‘We are, sir. Pella! Down here, help me with the Fist.’
Another marine arrived, this one much younger-
‘Sir?’
‘Only his horse between him and a cusser blast,’ Gesler said. ‘He’s addled, Pella. Now, take his arms…’
Fiddler settled wearily beside the now dead hearth. He set his crossbow down and wiped the sweat and grime from his eyes. Cuttle eased down beside him. ‘Koryk’s head still aches,’ the sapper muttered, ‘but it don’t look like anything’s broken that wasn’t already broken.’
‘Except his helm,’ Fiddler replied.
‘Aye, except that. The only real scrap of the night for our squad, barring a few dozen quarrels loosed. And we didn’t even kill the bastard.’
‘You got too cute, Cuttle.’
The man sighed. ‘Aye, I did. Must be getting old.’
‘That’s what I concluded. Next time, just stab a pig-sticker in the bastard.’
‘Amazed he survived it in any case.’
The pursuit by the Khundryl had taken the Burned Tears far beyond the ridge, and what had begun as a raid against a Malazan army was now a tribal war. Two bells remained before dawn. Infantry had moved out into the basin to collect wounded, retrieve quarrels, and strip down the Malazan corpses-leaving nothing for the enemy to use. The grim, ugly conclusion to every battle, the only mercy the cover of darkness.
Sergeant Gesler appeared out of the gloom and joined them at the lifeless hearth. He drew off his gauntlets and dropped them into the dust, then rubbed at his face.
Cuttle spoke. ‘Heard a position was overrun.’
‘Aye. We’d had it in hand, at least to start. Closing in fast. Most of the poor bastards could have walked away from that barrow. As it is, only four did.’
Fiddler looked up. ‘Out of three squads?’
Gesler nodded, then spat into the ashes.
Silence.
Then Cuttle grunted. ‘Something always goes wrong.’
Gesler sighed, collected his gauntlets and rose. ‘Could have been worse.’
Fiddler and Cuttle watched the man wander off.
‘What happened, do you think?’
Fiddler shrugged. ‘I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. Now, find Corporal Tarr and get him to gather the rest. I need to explain all the things we did wrong tonight.’
‘Starting with you leading us up the slope?’
Fiddler grimaced. ‘Starting with that, aye.’
‘Mind you, if you hadn’t,’ Cuttle mused, ‘more of those raiders could have followed down to the overrun barrow through the breach. Your lobbed cusser did its work-distracted them. Long enough for the Khundryl to arrive and keep them busy.’
‘Even so,’ the sergeant conceded. ‘But if we’d been alongside Gesler, maybe we could have saved a few more marines.’
‘Or messed it up worse, Fid. You know better than to think like that.’
‘I guess you’re right. Now, gather them up.’
‘Aye.’
Gamet looked up as the Adjunct entered the cutters’ tent. She was pale-from lack of sleep, no doubt-and had removed her helm, revealing her short-cropped, mouse-coloured hair.
‘I will not complain,’ Gamet said, as the healer finally moved away.
‘Regarding what?’ the Adjunct asked, head turning to scan the other cots on which wounded soldiers lay.
‘The removal of my command,’ he replied.
Her gaze fixed on him once more. ‘You were careless, Fist, in placing yourself at such risk. Hardly cause to strip you of your rank.’
‘My presence diverted marines rushing to the aid of their comrades, Adjunct. My presence resulted in lives lost.’
She said nothing for a moment, then stepped closer. ‘Every engagement takes lives, Gamet. This is the burden of command. Did you think this war would be won without the spilling of blood?’
He looked away, grimacing against the waves of dull pain that came from forced healing. The cutters had removed a dozen shards of clay from his legs. Muscles had been shredded. Even so, he knew that the Lady’s luck had been with him this night. The same could not be said for his hapless horse. ‘I was a soldier once, Adjunct,’ he rasped. ‘I am one no longer. This is what I discovered tonight. As for being a Fist, well, commanding house guards was a fair representation of my level of competence. An entire legion? No. I am sorry, Adjunct…’
She studied him, then nodded. ‘It will be some time before you are fully recovered from your wounds. Which of your captains would you recommend for a temporary field promotion?’
‘I concur. And now I must leave you. The Khundryl are returning.’
‘With trophies, I hope.’
She nodded.
Gamet managed a smile. ‘That is well.’
The sun was climbing near zenith when Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas reined in his lathered horse alongside Leoman. Other warriors were straggling in all the time, but it might be days before the scattered elements of the company were finally reassembled. In light armour, the Khundryl had been able to maintain persistent contact with the Raraku horse warriors, and had proved themselves fierce and capable fighters.
The ambush had been reversed, the message delivered with succinct precision. They had underestimated the Adjunct.
‘Your first suspicions were right,’ Corabb growled as he settled down in his saddle, the horse trembling beneath him. ‘The Empress chose wisely.’
Leoman’s right cheek had been grazed by a crossbow quarrel, leaving a crusted brown line that glistened in places through the layer of dust. At Corabb’s observation he grimaced, leaned to one side and spat.
‘Hood curse those damned marines,’ Corabb continued. ‘If not for their grenades and those assault crossbows, we would have taken them all down. Would that I had found one of those crossbows-the loading mechanism must be-’
‘Be quiet, Corabb,’ Leoman muttered. ‘I have orders for you. Select a worthy messenger and have him take three spare horses and ride back to Sha’ik as fast as he can. He is to tell her I will be continuing with my raids, seeking the pattern to this Adjunct’s responses, and will rejoin the Chosen One three days before the Malazan army arrives. Also, that I no longer hold any faith in Korbolo Dom’s strategy for the day of battle, nor his tactics-aye, Corabb, she will not listen to such words, but they must be said, before witnesses. Do you understand?’
‘I do, Leoman of the Flails, and I shall choose the finest rider among us.’
‘Go, then.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
