A ball of flames engulfed the Kolansii commander, raging wild, and from the cloudless sky above lightning crashed down, the impact thundering, flinging soldiers to the ground, the strike creating a vast hole in the ranks. Burnt flesh and parts of bodies rained down.
Three demons clawed up from the ground beneath the burning woman, their bodies covered in protruding mouths filled with dagger-length fangs, the talons on the ends of their fingers long as sabres, their heads swarming with coal-red eyes. Roaring, they lunged into the raging flames, tearing the commander to pieces.
Seeing all this, Grid Ffan shot a wild look back at his mages – saw them convulsed with laughter.
Fucking illusionists!
‘Tone it down, you fools! You want t’give it all away?’
Gill Slime and Asp Slither looked up, suddenly straight-faced.
‘Got anything else?’ Ffan demanded.
Both shook their heads.
‘Then get up here and fight!’
The Kolansii had recovered, were now pushing to close once again. And more were swinging round on the far side, forcing Sample and Hare Ravage to back up.
Swearing, Ffan worked up close to the Adjunct.
‘Sir! We need to fall back into the phalanx! Adjunct!’
When she did not reply – or even seem to hear him – he cursed and said to the sergeant beside him, ‘Grey, listen. We come up and around her, either side – we make us a wall so she can’t get past us. Shipwreck, go there – and you, Semk, right here – we’re going to force her back and into the ranks, understood?’
‘It’s the battle lust, sir!’ shouted Shipwreck, staggering drunkenly as was his way in moments of high excitement, when his damaged inner ear started acting up.
‘I know what the fuck it is, idiot. Now, let’s do this!’
Lostara Yil was being pulled away from the Adjunct’s flank – Henar Vygulf was hard pressed, now defending himself from attackers on two sides. The sudden arrival of the regulars had eased the threat, but only momentarily – there were simply too many of the bastards.
Sobbing, bearing countless wounds, Lostara Yil drew closer to her love.
Don’t die. Please. Don’t die
.
A sword blade clipped Henar’s head. He staggered, stunned.
Lostara screamed, now fighting blind to the threats pressing in around her, her gaze fixed on Henar.
The two regulars collapsed in to fend off the blows rushing down towards Henar. A woman and a man, the former Nathii, the latter
Seven Cities – she had never seen them before, but they fought the attackers to a standstill above her love, who’d dragged off his cracked helm, blood gushing down from a scalp wound, and was trying to regain his feet.
Lostara hacked down a Kolansii on her left, leapt over his crumpling form. The grace was gone now. Only brutal savagery remained. She opened another man’s throat.
The Nathii woman shrieked, a sword driven through her chest. Dropping her weapon she took hold of the arm gripping that sword, and pulled her attacker down as she fell. Her companion’s short sword licked out, cut through half his neck; the man was shouting, trying to drag Henar back to his feet, until an axe crushed the back of the regular’s head, through helm and bone, and flung him forward, limbs flopping. But Henar was on his feet once more – and Lostara reached his side. Just beyond, a row of faces: Malazan regulars, shouting from their line on the flank, screaming and beckoning.
Close! Hurry! Come to us!
Lostara spun round, blades whipping out. ‘Henar! To the ranks! Go!’
She saw the other regulars spilling back, all of them arrayed protectively round the Adjunct as they forced her towards the ranks. Ruthan Gudd and one huge regular were fighting to prevent the group from getting cut off, enveloped, but even they were being pushed back.
Take me, Cotillion! Please, I beg you! Take me!
But from her patron god … nothing. She twisted to her left, marched ahead to hold the enemy.
A dozen Kolansii rushed her.
The Khundryl had pushed as deep as they could into the press of heavy infantry. They had gone farther than Warleader Gall had thought possible. But now the horses were all dead, and so too the last of his warriors. But the advance had been blocked – bodies alone were enough to prevent the enemy from swinging round the Malazan wing – so now they were simply pushing inward, forcing the regulars into an ever-contracting formation.
