'Did they get into any fighting?'
'Only at the north gate — breaking through the siege line. Swiftly done. There are none wounded, Ben Adaephon Delat. Making your tribe unique, yes?'
'So I see,' Quick Ben murmured, watching the warriors filing into the camp. 'Not much duelling of late, I take it.'
The sticksnare grunted. 'True enough. Our gods have spoken to our shamans, who have in turn conveyed to the clan warriors a … chastisement. It would appear that the White Faces are not yet done with these Pannions — or with your war, Wizard.'
Quick Ben glanced down. 'You'll be marching south with us, Talamandas?'
'We shall. It is not enough blunting the sword — we must sever the hand wielding it.'
'I need to contact my allies … in the army to the west. Should I attempt a warren?'
'I am ready.'
'Good. Let's find somewhere private.'
Two leagues to the west of Capustan, in the shadows edging down a broad slope, the massed ranks of Malazan heavy infantry locked shields and advanced. Marines armed with crossbows ranged ahead, firing quarrels into the milling line of Betaklites less than thirty paces distant.
Whiskeyjack watched through the slits of his helm's visor from where he had reined in at the hill's crest, his horse tossing its head at the smell of blood. Aides and messengers gathered around him.
Dujek's flank attack on the Septarch's regiment of archers had virtually eliminated the whizzing flight of arrows from the valley side opposite. Whiskeyjack's heavy infantry had drawn their fire, which had provided Onearm's heavy cavalry the time needed to mount a charge along the north slope. Had the Pannion archers the discipline — and competent commanders — they would have had time to wheel in formation and loose at least three flights at the charging cavalry, perhaps sufficient to beat off the attack. Instead, they had milled in confusion upon seeing the horsewarriors closing on their right flank, then had disintegrated into a rout. Pursuit and wholesale slaughter followed.
The marines slipped back through aisles in the advancing heavy infantry. They would reappear on each wing, resuming their crossbow-fire against the enemy line's edges. Before then, however, four thousand silent, scale- armoured and shield-bearing veterans closed with the Betaklites. Javelins preceded their charge when but a dozen paces remained, the long-headed, barbed spears cutting into the Pannion line — a tactic peculiar to Onearm's Host — then thrusting swords snapped from scabbards. And the Malazans surged forward.
The Betaklite line crumpled.
Whiskeyjack's heavy infantry reformed into individual four-squad wedges, each one independently driving deeper into the Pannion ranks once the battle was fully joined.
The details before the commander were precise in following the Malazan doctrine of set battles, as devised by Dassem Ultor decades past. Shield-locked lines and squares worked best in defending engagements. When delivering chaos into massed enemy ranks in an assault, however, it was found that smaller, tighter units worked best. A successful advance that drove the enemy back often lost its momentum, and, indeed, its contact with the retreating foes, amidst a corpse-cluttered ground and the need to maintain closed ranks. Almost a thousand four- squad wedges, of thirty-five to forty soldiers each, on the other hand, actually delayed the moment of rout. Flight was more difficult, communication problematic, and lines of sight to fellow soldiers often broken — none knew what the others were doing, and in the face of that uncertainty, they often hesitated before fleeing — a fatal option. There was another choice, of course, and that was to fight, but it took a very special army to be capable of maintaining such discipline and adaptability in those circumstances, and in those instances the Malazan forces would hold their shield-locked formation.
These Betaklites possessed none of these qualities. Within fifty heartbeats, the division was shattered. Entire companies, finding themselves surrounded by the silent, deadly Malazans, flung their weapons down.
This part of the battle, Whiskeyjack concluded, was finished.
A Saltoan messenger rode up to Whiskeyjack's side. 'Sir! Word from the warlord!'
Whiskeyjack nodded.
'The Ilgres Barghast and their Rhivi skirmishers have broken the Seerdomin and Urdomen. There was a Mage Cadre active in the engagement, at least at the start, but the Tiste Andii nullified them. Brood owns the field on the south flank.'
'Very good,' Whiskeyjack grunted. 'Anything else?'
'Sir, a well-aimed slingstone from a Rhivi gave Septarch Kulpath a third eye — killed the bastard outright. We are in possession of his army's standard, sir.'
'Inform the warlord that the Betaklites, Beklites, Scalandi and Desandi companies have been defeated. We command the centre and north. Enquire of the warlord as to our next move — my scouts inform me that upwards of two hundred thousand Tenescowri are encamped half a league to the east. Rather mauled by all accounts, yet potentially a nuisance. At the same time — and on this Dujek and I are agreed — an unmitigated slaughter of these peasants would not sit well with us.'
'I will convey your words, Commander.' The messenger saluted, swung his horse round, and rode southward.
A slash of darkness opened before Whiskeyjack, startling his horse and those of the riders nearest him. Snorting, stamping, the beast came close to rearing until a low growl from Whiskeyjack calmed it. His retinue managed the same.
Korlat emerged from her warren. Her black armour glittered with blood-spray, but he saw no obvious wounds. None the less …
'Are you injured?'
She shook her head. 'A hapless Pannion warlock. Whiskeyjack, I need you to come with me. Are you done here?'
He grimaced, ever loath to leave a battle — even one drawing to a quick, satisfying conclusion. 'I'll assume it's important — enough to have you risk your warren — so the answer is yes. Do we go far?'
'To Dujek's command tent.'
'He's taken wounds?'
'No. All is well, you old worrier,' she said, cracking a smile. 'How long would you have me wait?'
'Well enough,' he growled. He turned to an officer sitting on a roan destrier nearby. 'Barack, you're in charge here.'
The young man's eyes widened. 'Sir, I'm a captain-'
'So here's your chance. Besides, I'm a sergeant — at least I would be if I was still drawing coin on the Empress's paylists. Besides again, you're the only officer present who doesn't have his or her own company to worry about.'
'But sir, I am Dujek's liaison to the Black Moranth-'
'And are they here?'
'Uh, no sir.'
'So, enough jawing and make sure things get wrapped up here, Barack.'
'Yes, sir.'
Whiskeyjack dismounted and handed the reins of his charger to an aide, then joined Korlat. He resisted an urge to draw her into his arms, and was disconcerted to see a glimmer of prescient knowledge in her eyes.
'Not in front of the troops, surely,' she murmured.
He growled. 'Lead me through, woman.'
Whiskeyjack had travelled a warren only a few times, but his memories of those fraught journeys did little to prepare him for Kurald Galain. Taking him by the hand, Korlat drew him into the ancient realm of Mother Dark, and though he could feel the sure grip of her fingers, he stepped into blindness.
No light. Gritty flagstones under his boots, the air perfectly motionless, scentless, with an ambient temperature that seemed no different from that of his skin.
He was pulled forward, his boots seeming to barely touch the floor.
A sudden streak of grey assaulted his eyes, and he heard Korlat hiss: 'We are assailed even here — the Crippled God's poison seeps deep, Whiskeyjack. This does not bode well.'
He cleared his throat. 'No doubt Anomander Rake has recognized the threat, and if so, do you know what he
