‘Excuse me?’
‘The closer I got the uglier she looked. One of the many pitfalls in getting drunk at the full moon. Waking up to the horrors you’ve committed, and then having to live with them.’
There were two distinct tiers to the defences, and the closer one bore the standards of Kolanse. ‘Shriven auxiliaries,’ Paran said. ‘We’ll have to go through them to get to the Wolf army. Now that’s an unexpected complication.’
‘But you know, I loved that woman with all my might – she was my best wife, it turned out.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She inherited and left me for a prettier man. You see, she woke up that morning feeling the same horror as me, and the closer I got …’
‘Mathok, looks like we’re going to have a fight on our hands after all.’
‘Your words make me happy.’
‘We need to overwhelm and rout the Shriven. Then we can deal with the mercenaries. As it turns out,’ he added, collecting his reins, ‘that might be just what we need to convince them to surrender.’
‘There’ll be a Pure up there, High Fist. More fun for Kalam and your High Mage.’
‘We’ll draw up tonight. Mathok, your warriors won’t be much use if they stay mounted.’
The man shrugged. ‘Why do raiders ride horses, High Fist? Because it’s the quickest means of getting away.’
‘You’re not just raiders any more, Mathok.’
‘We’ll skirmish if that’s what you need, but we won’t like it. Now, that road, that’s a wide road, a military road. Clear the flanks and we can ride straight up it.’
‘Into the waiting teeth of those mercenaries? And uphill at that? I’ll
not see you wasted. Sorry, no matter how thirsty you are for blood, you may have to wait a while longer.’
The warrior grimaced and then shrugged. ‘We’re thirsty for blood, yes, but not if most of it is our own.’
‘Good,’ Paran grunted. ‘Keep your mob in check, that’s all I ask.’
Mathok was studying him in a peculiar fashion. ‘High Fist, I’ve heard a lifetime of tales about the Malazan army. And I’ve run from a few close calls in my day, ended up getting chased for weeks.’ He jutted his chin at the pass. ‘But this – even those Shriven look to be enough to not only stop us dead, but hurt us bad in the doing.’
‘Your point?’
‘I fear for the Host, that’s all.’
Paran nodded. ‘Come the morning, Mathok, find a high vantage point for you and your warriors. And I will show you everything you need to know about the Malazan army.’
Two turns of the sand after the sun had set, the Host drew up a short distance from the base of the pass. Beneath the luminous green glow of the Jade Strangers, the companies broke out into their bivouacs. Forward pickets were established, although no probes were expected from the enemy. Soldiers ate a quick meal, and then rested. Most slept, although a few attended to their weapons and armour, their leather harnesses, their shields and footwear. Trailed by Fist Rythe Bude, Paran walked among the camps, exchanging words here and there with those soldiers too charged up or nervous to sleep.
He had never expected to be commanding an army. He had never expected to take the place of Dujek Onearm. He thought often of that man, and took from Dujek all he could. The Host had known bad times. It deserved better, but Paran suspected that this sentiment was felt by every commander.
When he and Rythe Bude finally retired to the command tent, they found Kalam and Quick Ben awaiting them. It was two turns before dawn.
The assassin was wrapped in black muslin, pulling on his stained and worn leather gloves, and though he was wearing chain beneath the cloth, there was almost no sound while he paced. Quick Ben sat on the ground leaning back against a squat four-legged chest, his legs stretched out, his eyes half shut.
Paran stared down at the wizard. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Are you ready? Usually I can smell when there’s been magic going on, and I can’t smell a thing, High Mage.’
Quick Ben opened one eye to regard him. ‘If you can tell, High Fist, then so can the Pures up there. Trust me. We’re ready.’
Paran glanced across at Rythe, who simply shrugged in reply. He squinted at her. ‘Get some sleep, Fist.’
‘Yes sir.’
After she’d left, Paran stepped into Kalam’s path. Muttering an oath, the assassin halted. Bared his teeth and said, ‘You’re getting on my nerves, High Fist.’
