‘My brother lives!’ she sobbed.
And suddenly she was in his arms, face pressed against his shoulders as shudders heaved through her small, fragile frame.
Stunned, Heboric remained silent.
She wept for a long, long time, and he held her tight, unmoving, as solid as he could manage. And each time the vision of his fallen god rose before his mind’s eye, he ruthlessly drove it back down. The child in his arms-for child she was, once more-cried in nothing other than the throes of salvation. She was no longer alone, no longer alone with only her hated sister to taint the family’s blood.
For that-for the need his presence answered-his own grief would wait.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Among the untried recruits of the Fourteenth Army, fully half originated from the continent of Quon Tali, the very centre of the empire. Young and idealistic, they stepped onto blood-soaked ground, in the wake of the sacrifices made by their fathers and mothers, their grandfathers and grandmothers. It is the horror of war that, with each newly arrived generation, the nightmare is reprised by innocents.
The Sha’ik Rebellion, Illusions of Victory
ADJUNCT TAVORE STOOD ALONE IN FRONT OF FOUR THOUSAND milling, jostling soldiers, while officers bellowed and screamed through the press, their voices hoarse with desperation. Pikes wavered and flashed blinding glares through the dusty air of the parade ground like startled birds of steel. The sun was a raging fire overhead.
Fist Gamet stood twenty paces behind her, tears in his eyes as he stared at Tavore. A pernicious wind was sweeping the dust cloud directly towards the Adjunct. In moments she was engulfed. Yet she made no move, her back straight, her gloved hands at her sides.
No commander could be more alone than she was now. Alone, and helpless.
But she had ordered that he remain where he was, if only to spare him the humiliation of trying to impose some kind of order on his troops. She had, instead, taken that humiliation upon herself. And Gamet wept for her, unable to hide his shame and grief.
Aren’s parade ground was a vast expanse of hard-packed, almost white earth. Six thousand fully armoured soldiers could stand arrayed in ranks with sufficient avenues between the companies for officers to conduct their review. The Fourteenth Army was to assemble before the scrutiny of Adjunct Tavore in three phases, a legion at a time. Gamet’s 8th had arrived in a ragged, dissolving mob over two bells past, every lesson from every drill sergeant lost, the few veteran officers and non-coms locked in a titanic struggle with a four-thousand-headed beast that had forgotten what it was.
Gamet saw Captain Keneb, whom Blistig had graciously given him to command the 9th Company, battering at soldiers with the flat of his blade, forcing them into a line that broke up in his wake as other soldiers pressed forward from behind. There were some old soldiers in that front row, trying to dig in their heels-sergeants and corporals, red-faced with sweat streaming from beneath their helms.
Fifteen paces behind Gamet waited the other two Fists, as well as the Wickan scouts under the command of Temul. Nil and Nether were there as well, although, mercifully, Admiral Nok was not-for the fleet had sailed.
Impulses at war within him, Gamet trembled, wanting to be elsewhere-anywhere-and wanting to drag the Adjunct with him. Failing that, wanting to step forward, defying her direct order, to take position at her side.
Someone came alongside him. A heavy leather sack thumped into the dust, and Gamet turned to see a squat soldier, blunt-featured beneath a leather cap, wearing barely half of a marine’s standard issue of armour-a random collection of boiled leather fittings-over a threadbare, stained uniform, the magenta dye so faded as to be mauve. No insignia was present. The man’s scarred, pitted face stared impassively at the seething mob.
Gamet swung further round to see an additional dozen decrepit men and women, each standing an arm’s reach from the one in front, wearing unrepaired, piecemeal armour and carrying an assortment of weapons-few of which were Malazan.
The Fist addressed the man in the lead. ‘And who in Hood’s name are you people?’
‘Sorry we was late,’ the soldier grunted. ‘Then again,’ he added, ‘I could be lying.’
‘Late? Which squads? What companies?’
The man shrugged. ‘This and that. We was in Aren gaol. Why was we there? This and that. But now we’re here, sir. You want these children quelled?’
‘If you can manage that, soldier, I’ll give you a command of your own.’
‘No you won’t. I killed an Untan noble here in Aren. Name of Lenestro. Snapped his neck with these two hands.’
Through the clouds of dust before them, a sergeant had clawed free of the mob and was approaching Adjunct Tavore. For a moment Gamet was terrified that he would, insanely, cut her down right there, but the man sheathed his short-sword as he drew up before her. Words were exchanged.
The Fist made a decision. ‘Come with me, soldier.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The man reached down and collected his kit bag.
Gamet led him to where Tavore and the sergeant stood. An odd thing happened then. There was a grunt from the veteran at the Fist’s side, even as the wiry, red-and-grey-bearded sergeant’s eyes flickered past the Adjunct and fixed on the soldier. A sudden broad grin, then a quick succession of gestures-a hand lifting, as if holding an invisible rock or ball, then the hand flipping, index finger inscribing a circle, followed by a jerk of the thumb towards the east, concluded with a shrug. In answer to all this, the soldier from the gaol gave his kit bag a shake.
The sergeant’s blue eyes widened.
They arrived, coming alongside the Adjunct, who swung a blank gaze on Gamet.
‘Your pardon, Adjunct,’ the Fist said, and would have added more, but Tavore raised a hand and made to speak.
She didn’t get a chance.
The soldier at Gamet’s side spoke to the sergeant. ‘Draw us a line, will ya?’
‘I’ll do just that.’
The sergeant pivoted and returned to the heaving ranks.
Tavore’s eyes had snapped to the soldier, but she said nothing, for the man had set his bag down, drawn back its flap, and was rummaging inside it.
Five paces in front of the legion’s uneven ranks, the sergeant once more drew his sword, then drove its blunt tip into the dust and set off, inscribing a sharp furrow in the ground.
The soldier crouched over his kit bag looked up suddenly. ‘You two still here? Go back to them Wickans, then all of you pull back another thirty, forty paces. Oh, and get them Wickans off their horses and a tight grip on the reins, and all of ya, take for yourselves a wide stance. Then when I give the signal, plug your ears.’
Gamet flinched as the man began withdrawing a succession of clay balls from his bag.
‘What is your name, soldier?’ Adjunct Tavore rasped.
‘Cuttle. Now, better get moving, lass.’
Gamet reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Adjunct, those are-’
‘I know what they are,’ she snapped. ‘And this man’s liable to kill fifty of my soldiers-’
‘Right now, lady,’ Cuttle growled as he drew out a folding shovel, ‘you ain’t got any. Now take it from me, that otataral blade at your comely hip ain’t gonna help you one bit if you decide to stand here. Pull ’em all back, and
