maybe the Wickan Plains-'
'Both. The standard was challenged, I see. You lost a friend in defending it.'
The man blinked, then glanced around until he focused on the Seventh's standard. The pikeshaft leaned to one side, its tattered banner bleached into ghost colours by the sun. 'Hood's breath,' the man growled. 'Think we'd fight to save a piece of cloth on a pole?' He gestured at the body his friends knelt around. 'Nordo took two arrows. We held off a squad of Semk so he could die in his own time. Those bastard tribesmen snatch wounded enemies and keep 'em alive so's they can torture 'em. Nordo wasn't gettin' none of that.'
Duiker was silent for a long moment. 'Is that how you want the tale told, soldier?'
The man squinted some more, then he nodded. 'Just like that, Historian. We ain't just a Malazan army any more. We're Coltaine's.'
'But he's a Fist.'
'He's a cold-blooded lizard.' The man then grinned. 'But he's all ours.'
Smiling, Duiker twisted in his saddle and studied the battle at the line. Some threshold of spirit had been crossed. The Semk were broken. Dying by the score with three legions of supposed allies sitting motionless on the slopes behind them, they had carved out the last of zeal in the holy cause — at least for this engagement. There would be curses and hot accusations in the enemy camps this coming night, Duiker knew.
Once again, it was not to be the Whirlwind's day.
Coltaine did not let his victorious army rest as the afternoon's light sank in the earth. New fortifications were raised, others reinforced. Trenches were dug, pickets established. The refugees were led out onto the stony plain west of the ford, their tents arranged in blocks with wide avenues in between. Wagons loaded with wounded soldiers were moved into those avenues, and the cutters and healers set to work.
The livestock were driven south, to the grassy slopes of the Barl Hills — a weathered, humped range of bleached rock and twisted jackpine. Drovers supported by riders of the Foolish Dog Clan guarded the herds.
In the Fist's command tent, as the sun dropped beneath the horizon, Coltaine held a debriefing.
Duiker, with the now ever-present Corporal List standing at his shoulder, sat wearily in a camp chair, listening to the commanders make their reports with a dismay that slowly numbed. Lull had lost fully half his marines, and the auxiliaries that had supported him had fared even worse. The Weasel Clan had been mauled during the withdrawal — a shortage of horses was now their main concern. From the Seventh, captains Chenned and Sulmar recounted a seemingly endless litany of wounded and dead. It seemed that their officers and squad sergeants, in particular, had taken heavy losses. The pressure against the defensive line had been enormous, especially early in the day — before support had arrived in the form of the Red Blades and the Foolish Dog Clan. The tale of Baria Setral and his company's fall rode many a breath. They had fought with demonic ferocity, holding the front ranks, purchasing with their lives a crucial period in which the infantry was able to regroup. The Red Blades had shown valour, enough to earn comment from Coltaine himself.
Sormo had lost two of his warlock children in the struggle against the Semk wizard-priests, although both Nil and Nether survived. 'We were lucky,' he said after reporting the deaths in a cool, dispassionate tone. 'The Semk god is a vicious Ascendant. It uses the wizards to channel its rage, without regard for their mortal flesh. Those unable to withstand their god's power simply disintegrated.'
'That'll cut their numbers down,' Lull said with a grunt.
'The god simply chooses more,' Sormo said. More and more he had begun to look like an old man, even in his gestures. Duiker watched the youth close his eyes and press his knuckles against them. 'More extreme measures must be taken.'
The others were silent, until Chenned gave voice to everyone's uncertainty. 'What does that mean, Warlock?'
Bult said, 'Words carried on breath can be heard … by a vengeful, paranoid god. If no alternative exists, Sormo, then proceed.'
The warlock slowly nodded.
After a moment Bult sighed loudly, pausing to drink from a bladder before speaking. 'Kamist Reloe is heading north. He'll cross at the river mouth — Sekala town has a stone bridge. But to do so means he loses ten, maybe eleven days.'
'The Guran infantry will stay with us,' Sulmar said. 'As will the Semk. They need not stand toe to toe to do us damage. Exhaustion will claim us before much longer.'
Bult's wide mouth pressed into a straight line. 'Coltaine has proclaimed tomorrow a day of rest. Cattle will be slaughtered, the enemy's dead horses butchered and cooked. Weapons and armour repaired.'
Duiker lifted his head. 'Do we still march for Ubaryd?'
No-one answered.
The historian studied the commanders. He saw nothing hopeful in their faces. 'The city has fallen.'
'So claimed a Tithansi warleader,' Lull said. 'He had nothing to lose in telling us since he was dying anyway. Nether said he spoke truth. The Malazan fleet has fled Ubaryd. Even now tens of thousands of refugees are being driven northeast.'
'More squalling nobles to perch on Coltaine's lap,' Chenned said with a sneer.
'This is impossible,' Duiker said. 'If we cannot go to Ubaryd, what other city lies open to us?'
'There is but one,' Bult said. 'Aren.'
Duiker sat straight. 'Madness! Two hundred leagues!'
'And another third, to be precise,' Lull said, baring his teeth.
'Is Pormqual counterattacking? Is he marching north to meet us halfway? Is he even aware that we exist?'
Bult's gaze held steady on the historian. 'Aware? I would think so, Historian. Will he march out from Aren? Counterattack?' The veteran shrugged.
'I saw a company of Engineers on my way here,' Lull said. 'They were weeping, one and all.'
Chenned asked, 'Why? Is their invisible commander lying on the bottom of the Sekala with a mouthful of mud?'
Lull shook his head. 'They're out of cussers now. Just a crate or two of sharpers and burners. You'd think every one of their mothers had just croaked.'
Coltaine finally spoke. 'They did well.'
Bult nodded. 'Aye. Wish I'd been there to see the road go up.'
'We were,' Duiker said. 'Victory tastes sweetest in the absence of haunting memories, Bult. Savour it.'
In his tent, Duiker awoke to a soft, small hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to darkness.
'Historian,' a voice said.
'Nether? What hour is this? How long have I slept?'
'Perhaps two,' she answered. 'Coltaine commands you to come with me. Now.'
Duiker sat up. He'd been too tired to do more than simply lay his bedroll down on the floor. The blankets were sodden with sweat and condensation. He shivered with chill. 'What has happened?' he asked.
'Nothing, yet. You are to witness. Quickly now, Historian. We have little time.'
He stepped outside to a camp quietly moaning in the deepest hour of darkness before the arrival of false dawn. Thousands of voices made the dreadful, gelid sound. Wounds troubling exhausted sleep, the soft cries of soldiers beyond the arts of the healers and cutters, the lowing of livestock, shifting hooves underscoring the chorus in a restless, rumbling beat. Somewhere out on the plain north of them rose faint wailing, wives and mothers grieving the dead.
As he followed Nether's spry, wool-cloaked form down the twisting lanes of the Wickan encampment, the historian was drawn into sorrow-laden thoughts. The dead were gone through Hood's Gate. The living were left with the pain of their passage. Duiker had seen many peoples as Imperial Historian, yet among them not one in his recollection did not possess a ritual of grief.
'Nether, why do the Wickans not grieve this night?'
She half turned as she continued walking. 'Coltaine forbids it.'
