The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (313 page)

‘Commander,’ Brood grated, ‘we had never intended Moon’s Spawn to launch a pre-emptive strike on Coral in order to gain advantage over our presumed allies. The timing we have held to has been towards a combined effort.’

‘And Dujek still agrees with you, Warlord. As do I. Tell me, has Crone managed to get close to Coral?’

‘She attempts to do so yet again.’

‘And she will likely be driven back once more. Meaning, we’ve no intelligence as to the preparations being made against us. If the Pannion Seer or his advisers have even a modicum of military acuity, they will have set up a trap for us – something we cannot help but march into by virtue of drawing within sight of Coral’s walls. Warlord, our Black Moranth have delivered Captain Paran and the Bridgeburners to within ten leagues of the city, to make a covert approach and so discover what the Pannions have devised. But the Bridgeburners alone are not sufficient to counter those efforts, whatever they may be. Thus, Dujek leads six thousand of the Host, delivered by the Black Moranth, with the intention of destroying whatever the Pannions have planned.’

‘And why in Hood’s name should we believe you?’ Kallor demanded. ‘You’ve done nothing but lie – since the very beginning.’

Whiskeyjack shrugged once more. ‘If six thousand Malazan soldiers are sufficient to take Coral and destroy the Pannion Domin, then we have seriously overestimated our enemy. I don’t think we have. I think we’re in for a fight, and whatever advantage we can achieve beforehand, we will likely need.’

‘Commander,’ Brood said, ‘the Pannion forces are augmented by Mage Cadres, as well as these unnatural condors. How does Dujek hope to defend against them? Your army has no sorcerors to speak of.’

‘Quick Ben’s there, and he’s found a means to access his warrens without interference. Secondly, they have the Black Moranth to challenge for control of the skies, and a respectable supply of munitions. But I will grant you, it might not be enough.’

‘You might see more than half your army slaughtered, Commander.’

‘It’s possible, Warlord. Thus, if it is agreeable to you, we should now make all haste to Coral.’

‘Indeed,’ Kallor snarled. ‘Perhaps we’d be better off to leave the Pannions to exhaust themselves destroying Dujek and his six thousand, and
then
we arrive. Warlord, hear me. The Malazans have fashioned their own potentially fatal situation, and now come begging that we relieve them of the cost. I say, let the bastards rot.’

Korlat sensed that Kallor’s judgement reached through to Brood. She saw the warlord hesitate. ‘A rather petty response,’ she sniffed. ‘Stained by emotion. Therefore, probably tactically suicidal on all our parts.’

Kallor wheeled. ‘
You,
woman, cannot pretend to objectivity! Of course you’d side with your lover!’

‘If his position was untenable, I most certainly would
not,
Kallor. And there lies the difference between you and me.’ She faced Caladan Brood. ‘I now speak for the Tiste Andii accompanying your army, Warlord. I urge you to hasten our march to Coral, with the aim of relieving Dujek. Commander Whiskeyjack has arrived with sufficient barges to effect a swift crossing to the south shore. Five days of quickmarch will bring us within sight of Coral.’

‘Or eight days at a normal pace,’ Kallor said, ‘ensuring that we arrive well rested. Is Onearm’s Host so overrated that they cannot hold out an extra three days?’

‘Trying a new tack?’ Orfantal asked Kallor.

The grey warrior shrugged.

Brood’s breath hissed between his teeth. ‘He now speaks with reasoned consideration, Tiste Andii. Five days, or eight. Exhausted, or rested and thus capable of engaging the enemy at once. Which of the two is more tactically sound?’

‘It could mean the difference between joining a sound, efficacious force and finding naught but chopped up corpses,’ Whiskeyjack said. He shook himself. ‘Decide what you will, then. We will leave you the barges, of course, but my forces will cross first – we’ll risk the exhaustion.’ He swung about and gestured towards Artanthos who had remained on the barge. The standard-bearer nodded, reached down and collected a half-dozen signal flags, then set off towards the stern.

‘You anticipated this,’ Kallor hissed, ‘didn’t you?’

That you would win the day, yes, I think he did.

Whiskeyjack said nothing.

‘And so, your forces reach Coral first, after all. Very clever, bastard. Very clever indeed.’

Korlat stepped up to Brood. ‘Warlord, do you hold to your faith in the Tiste Andii?’

The huge man frowned. ‘To you and your kin? Aye, of course I do.’

