The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (827 page)

Among the Awl, in the midst of jostling, stumbling Edur, heavy cutting swords appeared as lances were shattered, splintered or left in bodies. In screaming frenzy, the savages were hacking down on all sides.

Horses went down, kicking, lashing out in their death-throes. Spears stabbed upwards to lift Awl warriors from their saddles.

The square was seething madness.

And horses continued to go down, whilst others backed, despite the shrieking commands of their riders. More spears raked riders from their saddles, crowds closing about individuals.

All at once, the Awl were seeking to withdraw, and the Edur warriors began pushing, the square's flanks advancing in an effort to enclose the attackers.

Someone was screaming at Brohl Handar. Someone at his side, and he turned to see one of his runners.

Who was pointing westward with frantic gestures.

Bluerose cavalry, forming up.

Brohl Handar stared at the distant ranks, the sun-lashed lance-heads held high, the horses' heads lifting and tossing, then he shook himself. ‘Sound close ranks! The square does not pursue! Close ranks and let the enemy withdraw!'

Moments later, horns blared.

The Awl did not understand. Panic was already among them, and the sudden recoiling of those now advancing Edur struck them as an opportunity. Eager to disengage, the horse-warriors sprang away from all contact – twenty paces – archers twisting in their saddles to loose arrows – forty, fifty paces, and a copper-faced officer among them yelling at his troops to draw up, to reform for another charge – and there was thunder in the west, and that warrior turned in his saddle, and saw, descending upon his milling ranks, his own death.

His death, and that of his warriors.

Brohl Handar watched as the commander frantically tried to wheel his troops, to set them, to push the weary, bloodied beasts and their equally weary riders into a meeting charge – but it was too late. Voices cried out in fear as warriors saw what was descending upon them. The confusion redoubled, and then riders were breaking, fleeing—

All at once, the Bluerose lancers swept into them.

Brohl Handar looked down upon his Arapay –
Sister Shadow, but we have been wounded.
‘Sound the slow advance!' he commanded, stepping forward and drawing his sword. ‘We will finish what the Bluerose have begun.'
I want those bastards. Every damned one of them. Screaming in pain, dying by our blades!

Something dark and savage swirled awake within him. Oh, there would be pleasure in killing. Here. Now.
Such pleasure.

 

As the Bluerose charge rolled through the Awl cavalry, a broad-bladed lance caught Natarkas – still shrieking his commands to wheel – in the side of the head. The point punched through low on his left temple, beneath the rim of the bronze-banded helm. It shattered that plate of the skull, along with his cheekbone and the orbit of the eye. Then drove still deeper, through brain and nasal cavity.

Blackness bloomed in his mind.

Beneath him – as he toppled, twisted round when the lance dragged free – his horse staggered before the impact of the attacker's own mount; then, as the weight of Natarkas's body rolled away, the beast bolted, seeking a place away from this carnage, this terror.

All at once, open plain ahead and two other riderless horses racing away, heads high in sudden freedom.

Natarkas's horse set off after them.

The chaos in its heart dwindled, faded, fluttered away with every exultant breath the beast drew into its aching lungs.

Free!

Never! Free!

Never again!

 

On the seabed, the heavy infantry wedges advanced beneath the now constant hail of descending arrows. Skittering on raised shields, glancing from visored helms, stabbing down through gaps in armour and chance ricochets. Soldiers cried out, stumbled, recovered or sought to fall – but these latter were suddenly grasped by hands on either side and bodies closed in, keeping them upright, feet now dragging as life poured its crimson gift to the churned mud below. Those hands then began pushing the dead and the dying forward, through the ranks. Hands reaching back, grasping, tugging and pulling, then pushing into yet more waiting hands.

Through all of this, the chant continued, the wait beat marked each settling step.

Twelve paces from the Awl on their islands of dry, able now to see into faces, to see the blazing eyes filled with fear or rage.

This slow advance could not but unnerve the waiting Awl. Human spear-heads, edging ever closer. Massive iron fangs, inexorably looming, step, wait, step, wait, step.

