He stood, alone on the platform, and waited to see what would come.
Grainy-eyed from lack of sleep, Ganoes Paran walked until he was opposite the disordered mob. This was always the problem, he reflected, when trying to manage four hundred sloppy, unruly marines. The hard eyes, the weathered faces, the sense that they were all half wild and straining at the leash. To make matters worse, this lot slouched before him on this chill morning were, one and all, sappers.
Paran glanced back to the mass of wooden crates laid out behind him. There were no guards stationed around them. This entire gathering was taking place two hundred paces north of the camp’s edge.
With good reason
. He felt a trickle of sweat work its way down his spine.
Facing the sappers once more, and with a glance at Noto Boil, and then Captain Sweetcreek who stood well off to one side, Paran cleared his throat, and began. ‘I am well aware of your frustration – I held you back from the keep defences, set you to doing repairs and nothing else. I dare say your swords are rusted in their scabbards by now …’ Paran paused, but saw no reaction from them, not a smile, not a nod. He cleared his throat again. ‘I decided that it would be to our tactical
advantage to withhold you sappers, along with your particular … talents, for as long as possible.’
There was not a sound from the assembled troops, and all eyes were fixed on Paran. He glanced again at Noto Boil. The man was standing a few paces behind and off to one side, fish-spine moving up and down in his mouth. Staring back at the sappers.
Sighing, the High Fist resumed. ‘In retrospect, perhaps I should have delayed my raid on that Moranth warehouse, and not just for reasons of safety, though as I am sure you all know, the Moranth are very efficient and careful when storing munitions. Nonetheless, transporting them in bulk and overland entails undeniable risks. Fortunately, here we are.’ And he gestured behind him. ‘And there
they
are.’
He had been waiting for a heightening of tension, a stirring of anticipation. The first of broadening smiles, soldiers finally straightening to attention, even. Instead … Paran’s gaze narrowed.
Nothing
.
I might as well be describing the weather. What’s wrong with them?
Thought they respected me. Thought that maybe I’d finally earned the rank I was saddled with. But now … feels like it was all a sham
.
‘You may be pleased to know that your waiting is at an end. This morning, you will avail yourselves of these munitions, and return to your squads. The marines will lead the assault. You are to break the defences and, if possible, advance to the second trench. This assault must be rapid and sustained …’ His words trailed away as he caught something at the corner of his eye.
Standing in the front row off to his right, where the sun’s light slanted across unobstructed, a grizzled corporal, his broad, flat face seamed with scars visible even from where the High Fist stood. Paran squinted at the man. Then he gestured to Noto Boil. The cutter walked over, pulling the spine from his mouth.
‘Noto Boil,’ Paran said in a low tone.
‘Sir?’
‘Walk over to that corporal – that one there – and take a closer look, and then report back to me.’
‘Is this a test?’
‘Just do it.’
The cutter reinserted the spine and then headed over to halt directly in front of the corporal. After a moment, he swung round and made his way back.
‘Well?’ Paran demanded.
Noto Boil removed the spine. ‘The man is crying, High Fist.’
‘He’s crying.’
‘So it seems, sir.’
‘But …
why
is he crying?’
Noto Boil turned back to regard the corporal once more. ‘Was just the one tear. Could be anything.’
Swearing under his breath, Paran marched over to stand before the corporal. The marine’s stare was fixed straight ahead. The track of that lone tear, etching its way down from his right eye, was already dulled with grit and dust. ‘Something in your eye, Corporal?’
‘No sir.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘No sir.’
‘You’re trembling.’
The eyes flicked briefly in their thinned slits, locked for an instant with Paran’s own. ‘Is that so? Didn’t know that, sir. Beggin’ your pardon.’
‘Soldier, am I blocking your view?’
‘Yes sir, that you are, sir.’
Slowly, Paran edged to one side. He studied the sapper’s face for a half-dozen heartbeats, and then a few more, until …
oh, gods below!
‘I thought you said you weren’t sick, Corporal.’
‘I’m not, sir.’
‘I beg to differ.’
‘If you like, sir.’