‘Very well, then we will accompany Commander Whiskeyjack, Humbrall Taur and their forces. And so represent your interests. Orfantal and I are Soletaken – one of us can if need be bring swift word back to you, either of peril, or of betrayal. Further, our presence might well prove decisive should it be necessary to effect Dujek’s withdrawal from an unwinnable engagement.’

Kallor laughed. ‘The lovers rejoined, and we are asked to bow before false objectivity—’

Orfantal took a step towards Kallor. ‘That was the last insult you will deliver to the Tiste Andii,’ he said quietly.

‘Stop!’ bellowed Caladan Brood. ‘Kallor, know this: I hold to my trust in the Tiste Andii. Nothing you can say will shake that faith, for it was earned centuries ago, a hundredfold, and not once betrayed. Your loyalty, on the other hand, I begin to doubt more and more …

‘Beware your fears, Warlord,’ Kallor growled, ‘lest you make them true.’

Brood’s response was so low Korlat barely heard it. ‘You now taunt me, Kallor?’

The warrior slowly paled. ‘What would be the value of that?’ he asked quietly, tonelessly.

‘Indeed.’

Korlat turned to her brother. ‘Call our kin, Orfantal. We shall accompany the commander and warchief.’

‘As you say, sister.’ The Tiste Andii pivoted, then paused and studied Kallor for a long moment, before saying, ‘I think, old man, when all this is done …

Kallor bared his teeth. ‘You think what?’

‘That I will come for you.’

Kallor held his smile in answer, but the strain of the effort was betrayed by a twitch along one lined cheek.

Orfantal set off towards the waiting horses.

Humbrall Taur’s deep laugh broke the tense silence. ‘And here we’d thought you’d be bickering when we arrived.’

Korlat faced the barge – and met Whiskeyjack’s gaze. He managed a drawn smile, revealing to her the pressure he had been feeling. But it was what she saw in his eyes that quickened her heart. Love and relief, tenderness … and raw anticipation.

Mother Dark, but these mortals live!

*   *   *

Riding side by side at a gentle canter, Gruntle and Itkovian reached the causeway and approached the platform. The sky was paling to the east, the air cool and clear. A score of Rhivi herders were guiding the last of the first three hundred bhederin onto the railed ramp.

A few hundred paces behind the two men, the second three hundred were being driven towards the causeway. There were at least two thousand bhederin to follow, and it was clear to Gruntle and Itkovian that, if they wished to lead their companies across the river any time soon, they would have to cut in.

The Malazans had built well, each barge carrying broad, solid ramps that neatly joined bow to bow, while the sterns had been designed to fit flush once the backwash guards had been removed. The bridge they formed when linked was both flexible where required, and secure everywhere else, and it was surprisingly wide – capable of allowing two wagons to travel side by side.

Commander Whiskeyjack and his companies of the Host had crossed the river more than fifteen bells ago, followed by Humbrall Taur’s three clans of Barghast. Gruntle knew that Itkovian had hoped to see and meet with both men once again, in particular Whiskeyjack, but by the time they’d come within sight of the river, Malazan and Barghast were both long gone.

Caladan Brood had encamped his forces for the night on this side of River Maurik, rousing his troops three bells before dawn. They had just completed their crossing. Gruntle wondered at the disparity of pace between the two allied armies.

They reined in among the Rhivi herders. A tall, awkward-looking man who was not Rhivi stood off to one side, watching the bhederin thump their way across the first barge to hoots and whistles from the drivers.

Gruntle dismounted and approached the lone man. ‘Mott Irregulars?’ he asked.

‘High Marshal Sty,’ the man replied with a lopsided, toothy grin. ‘I’m glad you’re here – I can’t understand these little guys at all. I’ve been trying real hard, too. I guess they’re speaking a different language.’

Gruntle glanced back at Itkovian, expressionless, then faced the High Marshal once more. ‘So they are. Have you been standing here long?’

‘Since last night. Lots of people have crossed. Lots. I watched them put the barges together. They were fast. The Malazans know wood, all right. Did you know Whiskeyjack was apprenticed as a mason, before he became a soldier?’

‘No, I didn’t. What has that got to do with carpentry, High Marshal?’

‘Nothing. I was just saying.’

‘Are you waiting for the rest of your company?’ Gruntle asked.

‘Not really, though I suppose they’ll show up sooner or later. They’ll come after the bhederin, of course, so they can collect the dung. These little guys do that, too. We’ve had a few fights over that, you know. Tussles. Good-natured, usually. Look at them, what they’re doing – kicking all that dung into a pile and guarding it. If I get any closer, they’ll pull knives.’

