Return of the Crimson Guard (109 page)

Speaking of mages, Heuk was with them. A number of saboteur squads had been assigned cadre mages, though what use the old soak was going to be was beyond Nait. He pulled at his iron and leather brigantine – liberated from the quarter-master wagons by his light-fingered recruits. They too now sported better armour, as well: padded and layered leathers set with rings and studs, iron helmets, greaves and boiled leather vambraces. Too much armour, in truth. But they were young; if they lived long enough they'd come to find the proper balance between protection and weight.

Mixed League and Malazan cavalry patrolled the outlying edges of the field – too few to do anything more. Most of the field commanders had dismounted to stand with their battalions. At centre front the Sword standard threatened advance but never quite committed; waiting word from Laseen. Nait wondered how long that would last. What was the woman waiting for? Why not unleash the skirmishers, sound the advance? Mid-afternoon now and still no one had exchanged blows in anger.

A brown grasshopper landed on Nait's mailed sleeve and he blew to send it flying.
Get along, little fellow
–
things are about to get far too hot for the likes of you.
Untan militia fire, he noted, was thickening to the west flank. Some Guard Blade or line had pushed forward or done something and the irregulars responded. Now, seeing their brothers and sisters firing, more and more of the crossbowmen and women were popping up to fire. The flights of bolts became a constant pattering, then a darkening rain, thickened to a punishing storm.
This was how it would start: some inconsequential move would invite retaliation, would spur a countermove, would become an escalation in resources and before either side knew it they were committed.
Being utterly without personal delusions Nait knew he was a neophyte, but such a scenario of chaos, of blind forces groping at one another in the dark and reacting without thought, made sense when compared to what he'd seen so far. And
it would be dark soon enough –
shit! As if things couldn't get any worse! The dark! There's no way they'd be off this field before night.

Nait cast about for the cadre mage. ‘Heuk! Get up here!’ The old man appeared, greasy-haired, squinting. ‘What good you gonna do us anyway?’

Heuk shaded his eyes from the afternoon sun. ‘You pray you don't need me—’

‘Yeah, yeah. That's all we ever hear from you. Well, you know what I say? I say
bullshit!
We're gonna need everyone!’

The mage scanned the field from under his palm, bobbed his sour agreement. ‘I think you're right.’

‘So?’

‘So …’ he ducked back down into the thin trench, ‘wait for night.’

Nait restrained himself from tossing a shovelful of dirt on to the man. He kept one eye on the gathering firefight. From the unit absorbing the storm of bolts on the flank came twin arcs of flame that shot skyward then came crashing down, bursting into billowing orange-red infernos. In their wake arose swaths of flames as the sun-browned grasses took up the fires like the rarest of tinder. Skirmishers ran like ants from a kicked nest.

Nait squeezed himself down into the shoulder-width trench.
Lady save them, it's started. And things were not looking good.
‘Water!’ he bellowed. ‘Douse yourselves!’ He fought with shaking hands to unstop a bulging skin.

The popping of distant sharpers sounded: his cohorts punishing whichever mage that was –
as if he or she was still there!
Yet the pattern was now set. Mages would reveal themselves to smash any point of strength and the saboteurs would seek to stalk and hammer them. The hammering part Nait loved … but he wasn't too keen on that stalking part.
Gonna get hammered ourselves draggin’ our asses across this field. No
–
won't do.
‘Heuk!’

Jawl showed up, crouched above Nait, her long hauberk touching the ground down past her knees. ‘Do we have to keep diggin’? We've been diggin’ all the damned day. I mean, the fighting's startin’.’

‘Will you get down! Fire's comin’!’

‘Naw – it was snuffed out.’

Nait straightened. ‘What do you mean, “snuffed out”?’ He squinted out over the field. Plenty of smoke hanging in the still air but very little fire. Heuk had dragged himself over, hugging his tall brown earthenware jug. ‘What happened to the fire?’ Nait asked.

‘Put out by one of ours.’

‘We got one c'n do that?’

A shrug. ‘Sure. Sere Warren. Maybe Bala.’

‘Bala? Who's that?’

A rotten-toothed grin: Oh
you'll
know her when you see
her
.’

Jawl was still squatting next to the trench. Nait gave her a glare. ‘What in the name of Rotting Poliel are you doin’ there? Get to work! Keep diggin’ – it's what saboteurs do.’ The youth pulled a long face, sulked away. Nait studied Heuk. ‘Listen, I don't want to be run all over Hood's playground out there …’

‘Sound policy.’

‘But we need a way to spot the targets ‘n’ such. Can't you do anything to help us out?’

The mage lowered his greasy seamed face to the open top of his jug as if studying its depths. He looked up, winking. ‘I think I can maybe do that.’

Nait's brows rose.
Damn – we're gonna actually see some action out of this broken-down old fart?
‘So? Do it.’

‘Wait for night.’ And he ducked down.

Smartarse.
Nait studied the lines. The Sword standard kept edging forward yet not
quite
committing. The Guard lines remained immobile.
Why'd they put their backs to a cliff? True, they gotta hold the road to the bridge, but still
…
Neither side wants to get bloodied. We know there's Avowed waiting for us; and they're outnumbered more than four to one.

* * *

Shimmer could not believe the punishment these Untan irregulars were inflicting on her lines. They were like biting flies – or hornets – and her forces the blundering bhederin attempting to swat them. Something had to be done; how much longer must her men and women hold the line – no more than obliging targets?