‘Corporal.’
Another flicker of the eyes. ‘Sir?’
‘Control yourselves. Be orderly. Don’t blow any of us up. Am I understood?’
A quick nod. ‘Aye, sir. Bless you, sir.’
Startled, Paran’s voice sharpened, ‘
Bless
me?’
And from the mob of sappers came a muttered chorus, echoing the corporal’s blessing. Paran stepped back, struggled for a moment to regain his composure, and then raised his voice. ‘No need to rush – there’s plenty for everyone.’ He paused upon hearing a faint whimper, then continued, ‘In one turn of the sand I want you back with your squads. Your sergeants have been apprised of this resupply so you can be sure that the word has gone out. By the time you get back to them they will all have done with their prayers, sacrifices, and all the rest. In other words, they’ll be ready for you. The advance begins two turns of the sand from now. That is all.’
He set off, not looking back.
Noto Boil came up alongside him. ‘High Fist.’
‘What?’
‘Is this wise? That’s more munitions than any of them has ever seen.’
‘In those crates are just the sharpers, burners and smokers. I haven’t even let them
see
the cussers and redbolts—’
‘Excuse me, sir, the
what
bolts?’
‘It turns out, Noto, that there exists a whole class of munitions exclusive to the Moranth. Not for export, if you understand me. Through a card I was witness to the demonstration of some of them. These ones, which I have called redbolts, are similar to onager bolts. Only they do not require the onager.’
‘Curious, High Fist. But if you haven’t shown them to any sapper yet, how will anyone know how to use them?’
‘If we need to fight the Perish, well, it’s possible that a crash course will be necessary. For the moment, however, why distract them?’
They were approaching the camp edge, where two companies of regulars and heavies were assembled, one to either side of the cobbled road. Between them and awaiting their arrival was Fist Rythe Bude.
Noto Boil said, ‘One more question, sir.’
Paran sighed. ‘What?’
‘Those cussers and redbolts, where did you hide them?’
‘Relax. I made my own warren for them – well, to be more precise, I walled off a small area in a different warren, accessible only to me, via a card.’
‘Ormulogun?’
‘Excuse me? Did he paint the card? Of course.’
‘Did he use a funny red slash, sir? Like lightning, only the colour of blood?’
Paran frowned. ‘Redbolt symbol, yes. How did you know that?’
Noto Boil shrugged. ‘Not sure, sir. Seen it somewhere, I suppose. No matter.’
Corporal Stern wiped at his eyes. Crates were being cracked open, the sappers working quickly. He scanned the remaining boxes, swore under his breath, and then turned. ‘Manx, get over here.’
The Dal Honese shaman waddled over. ‘Just what we figured! Only the small stuff. That bastard don’t trust us.’
Stern grunted. ‘You idiot.
I
don’t trust us. But listen, if we—’
Manx held up a hand in front of Stern’s face. ‘Got it covered. See?’
The corporal tilted his head back, studied the tattoo blazoned across the hand’s palm. A blood-red jagged slash. ‘That’s it? That’s all you need?’
‘Should do. We made sure the toad described it in detail.’
‘Right. Has he recovered?’
‘Well, we roasted him a bit crispy here and there, but he’ll survive. It all kind of went wrong for a bit – I mean, we had ’em both trussed up, and we figured just threatening the toad would be enough to make the artist break down and talk. We was wrong. In fact, it was Ormulogun
who suggested the roasting bit – never seen the old lunatic happier. We thought they was friends—’
‘Be quiet, will you? You’re babbling. I don’t care what happened, so long as you didn’t kill either of them.’
‘They’re alive, I told you. Trussed up and gagged for now. We’ll let ’em go later.’
Stern looked round, raised his voice, ‘Sappers! Leave room for a cusser or two!’
‘Ain’t no cussers, Stern.’
‘Never mind that. It’s taken care of. Now let’s get this done – and carefully. We make a mistake here and we don’t take none of the bad guys with us on the way out, and that’ll send our souls to the fiends of the Sapper’s Torment for ever – and nobody wants that, do they?’
