Preface to the Compendium of Maps
THE VAST SHELVES AND RIDGES OF CORAL HAD BEEN WORN INTO flat-topped islands by millennia of drifting sand and wind. Their flanks were ragged and rotted, pitted and undercut, the low ground in between them narrow, twisting and filled with sharp-edged rubble. To Gamet’s eye, the gods could not have chosen a less suitable place to encamp an army.
Yet there seemed little choice. Nowhere else offered an approach onto the field of battle, and, as quickly became evident, the position, once taken, was as defensible as the remotest mountain keep: a lone saving grace.
Tavore’s headlong approach into the maw of the enemy, to the battleground of their choosing, was, the Fist suspected, the primary source of the unease and vague confusion afflicting the legions. He watched the soldiers proceeding, in units of a hundred, on their way to taking and holding various coral islands overlooking the basin. Once in place, they would then construct from the rubble defensive barriers and low walls, followed by ramps on the south sides.
Captain Keneb shifted nervously on his saddle beside the Fist as they watched the first squads of their own legion set out towards a large, bone-white island on the westernmost edge of the basin. ‘They won’t try to dislodge us from these islands,’ he said. ‘Why bother, since it’s obvious the Adjunct intends to march us right into their laps?’
Gamet was not deaf to the criticisms and doubt hidden beneath Keneb’s words, and he wished he could say something to encourage the man, to bolster faith in Tavore’s ability to formulate and progress sound tactics. But even the Fist was unsure. There had been no sudden revelation of genius during the march from Aren. They had, in truth, walked straight as a lance northward.
‘Those ramps will see the death of us all,’ Keneb muttered. ‘Korbolo Dom’s prepared for this, as any competent, Malazan-trained commander would. He wants us crowded and struggling uphill, beneath an endless hail of arrows, quarrels and ballista, not to mention sorcery. Look at how smooth he’s made those ramp surfaces, Fist. The cobbles, when slick with streaming blood, will be like grease underfoot. We’ll find no purchase-’
‘I am not blind,’ Gamet growled. ‘Nor, we must assume, is the Adjunct.’
Keneb shot the older man a look. ‘It would help to have some reassurance of that, Fist.’
‘There shall be a meeting of officers tonight,’ Gamet replied. ‘And again a bell before dawn.’
‘She’s already decided the disposition of our legion,’ Keneb grated, leaning on his saddle and spitting in the local fashion.
‘Aye, she has, Captain.’ They were to guard avenues of retreat, not for their own forces, but those the enemy might employ. A premature assumption of victory that whispered of madness. They were outnumbered. Every advantage was with Sha’ik, yet almost one-third of the Adjunct’s army would not participate in the battle. ‘And the Adjunct expects us to comply with professional competence,’ Gamet added.
‘As she commands,’ Keneb growled.
Dust was rising as the sappers and engineers worked on the fortifications and ramps. The day was blisteringly hot, the wind barely a desultory breath. The Khundryl, Seti and Wickan horse warriors remained south of the coral islands, awaiting the construction of a road that would give them egress to the basin. Even then, there would be scant room to manoeuvre. Gamet suspected that Tavore would hold most of them back-the basin was not large enough for massed cavalry charges, for either side. Sha’ik’s own desert warriors would most likely be held in reserve, a fresh force to pursue the Malazans should they be broken.
Keneb said nothing.
A messenger approached on foot. ‘Fist Gamet,’ the man called out, ‘the Adjunct requests your presence.’
‘I will keep an eye on the legion,’ Keneb said.
Gamet nodded and wheeled his horse around. The motion made his head spin for a moment-he was still waking with headaches-then he steadied himself with a deep breath and nodded towards the messenger. They made slow passage through the chaotic array of troops moving to and fro beneath the barked commands of the officers, towards a low hill closest to the basin. Gamet could see the Adjunct astride her horse on that hill, along with, on foot, Nil and Nether. ‘I see them,’ Gamet said to the messenger.
‘Aye, sir, I’ll leave you to it, then.’
Riding clear of the press, Gamet brought his horse into a canter and moments later reined in alongside the Adjunct.
The position afforded them a clear view of the enemy emplacements, and, just as they observed, so too in turn were they being watched by a small knot of figures atop the central ramp.
‘How sharp are your eyes, Fist?’ the Adjunct asked.
‘Not sharp enough,’ he replied.
‘Korbolo Dom. Kamist Reloe. Six officers. Kamist has quested in our direction, seeking signs of mages. High Mages, specifically. Of course, given that Nil and Nether are with me, they cannot be found by Kamist Reloe’s sorceries. Tell me, Fist Gamet, how confident do you imagine Korbolo Dom feels right now?’
He studied her a moment. She was in her armour, the visor of her helm lifted, her eyes half-lidded against the bright glare bouncing from the basin’s hard-packed, crackled clay. ‘I would think, Adjunct,’ he replied slowly, ‘that his measure of confidence is wilting.’
She glanced over. ‘Wilting. Why?’
‘Because it all looks too easy. Too overwhelmingly in his favour, Adjunct.’
She fell silent, returning her gaze to the distant enemy.
Gamet switched his attention to the two Wickans. Nil had grown during the march, leading Gamet to suspect that he would be a tall man in a few years’ time. He wore only a loincloth and looked feral with his wild, unbraided hair and green and black body-paint.
Nether, he realized with some surprise, had filled out beneath her deer-skin hides, a chubbiness that was common to girls before they came of age. The severity of her expression was very nearly fixed now, transforming what should have been a pretty face into a mien forbidding and burdened. Her black hair was shorn close, betokening a vow of grief.
‘Kamist’s questing is done,’ the Adjunct suddenly pronounced. ‘He will need to rest, now.’ She turned in her saddle and by some prearranged signal two Wickan warriors jogged up the slope. Tavore unhitched her sword-belt and passed it to them. They quickly retreated with the otataral weapon.
Reluctantly, Nil and Nether settled cross-legged onto the stony ground.
‘Fist Gamet,’ the Adjunct said, ‘if you would, draw your dagger and spill a few drops from your right palm.’
Without a word he tugged off his gauntlet, slid his dagger from its scabbard and scored the edge across the fleshy part of his hand. Blood welled from the cut. Gamet held it out, watched as the blood spilled down to the ground.
Dizziness struck him and he reeled in the saddle a moment before regaining his balance.
Nether voiced a hiss of surprise.
Gamet glanced down at her. Her eyes were closed, both hands pressed against the sandy ground. Nil had assumed the same posture and on his face flitted a wild sequence of emotions, fixing at last on fear.
The Fist was still feeling light-headed, a faint roaring sound filling his skull.
‘There are spirits here,’ Nil growled. ‘Rising with anger-’