Quick Ben spoke. ‘Do you have that card ready, High Fist?’
Paran nodded, edging to one side so that Kalam could resume pacing.
‘Good,’ said the wizard. He sat up, reached for a leather satchel lying beside him. Rummaged inside it for a moment and then drew out a crooked stick on which was tied an arm’s length of twine. One end of the stick had been hacked into something resembling a point. Quick Ben stabbed that end into the floor. Then he removed from his satchel two small balls of weighted, knotted cloth, one black, the other gold. He bound these to the string, moving them away from the stick until the twine stretched straight. ‘Kalam,’ he said, ‘it’s time.’
The assassin halted, shook himself like a bear.
Climbing to his feet, Quick Ben faced Paran. ‘Don’t you even blink, sir. Understand?’
‘I will be vigilant, High Mage,’ Paran assured him. ‘But you have me a little concerned here. What do you think awaits you?’
‘Beyond one or two Pure Forkrul Assail?’ Quick Ben snorted, and then scowled. ‘Not sure. Something.’
‘Let’s get on with this,’ Kalam growled.
Paran drew off his helm, set it down on the map table. In battle, he would attach the full face grille. It was an arcane piece, Untan, a gift from Rythe Bude, but he still wasn’t used to its full weight. Turning to face the two men he began, ‘I think we should—’ and then fell silent. He was alone in the tent. ‘Gods below, he’s good.’
Heart suddenly pounding, nips of pain flaring in his stomach, he drew out the wooden card Ormulogun had prepared. Studied it in the lantern light.
The first truly Malazan card for the Deck of Dragons. Artist, you did me proud
. A single misshapen, vaguely polished object in the centre of a dark field.
‘Behold,’ Paran said under his breath, ‘the Shaved Knuckle in the Hole.’
Invisible to all eyes, even those of the Pures, Kalam made his way silently up the cobbled road.
Well, hopefully invisible to the Pures. Either way, we’ll soon find out
. To his right and left now, deep foxholes where sentries stood, chests against the pit side, looking down on the foreign invaders. At their feet, the dull glow of signal lanterns. Past them, the first berms fronting the lead trench: mounded rocks and earth,
high enough to provide cover from arrows and quarrels, treacherous enough underfoot for the attackers to lose their balance and slow their charge.
The trenches themselves were solid with Kolanse soldiers, well armoured and armed with pikes. Seven paces behind them, higher up the slope, ran a long slit trench, stepped for the archers. They would loose their arrows at nearly point-blank range, over the heads of the first line of defenders and taking the Malazans at the top of the berm.
Kalam hoped that Paran’s damned card was working. He hoped that the High Fist was now seeing what he was seeing.
This could be brutal. There’s a decent commander up here, somewhere. Quick Ben – I don’t think this is the work of a Forkrul Assail. This has the feel of a professional campaigner. Probably the Wolves commander. I hope you’re thinking what I’m thinking
.
Hold on … mercenaries wearing wolf furs? No, couldn’t be them. Just some other bastards. Got to be
.
Two more tiers to match the lead line, with levelled ramps allowing for retreat, should the first trench be overrun. And plenty of reserves, positioned in three fortified camps just above the last tier. Kalam judged there to be at least six thousand Shriven here.
Glad I’m not you, Paran
.
Higher still, where at last Kalam thought he could see the summit’s edge, beyond which the pass levelled out. A massive stone gate straddled the road, with a low skirting wall above a moat stretching out to either side, effectively blocking the entire pass. And this area was well lit, revealing companies of heavy infantry. They were awake, divided into squads of ten, each squad forming a circle facing inward – the soldiers were praying.
Fanatics. That’s bad. We’ve seen this before, too many times. Surrender? Not a chance. Hold on
… They were still too far away for him to be certain. He looked for standards, but none were raised.
There
, a fully armoured soldier near the gate.
Gods below! Fucking Perish!
Kalam paused, his mind racing, sweat suddenly trickling beneath his garments.
