Kruppe threw his arms out in vexation.
Sliding one arm ahead of the other, the Legate began to chuckle. As he crawled, the chuckle swelled into a muffled dark laughter.
Kruppe backed away. He tucked the handkerchief into a sleeve and set his hands on his hips. His dimpled cheeks pulled down in an uncertain frown.
*
Torvald stood immobile, listening as intently as he could. He felt as if his nerves were as taut as those annoying high-pitched Seven Cities stringed instruments. He believed he could discern a lessening in the clash of battle. Did that mean one side or the other was winning? Exactly what was going on? From their vantage they could see only a small portion of the overall extent of the front. Galene still held the baton ready in one hand but he saw her stance shift as if she, too, sensed the change.
‘Something …’ he began, but she raised a hand for silence.
A Black trooper ran to them from the woods. Torvald pushed closer to hear the report.
‘The Seguleh have withdrawn to the interior,’ he announced.
Galene examined the blasted field dotted with fallen. ‘Why would they … Our numbers?’ she snapped.
‘Less than three hundred of the flight remain viable.’
‘
‘Perhaps seventy.’
‘Then why … One last charge …’
‘Perhaps,’ Torvald observed, breaking in, ‘someone could go and ask.’
And Galene turned to look him up and down.
*
‘It is very quiet,’ Councillor D’Arle whispered from his post next to the stairs up from the lowest of the cellars. ‘Perhaps I should take a look.’
Coll rested a hand on the old man’s arm. ‘I’ll go.’ He turned back to examine all the gathered councillors, aristocrats and court bureaucrats staring from the dark. No one else volunteered. Sighing, he loosed his sword in its sheath and started up.
Halfway he stopped as he heard footsteps behind. Redda Orr came up round a corner. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘No, you’re not. This isn’t some summer jaunt. Stay below!’
‘I’m trained!’ She drew her slim sword far more swiftly than he ever could.
Coll shook his head. ‘I’m sure you are, child. But this isn’t the duelling field.’
‘I could take
‘Perhaps.’ Coll motioned to one side. ‘What’s that?’
Redda looked. He snatched the blade from her hand. She gaped, frozen, then fury blazed in her eyes. ‘What a dirty trick!’
‘Yes, it was.’ He started up the stairs again carrying both swords. ‘The world’s full of them so you’d better get used to it.’
As he approached the top landing he lay flat to peer over the lip, his blade ready. His gaze met the sandalled feet of two Seguleh. One motioned him back down the stairs.
A thought struck him on the way down and he paused, swallowing.
*
Madrun, Lazan, Thurule and Fisher all crouched as near as was possible to the foaming roiling clouds steaming from the pit. The noisome fumes seemed to repel all the birds and bats stooping in upon them, and the dogs charging from the woods — even one mad horse that had stormed past threatening to run them down.
A dull thud sounded from nearby and Madrun observed, disbelieving, ‘Did that owl just crash into a tree?’
The mist churned and out came the Malazan, a cloth pressed to his nose and mouth. He would have fallen had Fisher not lunged to support him. He hung coughing and gagging, and waved an arm weakly to the pit. ‘That’s the lot. But it’s still there — still in one piece!’
‘What is, Malazan?’ Madrun asked.
Lazan had been squinting off into the woods and now he backed away to tap Madrun on the arm. The giant glanced over and visibly started, amazement and panic in his gaze. ‘Holy Ancestors, I cannot believe it,’ he murmured to Lazan. The two began edging away.
‘Come, Thurule,’ Lazan called. ‘We have fulfilled our mistress’s instructions — now is the time to withdraw!’
Spindle watched in stunned astonishment as the three ran off in what could only be described as a panicked flight. He even sensed his ma grow quiescent in what felt almost like respectful deference. He turned to the woods and saw something huge approaching. Clearing his throat, he spat up a mouthful of the awful fumes he’d endured and raised his Warren to its highest pitch.
Fisher, an arm under one of Spindle’s, whispered, awed, ‘Is that …’
The shape emerged from the shadows to resolve into a wide and massive figure that Spindle recognized as Caladan Brood, the Warlord. The man’s narrowed gaze was turned aside, following Madrun and Lazan Door’s hasty retreat. Bizarrely, he held a spitting cat by the scruff of the neck. His heavy gaze swung to Spindle.
‘What are those two fools doing here?’ he demanded.
‘I … I don’t know,’ said Spindle.
The Warlord held out the frenzied cat. ‘That’s quite enough, Malazan,’ he growled.
Spindle blinked. ‘Oh! Sorry.’ He lowered his Warren. Brood handed the cat to him; it ravaged his hand and arm escaping.
‘Fisher,’ Brood said. ‘What are
The bard shrugged. ‘You know how I feel about witnessing things.’
The Warlord grunted his understanding. ‘Careful. One day you might just buy yourself too much trouble.’ He studied the pit barely visible through the boiling fumes. ‘Let’s have a look, then.’ And he walked into the cloud of poisonous steam.
Spindle watched as best he could through the mist. Peering forward, he thought he saw the Warlord down in the pit studying the stones, tapping them. The man sat back as if thinking. Then he raised both arms up over his head, clasped his hands into a great double fist and brought it down in a tremendous blow that shook the ground beneath Spindle’s feet. Once more he raised his fists and swung them down. This time the air was split by an immense crack that felt almost like a knife jabbing Spindle’s ears.
The Warlord pulled himself up from the pit and emerged waving the fumes from his face. He paused to glance down at Spindle. ‘I warned the creature,’ he said, and walked off the way he’d come.
Spindle let out a long slow breath. Fisher echoed the sentiment with a nod. Spindle gestured to the pit. ‘Well — you know, we must’ve weakened it for him …’
‘Oh, of course …’
*
Jan found the double doors of the Great Hall closed, but they opened easily at his touch. Within lay the Legate, or his body. He lay on his back, hands crossed over his chest. A forest of broken bolts stood from him at all angles. The gleaming gold oval remained fixed to his face. Yet it was marred now; a crack ran from the bottom up one cheek to just below a graven eye. Jan approached. He wanted to kneel to make certain of him, but to do so would possibly reopen the wound at his side. Was the man dead? He could not be sure.
A voice whispered then, within his mind: ‘
He flinched away.