And now, eight paces away, arrow-riddled corpses were being flung forward from the front ranks, the bodies sprawling into the mud. Shields followed here and there. Boots settled atop these things, pushing them into the mud.

Bodies and shields, appearing in a seemingly unending stream.

Building, there in the last six strides, a floor of flesh, leather, wood and armour.

Javelins sleeted into those wedges, driving soldiers back and down, only to have their bodies thrust forward with chilling disregard. The wounded bled out. The wounded drowned screaming in the mud. And each wedge seemed to lift itself up and out of the mud, although the cadence did not change.

Four steps. Three.

And, at a bellowing shout, the points of those enormous wedges suddenly drove forward.

Into human flesh, into set shields, spears. Into the Awl.

Each and every mind dreamed of victory. Of immortality. And, among them all, not one would yield.

The sun stared down, blazing with eager heat, on Q'uson Tapi, where two civilizations locked throat to throat.

One last time.

 

A fateful decision, maybe, but he'd made it now. Dragging with him all the squads that had been in the village, Fiddler took over from some of Keneb's more beat-up units the west-facing side of their turtleback defence. No longer standing eye to eye with that huge Letherii army and its Hood-cursed sorcerers. No, here they waited, and opposite them, drawing up in thick ranks, the Tiste Edur.

Was it cowardice? He wasn't sure, and from the looks he caught in the eyes of his fellow sergeants – barring Hellian who'd made a temporarily unsuccessful grab at Skulldeath, or more precisely at his crotch, before Primly intervened – they weren't sure, either.

Fine, then, I just don't want to see my death come rolling down on me. Is that cowardly? Aye, by all counts it couldn't be anything but. Still, there's this. I don't feel frightened.

No, all he wanted right now, beyond what Hellian so obviously wanted, of course, all he wanted, then, was to die fighting. To see the face of the bastard who killed him, to pass on, in that final meeting of eyes, all that dying meant, must have meant and would always mean…
whatever that was, and let's hope I do a better job of letting my killer know whatever it is – better, that is, than all those whose eyes I've looked into as they died at my hand. Aye, seems a worthy enough prayer.

But I ain't praying to you, Hood.

In fact, damned if I know who I'm praying to, but even that doesn't seem to matter.

His soldiers were digging holes but not saying much. They'd received a satchelful of munitions, including two more cussers, and while that wasn't nearly enough it made it advisable to dig the holes where they could crouch for cover when those sharpers, cussers and all the rest started going off.

All of this, dammit, assumed there would be fighting.

Far more likely, magic would sweep over the Malazans, one and all, grabbing at their throats even as it burned away skin, muscle and organs, burned away even their last desperate, furious screams.

Fiddler vowed to make his last scream a curse. A good one, too.

He stared across at the rows of Tiste Edur.

Beside him, Cuttle said, ‘They don't like it neither, you know.'

Fiddler replied with a wordless grunt.

‘That's their leader, that old one with the hunched shoulders. Too many paying him too much attention. I plan to take him out, Fid – with a cusser. Listen – are you listening? As soon as that wave of magic starts its roll, we should damn well up and charge these bastards.'

Not a bad idea, actually. Blinking, Fiddler faced the sapper, and then nodded. ‘Pass the word, then.'

At that moment one of Thom Tissy's soldiers jogged into their midst. ‘Fist's orders,' he said, looking round. ‘Where's your captain?'

‘Holding Beak's hand, somewhere else,' Fiddler replied. ‘You can give those orders to me, soldier.'

‘All right. Maintain the turtleback – do not advance on the enemy—'

‘That's fucking—'

‘Enough, Cuttle!' Fiddler snapped. To the runner he nodded and said, ‘How long?'

A blank expression answered that question.

Fiddler waved the idiot on, then turned once more to stare across at the Tiste Edur.

‘Damn him, Fid!'

‘Relax, Cuttle. We'll set out when we have to, all right?'

