Dust of Dreams

by Erikson, Steven

  Bottle writhed, deaf, his lungs howling. He felt the muted impacts of sharpers, too close, too random—

  A hand reached down out of the sudden gloom and closed on his chest harness. He was dragged out from the slumped side of the collapsed trench.

  Bottle coughed out a mouthful of earth, hacked agonizing breaths, his throat afire. Tarr’s spattered face was above him, shouting—but Bottle could hear nothing. No matter, he pushed Tarr back, nodding. I’m all right. No, honest. I’m fine—where’s my crossbow?

  Keneb had come too close. The detonation caught him and his horse and literally ripped them both to pieces. Chunks of flesh sprayed outward. Ebron, leaning hard over the berm, saw part of the Fist’s upper torso—a shoulder, a stub of the arm and a few splayed ribs—cartwheel skyward, lifted on a column of dirt.

  Even as the mage stared, disbelieving, a sorcerous bolt caught him dead centre on his sternum. It tore through him, disintegrating his upper chest, shoulders and head.

  Limp howled as one of Ebron’s arms flopped down across his thighs.

  But no one heard him.

  They had seen Quick Ben, but had elected to ignore him. He flinched as the first waves of lightning ploughed into the defences along the ridge. Thunder rattled the ground and the entire facing side of the Bonehunter army vanished inside churning clouds of dirt, stone, and dismembered bodies.

  He saw the nodes recharging on the shoulders of the drones. How long? ‘No idea,’ he whispered. ‘Little acorns, listen. Go for the drones—the ones with the packs. Forget the rest … for now.’

  Then he set out, walking down towards the nearest phalanx.

  The Nah’ruk front was less than a hundred paces away.

  They had seen him and now they took note. Lightning blistered all along the front line.

  Horse clambering drunkenly from the crater, Ruthan Gudd shook his head, readying his blazing weapon. Dirt streamed down his back beneath his smeared, steaming armour. He spat grit.

  That wasn’t so bad now.

  Directly in front of him, twenty paces away, looming huge, the front line. Their eyes glittered like diamonds within the shadows beneath the rims of their ornate helms. The fangs lining their snouts glistened like shards of iron.

  He had an inkling that they had not expected to see him again. He rode over to say hello.

  ‘Crossbows at the ready!’ Fiddler yelled. ‘Go for the nodes!’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The lumpy ones! That’s where the magic’s coming from!’

  Koryk scrambled to crouch beside Fiddler. The man was sheathed in bloody mud. ‘Who pops up for a look, Fid?’

  ‘I will,’ said Corabb, surging upward and clawing up the berm. ‘Gods below! That captain’s still alive! He’s in their ranks—’

  As Corabb made to clamber out of the trench—clearly intending to join Gudd and charge the whole damned phalanx, Tarr reached out and dragged the fool back down.

  ‘Stay where you are, soldier! Get that crossbow—no, that one there! Load the fucker!’

  ‘Range, Corabb?’ Fiddler asked.

  ‘Forty and slowed, Sergeant—that captain’s carving right through ’em!’

  ‘Won’t matter much. I don’t care if he’s got Oponn’s poker up his ass, he’s only one man.’

  ‘We should help him!’

  ‘We can’t, Corabb,’ Fiddler said. ‘Besides, that’s the last thing he’d want—why d’you think he went out there on his own? Leave him, soldier. We got our own trouble come knocking. Koryk, you take the next look, count of ten. Nine, eight, seven—’

  ‘I ain’t getting my head blasted off!’

  Fiddler swung his crossbow round to point at Koryk’s chest. ‘Four, three, two, one—up you go!’

  Snarling, Koryk scrambled upward. Then was back down almost instantly. ‘Shit. Twenty-five and picking up speed!’

  Fiddler raised his voice. ‘Everyone ready! The nodes! Hold it—hold it—NOW!’

  ______

  Hedge led his Bridgeburners just to the rear of the last trenches. ‘I don’t care what Quick thinks, he’s always had backup, he never went it alone. Ever. So that’s us, soldiers—keep up there, Sweetlard! Look at Rumjugs, she ain’t even breathing hard—’

  ‘She’s forgotten how!’ Sweetlard gasped.

  ‘Remember what I said,’ Hedge reminded them, ‘Bridgeburners have faced worse than a bunch of stubby lizards. This ain’t nothing, right?’

