sharpened points that had been drilled into them day after day, month after month.
Loose pieces of iron rattled and the timbers thrummed with the advance. Archers upon the walls and within, filling the interior of the camp, aimed skyward, arrows nocked. All eyes went to Martal, arm poised, waiting. The arm cut down. A great hiss momentarily drowned out the thunder of the horses’ hooves. The salvo arched overhead, denser and darker than the constant cloud cover, to descend, cutting a swath through the centre and rear ranks of the cavalry. But the front ranks were spared and these charged onward, lances levelling.
The front chevron ploughed into the thick rectangle of men and women. Ivanr witnessed the front two or three, in places up to four, ranks disappear beneath the iron and bone and relentless momentum, but the formation absorbed all that terrifying punishment and held. A second wave now hit home but with less energy as all the carnage and litter of fallen horses and defenders impeded them. Countless horses went down, tripping and stumbling upon the gore.
A cheer went up from the Reform camp but it was short-lived as bow-fire now raked everyone: the hired crossbow and archer companies had advanced to support the charge. This time the cavalry did not wheel away to re-form; they remained, dropping lances and spears to unsheathe swords. A melee broke out and Ivanr had to stop himself from jumping the wall to join in. This could not be allowed. The pike men and women were at too much of a disadvantage. Many wore no armour at all.
But a new element had entered the field. Some sort of horde of irregular infantry armed haphazardly with spears and billhooks and scythes and lengths of wood had taken the left flank and were advancing across the centre. They mobbed the cavalry as they went. Ivanr had taken up a shield and he raised it now overhead to stand as tall as possible — the city! Damned civilians had taken to the field in the thousands! While he watched, this undisciplined mass took the cavalry from the rear to exact a bloody and thorough revenge. Men and women, young and old, pulled nobles in banded armour from their mounts to jab daggers through joints and visors. The merciless bloodthirst reminded Ivanr of the village he’d passed through and he had to look away. Around him the Army of Reform cheered its unlooked-for allies. Even those nobles who surrendered, throwing down their weapons — and probably expecting to be held for ransom — found themselves dragged off their mounts and torn to pieces. By this time the mob was turning its attention to the distant Imperial encampment and panic stirred among those bright pennants and gaily decorated tents.
He descended the wall to join the camp followers and Reform archers pouring out on to the field. His remaining guards followed him. He shook countless hands, squeezed countless shoulders, and lost all tentativeness in blessing all those who asked. The black armoured figure of Martal had remained upon the wall but when Ivanr looked back she was gone. What would the story be, he wondered. Succumbed to her wounds this night? A sudden turn for the worse?
In the carnage of the field he found no prisoners. He knelt to a wounded girl, a pike wielder, one of many in the brigades; it had been his experience that what women may lack in raw brute strength they more than made up in spirit, bravery and dedication to the unit. Her leg had been shattered at the thigh, trampled by a horse. She was white with shock and blood loss. All he could do was hold her muddied hand while the life drained out of her. He brushed the wet hair from her face. ‘We won,’ he told her. ‘You won. It’s over. Finished.’ Through the numbing fog of shock she smiled dreamily, nodding. She mouthed something and he knelt, straining to hear.
‘Kill them all…’
He flinched away, and looking up he saw a familiar figure. It was the old pilgrim, Orman, leaning upon his crooked staff. Now, however, a crowd of civilians surrounded him and he was quite obviously in charge. Orman bowed to him. ‘Greetings, Deliverer.’
‘You appear to be the deliverer this day.’
A modest bow of his balding, sweaty pate. ‘Ring city is ours. Your example turned the tide.’
‘I see.’ Now he understood Sister Gosh’s words. This day the struggle had been to win something much more important than a mere battle. The confidence of a people? When does the movement become the institution? The rebel, the ruler? When comes that tipping point? It seemed it could happen without one even noticing. The cynical twist on Ivanr’s lips fell away and he lowered his voice. ‘About Martal…’
Orman nodded. ‘I know. I’ve been in contact all this time. It is up to you now, Ivanr. You carry our banner.’
‘No.’ He glanced down: the girl was dead. Gently, he lowered her head then stood. But the old man would not be put off. His gaze had hardened, unnerving him.
‘Yes. You have no choice now.’
‘You won’t like it.’
The old man bowed. ‘It is not for me to judge. You are the Deliverer.’
‘Then stop the killing. There’s been more than enough of that.’
Orman bowed again. ‘I will give the order. But there are risks. The people want revenge. There are enthusiasts who call for the cleansing of all followers of the Lady-’
‘No. None of that!’
The old man’s tongue emerged to wet his lips. He adjusted his grip on the staff, uneasy. ‘I will do my best to enforce your wishes, Deliverer.’
‘Do so.’ Ivanr dismissed him and went to visit Martal’s tent. What was going on there? Had that final rumour been unleashed already? Surrounded now by thousands of cheering jubilant veterans of the Army of Reform, he suddenly felt completely, and terribly, alone.
The much diminished fleet of Moranth Blue dromonds and mixed Falaran and Talian men-of-war made good time westward across the Fall Strait and up the Narrows, or Crack Strait. Strong constant winds off the Ocean of Storms allowed them to make the journey in two days and two nights. Poring over the antique maps of the region, Nok and Swirl argued for a landing further west, towards Elri, but Greymane was adamant: the landing had to be south of Kor, hard up against the Barrier Mountains. The Admirals finally appealed to Devaleth, but she could not help them. ‘I really do not know this shore,’ she had to admit. ‘Though I have heard it is rugged.’
Nok pushed himself from the low table of his stateroom. ‘There you have it. Unsuitable for a landing, I’m sure.’
‘Especially one that may be contested,’ Swirl added.
But Greymane would not budge. ‘It must be here. We are coming up on it. The landing must go ahead.’ He looked to the last member of Command present: Fist Khemet Shul. ‘Strike inland, take control of the highlands. Use them as your base. Retreat to Katakan, if necessary.’
The squat man nodded. The lamplight reflected gold from his bald blunt head. ‘I understand.’
Devaleth looked from face to face: the two reluctant Admirals, the flat uninflected Fist, and the growling, coiled High Fist. She wanted to scream: How can you do this? But she knew she’d be dismissed out of hand. Best to swallow her dread, follow along, and do the most she could to ameliorate the certain disaster to come.
‘That is all, then,’ Greymane said, crossing his arms. ‘A dawn assault.’
Fist Shul saluted. ‘Sir.’ Bowing, he left to see to his preparations.
Devaleth bowed as well. ‘I’ll try to get some rest, then.’
The three wished her a good sleep. When she pulled the door to the stateroom closed, Admiral Nok was making tea.
Outside, Devaleth leaned on a gunwale railing. It was after midnight, and they were passing the last of the Barrier range rising north of them into the night like a distant set of ragged teeth. The sea was calm though the winds were high. And those winds chilled her, coming directly off the Ocean of Storms and bearing a hint of the Riders themselves.
As tentatively as possible she opened up to passively reach for her Ruse Warren. The response almost overwhelmed her. Raw churning power taut with anticipation. Something is coming. Ruse senses it, or carries it like the gravid swelling of power before its release. What is it? Our destruction? Whatever it might be it is immense; there is power here for the taking — more than I’d ever dare to take, or even suspected flowed there for the taking.
Drawing back, what frightened her the most was the dread that before tomorrow was over, she may be driven to reach for it.
The day dawned with the fleet approaching the coast on a wide front. From the side of Admiral Nok’s flagship, the Star of Unta, it looked to Devaleth as if these Malazans and Moranth had used up all their tricks and