‘Sergeant?' Bottle was suddenly crawling out of the hole he'd dug, and there was a strained look on his face. ‘Something…something's happening—'

At that moment, from the ridge to the east, a blood-chilling sound – like ten thousand anchor chains ripping up from the ground, and there rose a virulent wall of swirling magic. Dark purple and shot through with crimson veins, black etchings like lightning darting along the crest as it rose, higher, yet higher—

‘Hood's balls!' Cuttle breathed, eyes wide.

Fiddler simply stared. This was the sorcery they'd seen off the north coast of Seven Cities. Only, then they'd had Quick Ben with them. And Bottle had his – he reached out and pulled Bottle close. ‘Listen! Is she—'

‘No, Fid! Nowhere! She's not been with me since we landed. I'm sorry—'

Fiddler flung the man back down.

The wall heaved itself still higher.

The Tiste Edur along the western edge of the killing field were suddenly pulling back.

Cuttle yelled,
‘We need to go now! Fiddler! Now!'

Yet he could not move. Could not answer, no matter how the sapper railed at him. Could only stare, craning, ever upward. Too much magic. ‘Gods above,' he muttered, ‘
talk about overkill.
'

Run away from this? Not a chance.

Cuttle dragged him round.

Fiddler scowled and pushed the man back, hard enough to make the sapper stumble. ‘Fuck running, Cuttle! You think we can out-run
that
?'

‘But the Edur—'

‘It's going to take them too – can't you see that?'
It has to – no-one can control it once it's released – no-one.
‘Those Hood-damned Edur have been set up, Cuttle!'
Oh yes, the Letherii wanted to get rid of their masters – they just didn't want to do it with us as allies. No, they'll do it their way and take out both enemies at the same damned time…

 

Three hundred paces to the west, Hanradi stared up at that Letherii magic. And understood, all at once. He
understood
.

‘We have been betrayed,' he said, as much to himself as to the warriors standing close by. ‘That ritual – it has been days in the making. Maybe weeks. Once unleashed…'
the devastation will stretch for leagues westward
.

What to do?

Father Shadow, what to do?
‘Where are my K'risnan?' he suddenly demanded, turning to his aides.

Two Edur hobbled forward, their faces ashen.

‘Can you protect us?'

Neither replied, and neither would meet Hanradi's eyes.

‘Can you not call upon Hannan Mosag? Reach through to the Ceda, damn you!'

‘You do not understand!' one of the once-young K'risnan shouted. ‘We are – all – we are all abandoned!'

‘But Kurald Emurlahn—'

‘Yes! Awake once more! But we cannot reach it! Nor can the Ceda!'

‘And what of that
other
power? The chaos?'

‘Gone! Fled!'

Hanradi stared at the two warlocks. He drew his sword and lashed the blade across the nearest one's face, the edge biting through bridge of nose and splitting both eyeballs. Shrieking, the figure reeled back, hands at his face. Hanradi stepped forward and drove his sword into the creature's twisted chest, and the blood that gushed forth was almost black.

Tugging the weapon free, Hanradi turned to the other one, who cowered back. ‘You warlocks,' the once-king said in a grating voice, ‘are the cause of this. All of this.' He took another step closer. ‘Would that you were Hannan Mosag crouched before me now—'

‘Wait!' the K'risnan shrieked, suddenly pointing eastward. ‘Wait! One gives answer! One gives answer!'

Hanradi turned, eyes focusing with some difficulty on the Malazans – so overwhelming was the wave of Letherii magic that a shadow had descended upon the entire killing field.

Rising from that huddled mass of soldiers, a faint, luminous glow. Silver, vaguely pulsing.

Hanradi's laugh was harsh. ‘That pathetic thing is an answer?' He half raised his sword.

‘No!' the K'risnan cried. ‘Wait! Look, you stupid fool!
Look!
'

And so he did, once again.

And saw that dome of silver light burgeoning, spreading out to engulf the entire force – and it thickened, became opaque—

The last K'risnan clutched at Hanradi's arm. ‘Listen to me! Its power – Father Shadow!
Its power!
'

‘Can it hold?' Hanradi demanded.
‘Can it hold against the Letherii?'

He saw no answer in the K'risnan's red-rimmed eyes.

It cannot – look, still, it is tiny – against that ever-growing wave—