  ‘We gonna win, Commander?’

  Hedge glanced over at Sunrise. And grinned. ‘Count on it, Sergeant. Now, everyone, check your munitions, and remember to aim for the lumpy ones. We’re about to pull into the open—’

  A concussion shook the very air, but it came from the Nah’ruk lines. A billowing black cloud rose like a stain of spilled ink.

  ‘Gods, what was that?’

  Hedge’s grin broadened. ‘That, soldiers, was Quick Ben.’

  Lightning arced out from hundreds of clubs, from multiple phalanxes to either side of the one he had attacked. The bolts snapped towards him, then slanted off as Quick Ben flung them aside. And I ain’t Tayschrenn and this ain’t Pale. Got no one behind me, so keep throwing them my way, y’damned geckos. Use it all up!

  The first dozen or so ranks of the phalanx he’d struck were down, a few writhing or feebly struggling to rise with crushed limbs and snapped bones. Most were motionless, their bodies boiled from the inside out. As he walked towards those who remained, he saw them regrouping, forming a line to face him once more.

  The huge falchions and halberds lifted in readiness.

  Quick Ben extended his senses, until he could feel the very air around the creatures, could follow currents of that air as they slipped through gills into reptilian lungs. He reached out to encompass as many of them as possible.

  And then he set the air on fire.

  Lightning shunted from the High Mage, careened off into the sky and out to the sides.

  Sergeant Sunrise shrieked as one bolt twisted and spun straight for Hedge. He flung himself forward, three paces that seemed to tear every muscle in his back and legs. He was a Bridgeburner. He was the man he had always wanted to be; he’d never stood taller, never walked straighter.

  And all because of Hedge.

  See me? Sunrise—

  He was smiling as he flung himself into the lightning’s path.

  Hedge’s sergeant erupted, blinding white, and then where he had been was nothing but swirling ashes. His soldiers were screaming behind him. Spinning, Hedge shouted, ‘Everyone down to the ground! We’ll wait it out—we wait it out!’

  Fuck you, Quick—this ain’t Pale, you know! And you ain’t Tayschrenn!

  Ruthan Gudd slashed down to either side, but the damned things were pressing in—they’d halted his forward progress. Heavy iron blades cracked and skittered against his horse, his thighs. The armour was showing cracks, but after each blow those fissures healed. His sword cut through helms and skulls, necks and limbs, but the Nah’ruk did not relent, closing tighter and tighter about him.

  He heard concussions somewhere to his left, caught the stench of howling warrens being forced to do unspeakable things—Quick Ben, how much longer can you hide? Well, Ruthan knew he’d not be around to witness any revelations. They were taking him down with their sheer weight. His horse staggered, head thrashing and flinching with every savage downward strike of falchions.

  The rest of the phalanx had moved past the knot trapping him, were ascending the ridge, only moments from reaching the first trench. He caught flashes of other phalanxes marching past.

  Four blades struck him simultaneously, lifting him from the saddle with a splintering explosion of ice shards. Cursing, he twisted, lashing out even as he plunged into the maelstrom of reptilian limbs and iron weapons. And then taloned feet, slashing, stamping down. A blow to the face stunned him. White, and then blessed darkness.

  Twelve paces. The surviving marines rose as one from the foremost trench. Crossbows thudded. Sharpers cra
cked and burners ignited. Directly before Fiddler, he saw his bolt glance off a node and then explode immediately behind the lizard’s head. The helm went spinning, whipping fragments of brain and bone in a wild cavorting tail of gore. The node blackened, and then exploded.

  The concussion threw Fiddler back, down into the trench. Pieces of hide and meat rained down.

  Half-winded, he struggled to reload his lobber. One last cusser—gotta get rid of it, before it goes up like those sharpers down the line—gods, we’ve been chewed up—

  Shadows swept over the trench.

  He looked up.

  The Nah’ruk had arrived.

  Corabb had managed to reload. Lifting his head, he saw a giant lizard rising above the berm, maw tilting down as if grinning at him.

  His quarrel vanished into its soft throat, punched out through the back of its skull. The creature wobbled. Flinging away the crossbow, Corabb drew his sword and scrambled to his feet. He swung at the nearest shin. The impact nearly broke his wrist and the weapon’s edge bit deep into bone and jammed there.

