As they closed upon the defenders, Jatal saw that the Warleader was correct. It was a rag-tag mob of men and women, mostly unarmoured, bearing a mismatched forest of weaponry varying from spears to rusted billhooks to farming implements and axes. They had been formed in tight ranks across the road and massed to each side. Clearly they hoped to dull the impetus of the Adwami charge then surround them and drag them down from all sides.
Even though their mounts were far from fresh, Jatal did not doubt that they would win through. There was no way these farmers could hold against a charge. They would break and scatter and the mounted ranks would simply continue on, leaving the trampled obstruction in their dust. All this, it seemed, the foreign Warleader had intuited in an instant. He had come to a decision and enacted his strategy while they still gaped, uncomprehending. A Lord of War indeed. Who was this man? And what would such a one truly want if not riches?
As he tucked the haft of his lance under his right arm, it occurred to him that the answer had lain before him all this time: power, dominion, rulership. A position they were in the process of winning for him.
And has Andanii grasped this already?
Luckily for Jatal they did not face experienced soldiers, for with his flinch at that agonizing thought his lance went wide. Yet Ash knew his work even though his master fumbled. The trained warhorse trampled and pushed aside all who faced him, rearing and kicking on all sides. Jatal threw the lance, as it was useless in such close quarters, and spurred Ash forward, for he knew that further waves were pushing in behind. He slashed with his sabre, a short dirk in his off hand. With no shield in this press he was at a fatal disadvantage and so he kept urging Ash onward. Incredibly, the horde had not broken. It had not given even a reflexive shudder as the long column of horseflesh ploughed into it and now Jatal saw the reason. It sickened him, but there was nothing he could do except continue slashing to either side.
These farmers, or labourers, or city-dwellers, poor men and women alike, were each shackled to their position, fettered to bronze pins hammered between the stones or into the dirt. Most, it was obvious now, cringed from him, shrieking not in battle rage but in abject terror. They waved and thrust their makeshift weapons uselessly and Jatal contemptuously brushed them aside.
What could be the purpose of such a hopeless demonstration?
Rear ranks, including the Warleader’s men, now charged ahead, pushing forward, trampling the fettered wretches who could not dodge aside. Jatal rose in his stirrups searching for any sign of Andanii. Then everything changed. The front coursers of the Adwami broke through the massed ranks only to suddenly fall as if scythed down by invisible blades taking their legs out from under them. Jatal heard the rattling and clanking of chain over stone as something quivered, spanning the road and stretching out across the dirt to either side.
Some sort of chain barrier! We are trapped!
Then screams from the forest edge behind him where the flanks of the mass now quivered, surging inward like some animal roused to flight. Jatal glimpsed there towering armoured figures bullying and thrusting, urging the horde inward. Yakshaka. A trap. A Sky-King damned trap! The urge overtook him to find that damned arrogant outlander and cut his head off. And where was Andanii!
He did not need to search far for the Warleader for he emerged from the wailing fettered infantry, hacking his way clear with great swings of his two-handed bastard sword. Blood webbed his mail coat and he pushed back his hooded coif to catch Jatal’s gaze. His iron-grey hair plastered his head, sweat-soaked. At that moment he appeared to Jatal as the very god of war.
‘Take your Elites and bring down those yakshaka scum!’ the Warleader commanded.
‘What?’ Jatal shouted, steadying Ash who fought and reared smelling so much blood.
‘Thaumaturgs must be here. Commanding. Leave them to me! Go!’ and he slapped Ash’s flank.
Jatal reared in his saddle raising the rally sign and shouting for the Elites, then hauled Ash round and headed for the rear. Line after line of the lancers curved off to follow. For a moment Jatal had despaired. He’d thought the day lost. But this was just their first brush with resistance – it would be absurd to think their goal of dominion could be accomplished without a fight. The Warleader, damn him, was right.
Jatal’s lance was gone but he had his sabre and this he waved high, encouraging the Elites. He swung Ash over, rounding the border of the infantry mass, and headed for the nearest giant yakshaka soldier. They could hardly be missed, rearing so tall above the horde, and glittering gold and pink in the late afternoon light.