They turned on us? Krughava? I can’t believe this – soldiers of the Wolves. Gods, who else could they have been? Kalam, you idiot. Hood take me, Hood take us all
.
But … if Krughava’s here, it’s no wonder the defences are bristling
.
All right, woman
. He began moving forward once more.
Betray us and you get what you deserve
.
The gateway was barred, with projecting spikes, all blackened iron. The lowest row of spikes, ankle-high, jutted a hand’s length beyond the higher ones, except for a matching row at eye level. There was a
lone Perish sentry standing behind the gate, visor lowered, heavy spear leaning against one shoulder.
Ten paces away, Kalam slipped down from the road, made his way along the drainage ditch, and down into the moat. At the bottom, short wooden spikes were jammed between sharp-edged rocks. The bank furthest from the wall was soaked in pitch.
Firewall. Nothing nice here, nothing at all. Hope you’re close, Quick Ben. Hope you know what I’m going to have to do here
.
He carefully picked his way across the moat. Waited a moment, and then whispered the chain-word the wizard had given him. Sudden weightlessness. Reaching up, he made his way up and over the wall. At he touched ground on the other side, the weightlessness faded.
Well, no alarm yet. So far, Quick’s promise of being able to hide magic seems to be holding
. Ahead, more guards, but widely spaced enough for the assassin to slip easily between them. He set out, made his way into the camp.
Past the squad circles, the soldiers still praying, to an empty marshalling area in the centre, and opposite it, two command tents, the one on the right surmounted by a wolf skull atop the centre pole.
Grey Helms all right. But … this can’t be all of them. Unless Tavore made them pay dearly for the treachery. But if she did, then she’s probably dead. She never got her chance
.
Well then. If vengeance is all we have left, let’s get started
…
The other tent was larger, of the same style as those in the besieging camp outside the keep. It was lit from within and two guards flanked the front flap, both Kolansii.
Drawing two throwing knives, Kalam advanced on them, moving fast. At five paces away, he raised both weapons and threw them simultaneously in a single fluid motion. Each found the base of a throat. Bodies buckled, blood splashing down, but before they could fall Kalam had reached them, grasping the knife grips to hold both men up before carefully settling them to the ground.
How much noise? Oh, who cares?
Leaving the daggers where they were, the assassin drew his two long knives, slashed the flap’s draw strings, and then bulled through.
He clearly caught the Pure by surprise – nothing stealthy or subtle in this approach after all – and collided hard with the Forkrul Assail. One long knife plunged deep directly beneath the heart. The other, moving up to slash across the throat, was blocked by a forearm hard as iron. Even as the Assail stumbled back, his hands lashed out.
The first blow caught Kalam high on his right shoulder, spinning him off his feet. The second one slammed into his chest on the left side, crushing chain, breaking at least two ribs and fracturing others. The
impact flung the assassin backwards. He rebounded from the tent wall to the left of the entrance.
Half stunned with pain, Kalam watched the Assail pull the long knife from his chest and fling it away.
‘Oh,’ he gasped, ‘did I make you mad?’
Snarling, the Assail advanced on him.
The ground disappeared beneath his feet. With a howl, the Pure plunged from sight. There followed a thud.
Quick Ben materialized just on the other side of the hole. Drew out a small round ball of black clay. Leaned over to peer down. ‘Compliments of the marines,’ he said, and dropped the ball.
The wizard had to lunge backward as a gout of fire shot from the hole, and all at once the tent ceiling was aflame, and Quick Ben was nowhere to be seen.
Swearing, Kalam retrieved his long knife – he’d somehow held on to the other one – and leapt for the entrance.
Rolling clear, groaning at the blinding agony exploding in his chest, he staggered to his feet. On all sides, Perish soldiers were rushing to the burning tent. He saw them drawing their swords.
‘Quick Ben! I’m invisible, right? Quick Ben!’
He heard a hiss: ‘
Sheathe that damned knife!
’
Hood’s breath!
Kalam spun and ran from the nearest attacker. Slammed the knife back into its scabbard. ‘Try again!’ he bellowed.