A sudden hush, a renewed attention to caution, and here and there, a few subtle gestures warding against the curse of the Sapper’s Torment.
Satisfied, Stern nodded. ‘Manx, stay close to me from now on.’
‘We ain’t never used one of those redbolts, Stern.’
The man grunted. ‘Show me a munition I can’t figure out and I’ll show you the inside of the Cobra God’s nose.’
Manx shot him a look. ‘Figured you had north Dal Hon blood in you.’
‘What’s in my blood don’t matter. I just know that when a sapper steps on to the field of battle, they’d be wise to call on every god they ever heard of.’
‘Amen and a spit in the eye t’that.’
Stern hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Amen and a spit in the eye back. Now, you ready? Good. Let’s go find our squad. The sarge is gonna love this.’
‘No he ain’t!’
‘Sarge loves what I tell him to love, Manx. Credo of the Sapper’s Knuckle.’
‘“Who’s holding the sharper?” Aye, Sapper’s Knuckle. Hey, Stern.’
‘What?’
The shaman was grinning. ‘See what this means? Us sappers. We’re back to what we never were but could’ve been, and don’t that taste sweet?’
‘It’s only sweet if we don’t mess this up. Now pay attention where you’re stepping. I seen gopher holes.’
‘Ain’t gophers, Stern. These are prairie dogs.’
‘Whatever. Stick a foot in one of those and we all go up.’
Commander Erekala could feel the wind freshening, down from the north, funnelling up the narrow approach to the pass. Carried on that
breeze was the smell of iron, leather, sweat and horses. Sister Staylock stood at his side, with a half-dozen messengers stationed behind them should commands need to be sent down to the flag stations positioned along the wall.
The enemy forces were shaking out, seething motion all along the front lines. The medium and heavy infantry that had been positioned there in solid ranks since dawn were now splitting up to permit new troops to move forward in ragged formation. These newcomers bore no standards, and most of them had their shields still strapped to their backs. From what Erekala could make out, they were armed with crossbows and short swords.
‘Skirmishers?’ asked Staylock. ‘They don’t look light on their feet, Commander – some of them are wearing chain. Nor are they forming a line. Who are these soldiers?’
‘Marines.’
‘They appear … undisciplined, sir.’
‘It is my understanding, Sister Staylock, that against the Malazan marines the armies of the Seven Holy Cities had no counter. They are, in fact, unlike any other soldier on the field of battle.’
She turned to eye him quizzically. ‘Sir, may I ask, what else have you heard about these marines?’
Erekala leaned on the rail. ‘Heard? Yes, that would be the word.’
They were advancing now, broken up into squads of eight or ten, clambering steadily over the rough ground towards the first trench, where waited masses of Shriven – Kolansii regulars. Solid enough soldiers, Erekala knew. Proficient if not spectacular, yet subject to the sorcery of the Forkrul Assail. Without the Pure, however, there would be no power sufficient to unleash in them any battle frenzy. Still, they would not buckle so long as the mixed-blood commanders held their nerve.
‘I don’t understand you, sir.’
He glanced across at her. ‘The night of the Adjunct’s disengagement from the docks of Malaz City, Sister – where were you stationed?’
‘The outer screen of ships, sir.’
‘Ah. Do you recall, did you by chance happen to hear thunder that night – from the island?’
Frowning, she shook her head. ‘Sir, for half that night I was in my sling, fast asleep.’
‘Very well. Your answer, Sister, is not long in coming, I fear.’
Thirty rough and broken paces below the first berm now, the squads thinning out, those wielding crossbows raising their weapons.
On the Shriven side, the pikes angled down, readying for the enemy to breach the top of the berm. The iron points formed a bristling wall. From the second trench the archers had moved up, nocking arrows but
not yet drawing. Once the Malazans reached the ridge line, coming into direct line of sight, the arrows would hiss their song, and as the first line of bodies tumbled, the archers would begin firing in longer arcs – to angle the arrows down the slope. And the advance would grind to a halt, with soldiers huddling under their shields, seeking cover from the rain of death.