Brethren!
She called within her thoughts to her fallen brother and sister Avowed.
Speak with Skinner. We must advance! Sweep the field of this threat! We cannot delay any longer.

Your concerns shall be conveyed,
came the distant response.

Concerns? Her tactical judgment no more than a concern? Was she not second in command?

Skinner warns you to put aside your panic. These pests shall be dealt with in good time.

Panic!
Panic!
She took hold of the grip of her long whips word. Who did he think he was? She almost set out from her flank commander
position to confront the man, but refrained knowing she could not abandon her post.
Damn him! Well, she would act, even if he wouldn't! Brethren! Orders for Smoky, Twisty and Shell: you are given leave to punish those skirmishers – and keep moving!

Orders shall be conveyed.

Damn right they will be conveyed. Skinner may have no regard for the third investiture common soldiers of the lines – but she was going to do everything she could to protect the men and women of her command!

Orders acknowledged.

Good. Now those pests will be made leery of approaching her flank!

Moments later a great sheet of flame arose across the intervening field and began sweeping north. Distant figures writhed, caught in the sudden eruption. The great mass of skirmishers recoiled, fleeing. The wedge of fire broadened, swelling, a runaway grass fire threatening to engulf the entire field. Then, just as suddenly, the flames were snuffed, as they had been before.
Who in the Queen's Mysteries was that mage?
The irregulars crept forward once more, began targeting her lines where her soldiers hunched behind shields.
Damn, they're brave bastards!
Sudden wails of surprise and alarm – the barrage stuttering, thinning. Twisty and Shell at work. Less showy than Smoky but just as effective. She could imagine Twisty ruining their weapons, Shell softening the ground beneath their feet. Enough to send them running.

Something flashed across her vision then. Men and women of her bodyguard fell, one clutching at a bolt in her neck, another in his chest. Cold iron punched into Shimmer's back and she spun, pinned the attacker's arm and struck, crushing the man's throat.
Claws! Two full Hands!
Another crouching figure aimed and she ducked; a bolt sang overhead. She leapt, rolling to take the woman down, clasped her head and twisted, breaking the neck. She stood, drawing long-knives from her belt and something struck her, a wave of pressure that when it passed left her surroundings darkened, quiet. Suddenly it was dusk, the sky colourless. The field remained but now stretched empty.
Shadow!
She spun, found what she searched for: the mage some distance off. Ignoring the pain of the thrust in her back, she made for him.

Shadows closed, coalesced before her. She pushed through. Something clutched her throat, cutting off her breath. She felt at her neck but found nothing.
Shadows throttling her! How to
… She fought to breathe but nothing came. Her lungs charred. Her chest
tightened in a rising frenzied panic. But still through the blurring haze she saw him, the Claw mage, and she made for him. Amazingly the man did not move; he watched her advance with disbelief in eyes that widened and widened as she closed. The shadows tightened like a hangman's noose. She felt her pulse throbbing, clenched off.

‘No
…
impossible
…’ the man breathed, astounded.

A more thorough briefing may have been required regarding the Avowed,
Shimmer reflected as she swung, slitting his throat in one slash, then she fell, her vision blackening.

Brethren! I join you
…

* * *

Olo sat smoking his pipe, lying back in his skiff, his arms crossed, legs out, hat pulled down over his eyes against the sinking late afternoon sun. ‘Boatman,’ someone called, ‘for hire?’ His boat rocked slightly, and he roused, reluctantly.

‘What?’ A fat man in rich dark-blue robes stood on the dock peering down at him, a strange unnerving grin on his thick lips. Olo stared back, suspicious. What in the God of a Thousand Faces was a rich fellow like this doing hailing him? He looked like some kind of eunuch or functionary from the Empress's court. Was he lost? ‘Ah, what can I do for you?’

‘Use of your craft, good boatman, to take me across the harbour.’

‘Across? You mean to the spice and silk docks p'chance?’

‘No. I mean straight across. West.’

Olo sat up straighter, glanced over, shading his gaze. ‘But there's nothing there

‘My concern, do you not think?’ and the fellow produced a gold coin. Olo goggled at the coin then held out a hand. The man tossed it. It felt hefty enough, not that he'd held many gold Imperial Suns in his life. ‘Be my guest.’

Whoever he was, the man was at least familiar with the water as he smoothly eased himself down on to the light craft of hand-adzed planks. Olo readied the oars, pushed away from the dock. ‘Been quiet since the attack and the Empress leaving, hey?’

‘Yes.’

‘A course, she took all of Unta with her, didn't she!’ and he laughed.

Silence. Olo cast a quick glance to his passenger, found him moodily peering aside, a slight frown of puzzlement wrinkling his pale face. Olo squinted as well: the fellow appeared to be watching
a shoal of clustered leaves bobbing in the waves. Old prayer offerings. Not a man for small talk, obviously. Olo rowed on, taking a moment to pull down his loose woollen hat. A bottle of Kanese red maybe, and that Talian girl – the one who was so full of herself. Or maybe rice-piss for as many days as he could stomach it. And thinking of that – Olo shot a quick look to his self-absorbed passenger, pulled out a gourd and took a quick nip.

‘What
are
you up to, Mael?’

Olo gasped, choking. ‘Me sir? Nothing, sir! Just a touch thirsty ‘s all.’