Charging, he leaned as far forward over his saddle as he dared. He extended the sabre out before him, bearing down upon a giant who only now became aware of the threat. Its armoured helm turned slowly to track him. A huge two-handed yataghan rose like an executioner’s axe.
Jatal stormed abreast and swung his sabre, which rebounded ringing as if he’d hammered a stone pillar. Then he was past, his arm hanging utterly numb. His sabre swung dangling from its leather wrist-strap. He yanked one-handed on Ash’s reins to curve outward and away, meaning to come round for another pass. Behind came the smash of lances impacting. Wood snapped and burst as charges hit home on the armoured giants. Jatal straightened in his saddle to scan the jammed press of humanity that was the roadway. Some few lancers remained trapped within, but far fewer than before. Even as he watched, a number fell, dragged from their saddles by countless grasping hands to disappear screaming and flailing into the horde.
He glimpsed a Saar lancer charging a yakshaka and the giant’s broad yataghan striking the mount’s neck to nearly sever it in one massive blow. Rider and mount fell in a tangle of snapping bones and thrown dirt. Elsewhere the giants actually shouldered aside horses that came too close, or reached out and grasped legs or tack to tear riders from their mounts as they passed. But for all that, many now reeled impaled on hafts of wood that stood from them like bizarre decorations.
Yet are any down? I see none. But they are too few. Less than a hundred all told, I should guess. We will grind them down.
He circled his tingling and aching right arm above his head to encourage the column and continued on round to complete the flying circle. Ahead, a lance stood from the ground next to a fallen knight. Jatal leaned far over on his left and reached for it. He snatched it in passing and tucked it under his arm. The crash of hooves announced a rider closing with him: it was Ganell on a massive black stallion. The big man sported a shattered lance that, laughing his battle glee, he raised to salute Jatal.
‘They are impossible to miss!’ he bellowed, grinning.
Jatal waved him on. Ganell saluted again and charged off, his immense mount pounding the earth.
A great chorus of horrifying screams sounded then and Jatal peered round. It came from the throats of that surging mass of compressed humanity and so full of despair and terror was it that it turned his flesh cold. Even as he watched, a swath of the mass fell, mowed down by some unseen contagion that rolled on to strike a section of the Adwami column. These riders and their mounts fell as well: the horses threw back their heads and tumbled as if mattocked. Their riders rocked backwards as if struck, their robes and armour immediately stained red, and they fell limp.
A portion of the field had now been wiped empty of any standing living being but for one. This single figure sent an atavistic shiver down Jatal’s spine: he stood alone in his long blood-spattered mail, his bastard sword red to the hilts. The Warleader. He extended a mail-clad hand, pointing to some hidden foe. Then he charged.
Now Jatal had to know. Had to find out. Who was this man that the Thaumaturgs’ witchery should not affect him? And why was it that their curse should fall just where he was standing? Jatal urged Ash round the clamouring press to follow.
At the swath of fallen corpses Ash suddenly reared as if terrified. He snorted and shook his head, his eyes rolling whitely. He refused to advance despite Jatal’s commands. Not wanting to waste any more time fighting his mount, Ja
tal slid off the saddle and left him there, his reins hanging free. As a trained warhorse he could defend himself.
Some feeling had returned to his hand and he clenched it and shook it as he went. The fallen rabble infantry lay thick here, so thick it was hard to avoid them. The ground was wet and slick with fluids. When he did step on a corpse it gave sickeningly, like a yielding half-full sack of water. It was as if the flesh had been pulverized, reduced to spongy fat. From this cleared swath he had a good view of the battlefield. Ahead, a knot of resistance revealed an inner cordon of yakshaka guarding a circle of Thaumaturg mages at the centre of the formation. Some few Adwami lancers who had forged to the middle assaulted the yakshaka there. As did the Warleader. Somehow he had won through to the Thaumaturgs themselves and there he wreaked bloody slaughter. Jatal ran for him.
On his way he stepped over two fallen yakshaka warriors. Both had suffered astonishing wounds: an arm severed, a torso slashed through from collarbone to ribs revealing its layers of stone armour, bone and fibrous flesh oozing clear fluid. Who was this Warleader to deliver such blows?
