’
His head snapped up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I am not sure. My familiarity with warrens is somewhat vicarious.’
I know.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘if this is Kurald Emurlahn, then it is tainted in some way. Necromantically. Life and death magicks, carved directly into the wood of this ship. As if warlocks and shoulder-women had done the consecrating.’
House of Chains Page 73
