All at once, the Bluerose lancers swept into them.
Brohl Handar looked down upon his Arapay-Sister Shadow, but we have been wounded. ‘Sound the slow advance!’ he commanded, stepping forward and drawing his sword. ‘We will finish what the Bluerose have begun.’ I want those bastards. Every damned one of them. Screaming in pain, dying by our blades!
Something dark and savage swirled awake within him. Oh, there would be pleasure in killing. Here. Now. Such pleasure.
As the Bluerose charge rolled through the Awl cavalry, a broad-bladed lance caught Natarkas-still shrieking his commands to wheel-in the side of the head. The point punched through low on his left temple, beneath the rim of the bronze-banded helm. It shattered that plate of the skull, along with his cheekbone and the orbit of the eye. Then drove still deeper, through brain and nasal cavity.
Blackness bloomed in his mind.
Beneath him-as he toppled, twisted round when the lance dragged free-his horse staggered before the impact of the attacker’s own mount; then, as the weight of Natarkas’s body rolled away, the beast bolted, seeking a place away from this carnage, this terror.
All at once, open plain ahead and two other riderless horses racing away, heads high in sudden freedom.
Natarkas’s horse set off after them.
The chaos in its heart dwindled, faded, fluttered away with every exultant breath the beast drew into its aching lungs.
Free!
Never! Free!
Never again!
On the seabed, the heavy infantry wedges advanced beneath the now constant hail of descending arrows. Skittering on raised shields, glancing from visored helms, stabbing down through gaps in armour and chance ricochets. Soldiers cried out, stumbled, recovered or sought to fall-but these latter were suddenly grasped by hands on either side and bodies closed in, keeping them upright, feet now dragging as life poured its crimson gift to the churned mud below. Those hands then began pushing the dead and the dying forward, through the ranks. Hands reaching back, grasping, tugging and pulling, then pushing into yet more waiting hands.
Through all of this, the chant continued, the wait beat marked each settling step.
Twelve paces from the Awl on their islands of dry, able now to see into faces, to see the blazing eyes filled with fear or rage.
This slow advance could not but unnerve the waiting Awl. Human spear-heads, edging ever closer. Massive iron fangs, inexorably looming, step, wait, step, wait, step.
And now, eight paces away, arrow-riddled corpses were being flung forward from the front ranks, the bodies sprawling into the mud. Shields followed here and there. Boots settled atop these things, pushing them into the mud.
Bodies and shields, appearing in a seemingly unending stream.
Building, there in the last six strides, a floor of flesh, leather, wood and armour.
Javelins sleeted into those wedges, driving soldiers back and down, only to have their bodies thrust forward with chilling disregard. The wounded bled out. The wounded drowned screaming in the mud. And each wedge seemed to lift itself up and out of the mud, although the cadence did not change.
Four steps. Three.
And, at a bellowing shout, the points of those enormous wedges suddenly drove forward.
Into human flesh, into set shields, spears. Into the Awl.
Each and every mind dreamed of victory. Of immortality. And, among them all, not one would yield.
The sun stared down, blazing with eager heat, on Q’uson Tapi, where two civilizations locked throat to throat.
One last time.
A fateful decision, maybe, but he’d made it now. Dragging with him all the squads that had been in the village, Fiddler took over from some of Keneb’s more beat-up units the west-facing side of their turtleback defence. No longer standing eye to eye with that huge Letherii army and its Hood-cursed sorcerers. No, here they waited, and opposite them, drawing up in thick ranks, the Tiste Edur.
Was it cowardice? He wasn’t sure, and from the looks he caught in the eyes of his fellow sergeants-barring Hellian who’d made a temporarily unsuccessful grab at Skulldeath, or more precisely at his crotch, before Primly intervened-they weren’t sure, either.
Fine, then, I just don’t want to see my death come rolling down on me. Is that cowardly? Aye, by all counts it couldn’t be anything but. Still, there’s this. I don’t feel frightened.
No, all he wanted right now, beyond what Hellian so obviously wanted, of course, all he wanted, then, was to die fighting. To see the face of the bastard who killed him, to pass on, in that final meeting of eyes, all that dying meant, must have meant and would always mean… whatever that was, and let’s hope I do a better job of letting my killer know whatever it is-better, that is, than all those whose eyes I’ve looked into as they died at my hand. Aye, seems a worthy enough prayer.
But I ain’t praying to you, Hood.
In fact, damned if I know who I’m praying to, but even that doesn’t seem to matter.
His soldiers were digging holes but not saying much. They’d received a satchelful of munitions, including two more cussers, and while that wasn’t nearly enough it made it advisable to dig the holes where they could crouch for cover when those sharpers, cussers and all the rest started going off.
All of this, dammit, assumed there would be fighting.
Far more likely, magic would sweep over the Malazans, one and all, grabbing at their throats even as it burned away skin, muscle and organs, burned away even their last desperate, furious screams.
Fiddler vowed to make his last scream a curse. A good one, too.
He stared across at the rows of Tiste Edur.
Beside him, Cuttle said, ‘They don’t like it neither, you know.’
Fiddler replied with a wordless grunt.
‘That’s their leader, that old one with the hunched shoulders. Too many paying him too much attention. I plan to take him out, Fid-with a cusser. Listen-are you listening? As soon as that wave of magic starts its roll, we should damn well up and charge these bastards.’
Not a bad idea, actually. Blinking, Fiddler faced the sapper, and then nodded. ‘Pass the word, then.’
At that moment one of Thorn Tissy’s soldiers jogged into their midst. ‘Fist’s orders,’ he said, looking round. ‘Where’s your captain?’
‘Holding Beak’s hand, somewhere else,’ Fiddler replied. ‘You can give those orders to me, soldier.’
‘All right. Maintain the turtleback-do not advance on the enemy-’
‘That’s fucking-’
‘Enough, Cuttle!’ Fiddler snapped. To the runner he nodded and said, ‘How long?’
A blank expression answered that question.
Fiddler waved the idiot on, then turned once more to stare across at the Tiste Edur.
‘Damn him, Fid!’
‘Relax, Cuttle. We’ll set out when we have to, all right?’
‘Sergeant?’ Bottle was suddenly crawling out of the hole he’d dug, and there was a strained look on his face. ‘Something… something’s happening-’
At that moment, from the ridge to the east, a blood-chilling sound-like ten thousand anchor chains ripping up from the ground, and there rose a virulent wall of swirling magic. Dark purple and shot through with crimson veins, black etchings like lightning darting along the crest as it rose, higher, yet higher-
‘Hood’s balls!’ Cuttle breathed, eyes wide.
Fiddler simply stared. This was the sorcery they’d seen off the north coast of Seven Cities. Only, then they’d had Quick Ben with them. And Bottle had his-he reached out and pulled Bottle close. ‘Listen! Is she-’
‘No, Fid! Nowhere! She’s not been with me since we landed. I’m sorry-’
Fiddler flung the man back down.
The wall heaved itself still higher.
The Tiste Edur along the western edge of the killing field were suddenly pulling back.