‘Well, then I’d suggest you not get any closer, High Marshal.’

Sty grinned again. ‘There’d be no fun, then. I ain’t waiting here for nothing, you know.’

Itkovian dismounted and joined them.

Gruntle swung to the herders, spoke in passable Rhivi, ‘Which of you is in charge here?’

A wiry old man looked up, stepped forward. ‘Tell him to go away!’ he snapped, stabbing a finger at High Marshal Sty.

‘Sorry,’ Gruntle replied with a shrug, ‘I can’t order him to do anything, I’m afraid. I’m here for my legion and the Grey Swords. We’d like to cross … before the rest of your herd—’

‘No. Can’t do that. No. You have to wait. Wait. The bhederin don’t like to be split up. They get nervous. Unhappy. We need them calm on the crossing. You see that, don’t you? No, you have to wait.’

‘Well, how long do you think that will take?’

The Rhivi shrugged. ‘It will be done when it is done.’

The second three hundred bhederin rumbled their way up the causeway. The herders moved to meet them.

Gruntle heard a meaty thud, then the Rhivi were all shouting, racing back. The Daru turned in time to see High Marshal Sty, the front of his long shirt pulled up around a hefty pile of dung, run full tilt past, onto the ramp, then thump down the length of the barge.

A single Rhivi herder, who had clearly been left to guard the dung, lay sprawled beside the looted heap, unconscious, the red imprint of a large, bony fist on his jaw.

Gruntle grinned over at the old herder, who was jumping about, spitting with fury.

Itkovian moved up alongside him. ‘Sir, did you see that?’

‘No, alas, just the tail end.’

‘That punch came out of nowhere – I did not even see him step close. The poor Rhivi dropped like a sack of … of—’

‘Dung?’

After a long moment – so long that Gruntle thought it would never come – Itkovian smiled.

*   *   *

Rain clouds had rolled in from the sea, the rain driven on fierce winds, each drop striking iron helms, shields and leather rain-cloaks with enough force to shatter into mist. The abandoned farmland on all sides vanished behind a grey wall, the trader road churned to clinging mud beneath hooves, wagon wheels and boots.

Water sluicing down through his visor – which he had lowered in an only partially successful attempt to keep the rain from his eyes – Whiskeyjack struggled to make sense of the scene. A messenger had called him back from the vanguard, shouting barely heard words concerning a broken axle, the train halted in disarray, injured animals. At the moment, all he could make out was a mass of mud-covered soldiers scrambling, slipping, knotting ropes and shouting inaudibly to each other, and at least three wagons buried to their axles on what had once been the road but had since turned into a river of mud. Oxen were being pulled clear on the far side, the beasts bellowing.

He sat on his horse, watching. There was no point in cursing the fickle vagaries of nature, nor the failure of over-burdened wagons, nor even the pace which they all laboured under. His marines were doing what needed to be done, despite the apparent chaos. The squall was likely to be shortlived, given the season, and the sun’s thirst was fierce. None the less, he wondered which gods had conspired against him, for since the crossing not a single day of this frantic march had passed without incident – and not one of those incidents had yielded mercy to their desires.

It would be two more days, at the very least, before they reached Coral. Whiskeyjack had received no communication from Quick Ben since before Maurik, and the wizard, Paran and the Bridgeburners had been still half a night’s travel from Coral’s environs at that time. He was sure they had reached the city by now, was equally certain that Dujek and his companies were even now closing in for the rendezvous. If a battle was to come, it would be very soon.

Whiskeyjack swung his horse round, nudged the weary beast along the track’s edge to return to the vanguard. Night was fast approaching, and they would have to stop, at least for a few bells. He would then have some precious time alone with Korlat – the rigours of this march had kept them apart far too often, and while he and Korlat held to the belief that her Lord, Anomander Rake, could not yet be counted out, she had assumed the role of commander among her Tiste Andii kin in all respects – cold, remote, focused exclusively on the disposition of her brothers and sisters.

They were, under her direction, exploring Kurald Galain, their Warren of Darkness, drawing upon its power in an effort to purge it of the Crippled God’s infection. Whiskeyjack had seen, upon their short-lived, infrequent reappearances, the cost borne by Orfantal and the other Tiste Andii. But Korlat wanted Kurald Galain’s power within reach – without fear of corruption – by the time battle was joined at Coral.