A sword had ripped open everything below his ribcage. He was lying on his back, on the corpses of strangers and kin, his intestines spilled out and tangled round his legs.
Something was pulsing in the air – he could not be certain if it came from outside or from somewhere deep inside him.
No. Outside
. Voices, rising in rhythm, but he could not quite make out the word. Again and again, the sound rising and falling, coming from somewhere off to his right.
He found the pounding of his heart falling into that pulse, and warmth flowed through him, though he knew not the reason for it.
Darkness was drawing close.
That sound. That sound … voices. They are voices. Rising from the Malazans. What are they saying? What do they shout, again and again?
Abruptly, thick blood crackled in one ear, opened a way through, and he could at last hear the endlessly repeated cry.
‘
Khundryl! Khundryl! Khundryl!
’
A word for his fading heart, a song for his ending life.
Coltaine, I shall stand before you. We shall ride with your Wickans. I see crows over the Ancestral Hills
—
Sister Freedom strode forward as the huge Imass toppled. She kicked him on to his back, plunged her battered hands down, closed her fingers through torn, papery skin and ripped sinews, and took hold of his spine. She paused a moment, glaring at the one with the flint-studded harpoon who was rising yet again a few paces away.
The Forkrul Assail was a mass of wounds and broken bones, but she was far from dead. Bellowing, she lifted the T’lan Imass from the ground and broke his spine like a branch, twisting it amidst snapping, grinding sounds. Flinging the corpse away, she advanced on the last undead warrior.
‘This ends now!’
The female warrior backed away.
They were both down from the rise, down among heaps of bodies – cold flesh and thick, cooling blood underfoot, limbs that flopped away with each step.
Fury filled Freedom. At the murder of Brother Aloft. At the pathetic audacity and stubbornness of these T’lan Imass. At this army of foreigners who refused to break, who did nothing but die where they stood, killing her soldiers and killing yet more of them.
She would destroy them – soon, once this last Imass was crushed and torn apart.
She stepped over a dead horse-warrior, one boot cracking into the side of the man’s head.
The blow rang loud, and Gall opened his eyes. Blinked up at the sky.
I should be dead. Why am I not yet dead?
Behind him he heard someone speak. ‘Surrender to me, T’lan Imass. Your kin are all gone. There is no point in continuing this fight. Stand and I will destroy you. But I will give you leave to depart. Be done with this – it is not your battle.’
Gall reached down, took hold of a handful of his intestines, just
under his ribcage and tore it free. He groped, slicing open the palm of his hand on a discarded sword – a Kolansii blade, straight and tipped for thrusting.
A child’s toy. Not like my tulwar. But it will have to do
. He climbed to his feet, almost folded as a weight slipped behind his ribs and sternum – with his free hand he reached in, to hold everything up.
Turning, he found himself staring at the back of the Forkrul Assail. Beyond her stood a T’lan Imass, the one he knew to be named Nom Kala. Her left thigh had been shattered, bent and splintered, yet still she stood, her spear held at the ready.
Gall stepped forward, and drove the sword through the Forkrul Assail, through her spine. She arched in shock, the breath rushing from her.
The Khundryl fell back, his lungs slipping past his spread fingers to flop in his lap.
He was dead before his head hit the ground.
Nom Kala stepped forward. The Forkrul Assail’s eyes were wide, staring into her own. The T’lan Imass had been watching those eyes for what seemed an eternity, since the moment they had risen up from the ground beneath her. She had studied the malice and ferocity in that unhuman glare. She had witnessed the flares of pleasure and triumph each time the Assail had shattered another of her kin. She had seen their delight when breaking Kalt Urmanal’s spine.
But now there was a sword thrust through the Forkrul Assail, iron gleaming blue-red, and those eyes held nothing but astonishment.
Nom Kala took one more step closer. Then drove her harpoon into the bitch’s eye.