  Still the creature stood, twitches rippling through its massive body.

  Corabb struggled to pull loose his sword.

  To either side, Nah’ruk clambered over the berm, leapt down into the trench.

  The backswing lifted Sergeant Primly into the air, and he rode the iron blade, his blood spilling down as if from a bucket. Shrieking, Neller flung himself on to the lizard’s left arm, pulled himself higher and then forced the sharper down between the enamel chest-plate and the greasy hide. Jaws snapped, closed on his face. Phlegm like acid splashed his eyes and skin. Howling, Neller tightened his grip on the sharper and then drove the fist of his other hand against the armour, directly opposite the munition.

  Mulvan Dreader, driving a spear into the lizard’s belly, caught the blast as the creature’s chest exploded. Ceramic shrapnel shredded Mulvan’s neck, punching red gore into the air behind him. Neller was flung back, his right arm gone, his face a slashed, melting horror.

  Primly’s corpse landed five paces away, a flopping thing painted crimson.

  The lizard toppled.

  Two more appeared behind it, falchions lifting.

  Stumbling, Drawfirst set her shield and readied her sword. As Skulldeath leapt past her, landing in between the two Nah’ruk.

  A bolt sizzled close to her horse’s head. Its muzzle and mane burst into flame. Skin peeled and cracked from mouth to shoulders. The animal collapsed. Lostara Yil managed to roll clear. The heat had flashed against her face and she could smell the stench of scorched hair. Staggering to her feet, she looked over to see a dozen staff riders down, roasted in their armour. The Adjunct was lifting herself from the carnage, her otataral sword in one hand.

  ‘Get me Keneb—’

  ‘Keneb’s dead, Adjunct,’ Lostara replied, staggering over. The world spun and then steadied.

  Tavore straightened. ‘Where—’

  Lostara reached the woman, pulled her down to the ground. ‘You shouldn’t even be alive, Tavore. Stay here—you’re in shock. Stay here—I’ll find help—’

  ‘Quick Ben—the High Mage—’

  ‘Aye.’ Lostara stood over the Adjunct, who was sitting as would a child. The captain looked over to where she’d last seen Quick Ben.

  He’d annihilated an entire phalanx, and where it had been the fires of superheated flesh, hide and bone still raged in an inferno. She saw him marching towards another phalanx, above him the sky convulsing, blackening like a bruise.

  Sorcery erupted from the High Mage, struck the phalanx. Burning corpses lifted into the air.

  ‘I see him. Adjunct—I can’t—’

  From the darkness in the sky a sudden glow, blinding, and then an enormous spear of lightning descended. She saw the High Mage look up, saw him raise his arms—and then the bolt struck. The explosion could have levelled a tenement block. Even the Nah’ruk in the phalanx thirty or more paces away were flattened like sheaves of wheat. Flanking units buckled on the facing sides.

  The shock wave staggered Lostara, stole her breath, deafened her. Hands to her face, she slumped down, struck the ground hard.

  Pearl?

  Skanarow threw herself down into the second trench where the heavies were waiting. ‘The marines are overrun! Sound the fall-back—and make room for the survivors—let ’em through! Get ready to hold this trench!’

  She saw a messenger, unhorsed, crouching behind the headless corpse of a heavy. ‘You—find Captain Kindly. I just saw the vanguard go down—and I don’t know where Blistig is, so as far as I’m concerned Kindly’s now in command. Tell him, we need to begin a retreat—we can’t hold. Understood?’

  The young man nodded.

  ‘Go.’

  Brys flinched as the Nah’ruk lines struck the Malazan defences. He saw the heavy falchions descending. Barely slowing, the lizards swarmed over the first trench and began closing on the next one.

  ‘Aranict—’

  ‘I think she lives, Commander.’

  Brys swung round in his saddle, caught the eyes of his outriders. ‘We need to retrieve the Adjunct. Volunteers only.’

  One rider pushed through the others. Henar Vygulf.

  Brys nodded. ‘Get your spare horses, Lieutenant.’

  The huge Bluerose saluted.

  ‘When you have them,’ Brys said before the man turned away, ‘ride for the supply train.’

  The soldier frowned.

  Brys gritted his teeth. ‘I will not stand here watching this slaughter. We will close with the enemy.’

