fell away. Blood sprayed.
Then a blow hammered his lower back, lifted him from his feet. He tried curling away from the blow, but something was jammed in his body, a hard edge crunching and grinding against his spine. He was driven to the ground face first, and then they were beating on him — heavy edges chopping into his muscles and bones.
One struck the back of his head and there was darkness, and then oblivion.
Hedge stood over the corpse of Bavedict — the damned fool had been killed outright by that first shower of arrows, taking one through an eye. From his vantage point Hedge could see the ring of defenders contracting as the enemy pushed higher up the slope. He watched Fiddler moving down to block an imminent breach where most of a squad had gone down.
‘You — archers — keep an eye on there. If they get through it’s a straight path to the Crippled God.’
‘Yes sir!’
‘Now, the rest of you — we got to relieve the pressure. Take those coppery ones and throw for the fifth and sixth ranks — use ’em all up. If we don’t make ’em reel right now we’re done for.’
‘What’s the copper kittens do, sir?’
Hedge shook his head. ‘I forget, and the alchemist’s dead. Just go — spread out, get moving!’
As they left, the sapper took up his crossbow — he only had half a dozen quarrels left. The occasional arrow still sailed down here and there, but either the sappers he’d dug in below the slope were all dead or they’d used up their munitions — it’d be just his luck if some errant arrow took him or Fiddler out now.
Loading his weapon, he moved down past his four remaining archers, who were sending arrows into the breach. He could see Fiddler, there with those Dal Honese sisters and a lone heavy infantryman shorter than any of them. The Kolansii who’d been advancing to flank them were all down, feathered with arrows. ‘Good work,’ barked out Hedge to his archers. ‘Now find somewhere else you’re needed.’
A stone turned underfoot and Fiddler’s left ankle gave way in a stab of pain. Cursing, he stumbled. Looked up to see a Kolansii closing — the eyes manic and wild beneath the helm, a heavy axe lifting high.
The quarrel punched the man back a step, and he looked down in astonishment at the heavy bolt buried in his chest.
One hand closed on Fiddler’s collar, dragged him clear. An all-metal crossbow landed in his lap, followed by a quiver. ‘Load up, Fid,’ said Hedge, drawing his short sword. ‘Keep ’em off my left flank, will you?’
‘You getting mad, Hedge?’
‘Aye.’
‘Gods help them.’
His attacker had pushed his spear right through Bottle’s right thigh, pinning him down, but Bottle had replied with a sword through the stomach, and as the Kolansii sagged back voicing terrible screams the marine decided he’d come away the winner of the argument.
Tarr dropped down beside him, blood streaming from a gash in his face. ‘You want that spear out, Bottle? It ain’t bleeding much for the moment, but if I take it out …’
‘I know,’ Bottle said. ‘But it’s pushed right through — I want it gone, Sergeant. I’ll stuff rags in.’
‘A bleeder-’
‘It ain’t one, Sergeant. It’s just a big fucking hole.’
Tarr pushed Bottle on to his side, and then quickly drew out the spear. ‘Bleeding,’ he said after a moment, ‘but not spurting. When I see Deadsmell I’ll send him your way.’
Nodding, feeling faint, Bottle pushed himself upright, fumbling at the pouch at his side, where he found a roll of bandages. He was working a wad into one end of the hole when there was a flash of heat from downslope and then blood-chilling screams.
Brother Grave stared, in shock, furious at his own helplessness, as copper-hued grenados sailed down from the defenders to strike the Kolansii ranks at the foot of the barrow and on the level ground beyond it. The emerald fires that erupted when they shattered seemed almost demonic as they spread with terrible ferocity through the ranks.
The attack was a shambles — he saw his soldiers reeling, flinching back.
He looked to the northeast, seeking that telltale sign of dust on the horizon.
‘Haggraf. Sound the recall. We shall wait until the fires burn down. Then strike again, and again, until they are all dead!’
The stench of burnt flesh carried with it a strange flavour, something between sulphur and limes.
The Crippled God listened to the clamour of battle on all sides. He heard the cries of pain and anger, but these were sounds he had expected. Amidst the clash of iron and the splinter of wooden shields, amidst the whistle of arrows — some of them striking close — and the splinter of shafts against insensate stone, he heard soldiers shouting to each other, heard their desperate breaths as they struggled to stay alive and to kill those who rose up against them in seemingly endless waves.
And overhead the sky was almost blinding with all the souls abandoned by his descent to this world. He thought to hear them as well, but they were too far away, lost in the heavens. Did they still struggle to hold on to their faith, with their god vanished for so long? Or had they surrendered to the cruel malice that came to so many of the spiritually vacant? Did they now wander without purpose, in the horror of a meaningless existence?
Fires erupted around him — not so close that he could feel their heat — and now shrieks rushed out to fill the air.
Sounds of dying, from all sides. He had heard these sounds before. There was nothing new, nothing to give him comprehension. That mortal lives could so willingly extinguish themselves, in the name of causes and noble desires — was this not the most profound, most baffling sacrifice of all? The one sacrifice every god has long since forgotten; the one sacrifice that they, in their callous indifference, could not even comprehend.
The Crippled God listened, past the horns of retreat, past the cries for healers, past the clashing signals announcing the next wave to advance upon these beleaguered few. The Crippled God listened, and he waited.
Seven of the Dead Fires, the T’lan Imass stood on a bare rise to the east of the Malazan regulars. Nom Kala and Kalt Urmanal were now among them, as bound as true kin, and in Nom Kala’s mind it was well. She did not feel like a stranger. She did not feel alone.
Urugal the Woven spoke. ‘She prepares for the enemy’s approach. We have listened to her silence and we know that there are no lies within her soul. Yet she is mortal.’
‘Many who see her,’ said Beroke, ‘believe her weak — not in her will, but in her flesh and bones. She has yielded her sword. I sought to give her mine, but she refused me.’
‘We understand the power of a formidable will,’ observed Kahlb the Silent Hunter.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Beroke.
Urugal said, ‘I have elected that we remain with her. To stand here rather than join the fate of the marines. Should the Crippled God indeed rise once more, we shall not even witness that moment.’ He faced the others. ‘You did not agree with me on this — my command that we remain with her.’
‘It is what we may lose, Urugal,’ said Thenik the Shattered. ‘To see him reborn.’
‘Must our faith show its face to us, Thenik?’
‘I have longed for proof,’ the Shattered replied. ‘That all that we have done has purpose. Is this not what the Fallen One offered us? Yet we do not lend our swords to the defence of our god.’
‘In the manner I have chosen,’ countered Urugal, ‘we will do just that.’
Nom Kala spoke, hesitantly. ‘Kin, I have listened to the soldiers — these Malazans. At the campfires, in the times of rest.’ They had turned to regard her now. ‘They speak to each other rarely, yet when they do, it is of her