Hard enough to drive through, punching out the back of the Assail’s skull.
The Malazan army was crumbling. Driven back, pushed ever tighter inward, they left bodies heaped in ribboned mounds with every step they yielded. Joined by a stumbling Pores, Banaschar led the non-combatants – the children of the Snake and the Khundryl – as far back as they dared, but it was clear that the Kolansii sought only to annihilate the Bonehunters. All the heavy infantry now working round from the south were ignoring the huddled mass of unarmed onlookers.
Blistig was still fighting, a hard, defiant knot at the front of the centre phalanx. Banaschar could see Kindly, there on the right, doing the same. And Faradan Sort on his left. These three Fists, chosen by the Adjunct, simply refused to fall.
The ex-priest could no longer see Tavore, but something told him that she still stood – somewhere in the ranks on the south-facing line.
That attack, with the squad of regulars coming up to join it, had been … extraordinary.
And that magic was … ridiculous. But see that commander – lying dead. That’s real enough. Not much Assail blood in that one, to have succumbed to nothing but invented nightmares. Nice play, regulars
.
But it was all hopeless. All that he’d seen here, all that he’d witnessed.
He felt a presence to his right and turned to see Hanavat, and a step behind her and to one side, Rutt carrying the child. ‘Your husband – I am sorry,’ said Banaschar.
She shook her head. ‘He stopped them. They all did. And now – see? The Forkrul Assail herself has fallen.’
‘It was well fought, was it not?’
She nodded.
‘Tell me, have you named the child?’
Hanavat met his eyes. ‘I believed … what is the point? Until this moment. Until you spoke.’ Then her eyes fell from his. ‘Yet for the life of me, I cannot think of one.’
‘Gall?’
‘Gall bears but one face in my life, and so it shall ever be. Priest, I am lost.’
He could say nothing to that.
We are all lost
.
Banaschar faced the terrible battle once more, Hanavat upon one side with the boy and the baby, Pores upon the other. They looked on, silent.
To where the Bonehunters were dying. Every one of them.
The air swirling brittle with outrage, High Fist Ganoes Paran rode to the top of the ridge, Fist Rythe Bude at his side. Behind them the Host was drawing up at the trot – he did not need to look behind him, or listen to Bude’s desperate breaths, to know that they were exhausted.
That legion of heavy infantry had savaged them. Without Kalam and Quick Ben’s deadly antics, the High Watered who had commanded the Kolansii had proved a stubborn foe, refusing to yield to the inevitable – they had been forced to kill every last one of them before finally cutting down the commander.
And now his army was bleeding, dragging itself up the slope like a wounded dog.
They reached the rise and reined in.
Before them, the Bonehunters formed a crumbling core under sustained attack from three sides, and in moments the fourth side would be engulfed as well. Ganoes could barely comprehend the magnitude
of the slaughter he was seeing – corpses made low hills around the combatants, as orderly as the berms of an earthworks fortification.
Shock and horror tightened like a fist round his heart.
His sister’s army had been reduced to less than half a thousand, and they were falling fast.
‘High Fist—’
Rythe Bude’s mouth snapped shut when he spun to her and she saw his face. Paran swung his mount round as the first line of soldiers reached the summit. ‘To the edge! To this damned edge! Close up, damn you! Those are fellow Malazans dying down there! Look on them! All of you,
look on them!
’
His horse staggered beneath him, but he righted it with a savage sawing of the reins, then reached up and dropped the full visor over his face. Drew out his sword and rose in his stirrups as still more soldiers crowded the ridge.
‘Draw breath, you bastards! And
CHARGE!
’
As he and Fist Rythe Bude drove their mounts down the slope, Ganoes Paran angled close to her. ‘Into that flank – leave the south alone!’
‘Yes sir!’
‘Look for any mixed-bloods.’
The look she shot him was venomous. ‘Oh really, sir?’