  They saw the impossibly thick bolt of lightning tear down from the dark stain ahead. As the shockwaves drummed through the ground, Warleader Gall raised an arm to signal a halt. He faced Kisswhere, his face ashen. ‘I am sending you to the Mortal Sword Krughava—tell her the Malazans are assailed, and that the Khundryl ride to their succour.’

  She stared at the man. ‘Warleader—’

  ‘Ride, soldier—you are not Khundryl—you do not understand what it is to fight from a horse. Tell Krughava the gods were cruel this day, for she will not reach the Malazans in time.’

  ‘Who is their enemy?’ Kisswhere demanded. ‘Your shamans—’

  ‘Are blind. We know less than you. Ride, Kisswhere.’

  She swung her horse round.

  Gall rose in his stirrups and faced his warriors. He drew his tulwar and held it high. And said nothing.

  In answer, six thousand weapons were freed and lifted skyward.

  Gall pulled his horse round. ‘Ride ahead, Rafala, until you sight the enemy.’

  The woman kicked her mount into a gallop.

  After a moment, Gall led his army after her, at a quick canter, and the sound of thunder grew louder, and the yellow sky deepened to brown in which flashes bloomed like wounds.

  He wondered what his wife was doing.

  Worse than chopping down trees. Fiddler gave up trying to hack through legs and began hamstringing the bastards, ducking the slashes of notched weapons, dodging the downward swings. The surviving Malazans had been driven from the first trench, were now struggling to hold a fighting withdrawal across the ten paces to the heavies’ trench.

  Crossbow quarrels and arrows spat out from the troops arrayed behind the heavies, winging at heights mercifully above the heads of the soldiers in their desperate retreat. Most missiles shattered against enamel, but a few were punching through, finding gaps in the Nah’ruk’s armour. Beasts were toppling here and there.

  But not enough. The phalanx was a machine, devouring everything in its path.

  Fiddler had lost his cusser and lobber in the first trench. The shortsword felt puny as a thorn in his hand. A glancing blow had sent his helm flying and blood streamed down the right side of his head.

  He saw Koryk pushing his sword through a Nah’ruk’s neck; saw another lizard step in behind the man, halberd lifting high. Bolts punched into both armpits. The creature fell forward, burying Koryk. Smiles rushed over, diving and rolli
ng to evade a lashing falchion.

  Cuttle stumbled up against Fiddler. ‘Retreat’s sounded!’

  ‘I heard—’

  ‘Quick Ben’s been Rannalled, Fid—that giant strike—’

  ‘I know. Forget him—help me get the squad back—the heavies will hold, enough so we can regroup. Go on, I ain’t seen Corabb or Bottle—’

  Nah’ruk and human corpses half-buried Bottle, but he was in no hurry to move. He saw more of the lizards marching past on all sides.

  We never even slowed them.

  Quick, whatever happened to subtlety?

  He could see a sliver of sky, could see the wyval wheeling round up there, eager to descend and feed. Grandma, you always said don’t reach too far. Close your dead eyes now, and remember, I loved you so.

  He left his body, winged skyward.

  Corabb yanked hard and dragged his sword from the Nah’ruk’s left eye socket, then he reached down to take up again Shoaly’s ankle—but the man had stopped screaming and as he looked he saw in the heavy’s face a slackness, a dullness to the staring eyes.

  A line of Nah’ruk was closing, only a few paces away. Swearing, Corabb released his grip and turned to run.

  The trench of the heavy infantry was just ahead. He saw helmed faces, weapons readied. Arrows and quarrels hissed over them and the thud and snap of their impacts was torrential behind him. Corabb hurried over.

  Cuttle fell in beside him. ‘Seen Tarr?’

  ‘Seen him go down.’

  ‘Bottle?’

  Corabb shook his head. ‘Smiles? Koryk?’

  ‘Fid’s got ’em.’

  ‘Fiddler! He’s—’

  The first trench directly behind the two marines erupted. Nah’ruk ranks simply vanished in blue clouds.

  ‘What—’

  ‘Some bastard stepped on a cusser!’ Cuttle said. ‘Serves ’em right! C’mon!’

  Deathly pale faces beneath helm rims—but the heavies were standing, ready. Two parted and let the marines through.

  One shouted over at Cuttle. ‘Those clubs—’