He reached the knot of hacked and slaughtered Thaumaturgs even as the Warleader cleaved the last in a great sweep of his two-handed bastard sword. One wounded mage the man grasped by the throat in an armoured fist to raise up close to his face.
‘So perished your forebears,’ the Warleader snarled, his voice hoarse and quivering, almost inhuman.
The Thaumaturg’s eyes widened to huge circles of white all round and he gaped, choking. He raised a bloody shaking hand to point. ‘You…’ he half-gasped, half-mouthed. Then the fist closed with a popping of cartilage and tearing flesh and the mage spasmed, his body falling limp.
The Warleader’s gaze swung round straight into Jatal’s staring eyes. What Jatal caught for an instant in those unguarded depths froze him to the spot. Hot rapine and bloodshed blazed there, yes, but beneath this howled a hurricane of rage and a soul-destroying bottomless black despair. This mere glimpse sent him to his knees, almost faint. The Warleader closed over him, raising his gore-slick bastard sword as if he would strike – but hooves shook the ground announcing the arrival of lancers and the Warleader stepped away. His blazing eyes still lingered on Jatal, slit now in suspicion. Their weight seemed to rob him of the ability to speak.
‘The yakshaka fight on,’ announced Sher’ Tal, glowering down, his thick black beard braided now, and tied by leather lacing that hung like ribbons.
‘Destroy them,’ commanded the Warleader.
But Sher’ Tal ignored the order and the Warleader himself; he remained unmoving, his eyes on Jatal. Straightening, Jatal nodded. He drew a shuddering breath. ‘Yes. They must be destroyed.’
Sher’ Tal scowled but jerked a nod of assent. ‘Very well.’ He yanked his mount round, favoured the Warleader with one disapproving glare, then charged away.
The Warleader paced off a distance. He stooped to clean his blade on the robes of a dead Thaumaturg. ‘As you have no doubt guessed,’ he began, gesturing to the corpse, ‘they and I have had dealings in the past.’
‘Why conceal this?’
The Warleader straightened, turning, but would not meet his eye. ‘It was long ago – and I deem it my business.’
‘I should think it bears upon our contract.’
The foreigner – and now Jatal wondered, truly a foreigner? – waved a bloodied gauntleted hand in dismissal. ‘What care you? You shall have your conquered territory, while I shall have—’
‘Your revenge?’ Jatal suggested.
The Warleader was quiet for a time. Behind the iron-grey grizzled beard his mouth turned down as if in consideration. Sheathing his sword, he grunted his reluctant agreement. ‘Aye … my vengeance.’
It seemed to Jatal that he had just learned a fair bit about their mysterious Warleader. He would have to talk all this over—
He spun, searching the corpse-strewn battlefield. ‘Andanii!’
To his surprise, and deep annoyance, the Warleader also jerked as if stung. ‘This way,’ he said, and strode away. He led Jatal off the roadway. They stepped over the trampled fallen, some yet alive and cringing, towards the forest edge. Across the field two or three knots of remaining yakshaka still resisted the circling Adwami. All sported multiple shafts of shattered lances impaling torsos or limbs. Jatal could only wonder at their astounding vitality.
Ahead, a troop of Vehajarwi lancers stood guard in a tight group. Jatal recognized members of Andanii’s personal bodyguard. At their approach they parted, though a touch resentfully, at what they obviously judged an intrusion. Within, Andanii stood steadying herself with a hand tight on a horse’s tack. Ar-doard, an old family retainer and her general, knelt at her side busy wrapping her leg over her torn bloodied leathers.
Jatal almost lunged forward but managed to check himself. ‘Princess!’ he burst out, overly loud. ‘You are injured?’
Andanii laughed the comment aside and pushed the sweat-damp hair from her face, dragging a smear of blood across her cheek. ‘It is nothing.’
‘A fine charge,’ the Warleader announced, easing forward. ‘Bravely done.’
She inclined her head in pleased acknowledgement of the War-leader’s compliment. The man gestured to the saddle. ‘May I?’
‘Of course you may,’ she answered, her lips quirking up.
The Warleader took her into his arms and lifted her into the saddle with familiar ease. Something like an acid fist squeezed Jatal’s heart and his vision darkened for a moment; he took a step to steady himself.
‘I have studied alchemy and healing for many years, Princess,’ the Warleader said. ‘Perhaps I may be of assistance?’
Andanii slowly curled the leather reins round one fist. She inclined her head in agreement. ‘You may come to my tent.’ She gave Jatal a curt nod, ‘Prince,’ then urged her mount on.
Jatal watched her go. Around him the bodyguard scrambled to their mounts. It seemed to him that the Warleader might have cast him a sidelong glance but Jatal spared the man no attention. His eyes followed Andanii as she rode away. Look back, he urged her. You must. Send me a sign. A hint. Anything to grasp for I am a man drowning.
But she did not glance back and something broke in Jatal. Something that once broken can never be replaced.
So be it. The lines of an ancient Adwami poet came to him.
Love does blossom like the flower
and petals fall like tears.
* * *
That night the Adwami celebrated their victory. Jatal thought it would be a subdued affair yet it proved far from it. The cheering and laughter among the gathered hetmen, chieftains and their picked lieutenants in the main tent was as heady as the wine. This had been their first real confrontation with the Thaumaturg forces and they had emerged victorious. Triumph in a few days’ time at the capital now seemed certain. Jatal joined in with the toasts but not the cheering and certainly not the laughter. A rigid polite smile was fixed at his lips and his eyes kept returning to two empty positions: neither Andanii nor the Warleader was in attendance. And who is this Warleader? An old vassal of the Thaumaturgs, obviously. Perhaps decades ago he led one of their countless expeditions into Ardata’s jungle abyss. Or perhaps as a dissatisfied general he rose in revolt against them. In any case, that mage certainly recognized him. Shouldn’t he share what he now knew with Andanii?
As the evening lengthened, Jatal could stand it no longer. He rose to his feet, waved off Ganell’s entreaties to remain, bowed to his closest allies among the Lesser families, and pushed aside the hanging flap to step out into the cool air of the night. A light rain now fell. A storm rumbled and muttered far off to the east. The tents cast shadows through the fading emerald glow of the Stranger as it arced, now frighteningly dragging its long tail after it.
He headed for Andanii’s tent. Long before he reached it, a massive fist took hold of his arm and pulled him aside. Jatal went for his sword. Another large hand pushed the blade back down into its sheath.
‘Cool your blood now, Prince,’ a low voice rumbled, muted.
Jatal squinted up at the concerned face of the Warleader’s second, Scarza. He dropped his gaze to the man’s hand at his arm. The hand was removed. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded.
‘I was thinking we could share a skin of wine and you could tell me all about the glorious victory which I was so negligent as to miss.’
Jatal peered past him to the alley between the tents leading off to the Vehajarwi encampment. Blinking, he squinted up at the half-Trell. ‘Where were you?’
‘Running and puffing along on my own two feet. I arrived after the battle. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?’
Jatal fought a smile, compressed his lips. ‘Another time, Scarza.’ He moved to pass but the big man interposed himself.
‘I did escort the Warleader to the princess’s tent,’ he said. ‘He brought his chest of phials and powders and exotic dusts. I’ve no doubt she’s dreaming pleasant dreams right now.’
‘And the Warleader?’
Scarza’s round face drew down. ‘Well, returned to his tent. Or watching over the progress of the patient.’
Jatal motioned up the lane. ‘Let me pass.’
‘Now, lad…’
‘Lad?’ Jatal sent his harshest glare.
Scarza scratched his unkempt mess of hair, sighing. ‘Ah, Prince,’ he sighed. ‘There’s no need…’
Jatal pushed past the man, who made no further effort to intervene. Jatal left him standing there, frowning down at the wineskin in his knotted hands, his thick brows crushed together and his lips pressed tight over his prominent tusks.
A picket of Vehajarwi knights stopped him before he reached the tent. Jatal recognized the captain of Andanii’s bodyguard. ‘What do you want, Hafinaj?’ this one demanded.
Jatal chose to overlook the failure to offer his full title. ‘I wish to offer my regards to the princess. And we have matters of command to discuss.’
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 304
