The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1143 page)

‘I don’t—I ain’t—here, help me get him round—’

The thunder redoubled. Oxen lowed. Wheels rocked side to side with alarming creaks. Sunrise looked skyward, saw nothing but a solid golden veil of dust. ‘We got us a damned storm—where’s Bavedict? Sweet—go find ’em, will ya?’

‘Thought you wanted my help?’

‘Wait—get Hedge—get the commander—this guy’s sweating blood all over his skin! Right out through the pores! Hurry!’

‘Something’s happening,’ Sweetlard said, now standing directly over him.

Her tone chilled Sunrise to the core.

Captain Ruthan Gudd drew a ragged breath, savagely pushing the nausea away, and the terror that flooded through him in its wake had him reaching for his sword.
Roots of the Azath, what was that?
But he could see nothing—the dust had slung an ochre canopy across the sky, and on all sides soldiers were suddenly milling, as if they had lost their way—but nothing lay ahead, just empty stretches of land. Teeth bared, Ruthan Gudd kicked his skittish horse forward, rising in his stirrups. His sword was in his hand, steam whirling from its white, strangely translucent blade.

He caught sight of it from the corner of his eye. ‘
Hood’s fist!
’ The skeins of sorcery that had disguised the weapon—in layers thick and tangled with centuries of
magic—had been torn away. Deathly cold burned his hand.
She answers. She answers . . . what?

He pulled free of the column.

A seething line had appeared along a ridge of hills to the southeast.

The thunder rolled on, drawing ever closer. Iron glittered as if tipped with diamond shards, like teeth gnawing through the summits of those hills. The swarming motion pained his eyes.

He saw riders peeling out from the vanguard. Parley flags whipping from upended spears. Closer to hand, foot-soldiers staring at him and his damned weapon, others stumbling from the bitter cold streaming in his wake. His own armour-clad thighs and the back of his horse were rimed in frost.

She answers—as she has never answered before. Gods below, spawn of the Azath—I smell—oh, gods no—

‘Form up! Marines form up! First line on the ridge—skirmishers! Get out of there, withdraw!’ Fiddler wasn’t waiting, not for anything. He couldn’t see the captain but it didn’t matter. He felt as if he’d swallowed a hundred caltrops. The air stank. Pushing past a confused Koryk and then a white-faced Smiles, he caught sight of the squad directly ahead.

‘Balm! Deadsmell—awaken your warrens! Same for Widdershins—where’s Cord, get Ebron—’

‘Sergeant!’

He twisted back, saw Faradan Sort forcing her horse through the milling soldiers.

‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. ‘It’s some foreign army out there—we’ve sent emissaries. You’re panicking the soldiers—’

Fiddler caught Tarr’s level gaze. ‘See they’re formed up—toss the word out fast as it can go, you understand, Corporal?’

‘Aye sir—’

‘Sergeant!’

Fiddler pushed his way to the captain, reached up and dragged her down from the saddle. Cursing, she flailed, unbalanced. As her full weight caught him, Fiddler staggered and then went down, Sort on top of him. In her ear he said, ‘
Get the fuck off that horse and stay off it. Those emissaries are already dead, even if they don’t know it. We need to dig in, Captain, and we need to do it now.
’

She lifted herself up, face dark with anger, and then glared into his eyes. Whatever she saw in them was hard and sharp as a slap. Sort rolled to one side and rose. ‘Someone get this horse out of here. Where’s our signaller? Flags up: prepare for battle. Ridge defence. Foot to dig in, munitions spread second trench—get on it, damn you!’

Most of the damned soldiers were doing nothing but get in the way. Snarling and cursing, Bottle forced through the press until he reached the closest supply wagon.
He scrambled on to it, pulling himself by the rope netting until he was atop the heaped bales. Then he stood.

A half-dozen of the Adjunct’s emissaries were cantering towards that distant army.

The sky above the strangers swarmed with . . . birds? No.
Rhinazan . . . and some bigger things. Bigger . . . enkar’al? Wyval?
He felt sick enough to void his bowels. He knew that smell. It had soaked into his brain ever since he’d crawled through a shredded tent.
That army isn’t human. Adjunct, your emissaries—

Something blinding arced out from the foremost line of one of the distant phalanxes. It cut a ragged path above the ground until it struck the mounted emissaries. Bodies burst into flames. Burning horses reeled and collapsed in clouds of ash.

Bottle stared.
Hood’s holy shit.

Sinter ran as fast as she could, cutting between ranks of soldiers. They were finally digging in, while the supply train—the wagons herded like enormous beasts between mounted archers and lancers—had swung northward, forcing, she saw, the Letherii forces to divide almost in half to permit the retreating column through their ranks.

That wasn’t good. She could see the chaos rippling out as the huge wagons plunged into the narrow avenue. Pikes pitched and wavered to either side, the press making figures stumble and fall.

Not her problem. She looked ahead once again, saw the vanguard, saw the Adjunct, Captain Yil, Fists Blistig and Keneb and a score or so honour guard and mounted staff. Tavore was issuing commands and riders were winging out to various units. There wasn’t much time. The distant hills had been swallowed by marching phalanxes, a dozen in sight and more coming—and each formation looked massive. Five thousand? Six? The thunder was the measure of their strides, steady, unceasing. The sky behind them was the colour of bile, winged creatures swarming above the rising dust.

Those soldiers. They aren’t people. They aren’t human—gods below, they are huge.

She reached the vanguard. ‘Adjunct!’

Tavore’s helmed head snapped round.

‘Adjunct, we must retreat! This is wrong! This isn’t—’

‘Sergeant,’ Tavore’s voice cut through like a blade’s edge. ‘There is no time. Furthermore, our obvious avenue of retreat happens to be blocked by the Letherii legions—’

‘Send a rider to Brys—’

‘We have done so, Sergeant—’

‘
They aren’t human!
’

Flat eyes regarded her. ‘No, they are not. K’Chain—’

‘
They don’t want us! We’re just in their fucking way!
’

Expressionless, the Adjunct said, ‘It is clear they intend to engage us, Sergeant.’

Wildly, Sinter turned to Keneb. ‘Fist, please! You need to explain—’

‘Sinter,’ said Tavore, ‘K’Chain
Nah’ruk
.’

Keneb’s face had taken on the colour of the sickly sky. ‘Return to your squad, Sergeant.’

Quick Ben stood wrapped in his leather cloak, thirty paces on from the Malazan vanguard. He was alone. Three hundred paces behind him the Letherii companies were wheeling to form a bristling defensive line along the ridge on which the column had been marching. They had joined their supply train and herds to the Bonehunters’ and it seemed an entire city and all its livestock was wheeling northward in desperate flight. Brys intended to defend that retreat. The High Mage understood the logic of that. It marked, perhaps, the last rational moment of this day.

Ill luck. Stupid, pathetic, miserable mischance. It was absurd. It was sickening beyond all belief. Which gods had clutched together to spin this madness? He had told the Adjunct all he knew. As soon as the warren’s mouth had spread wide, as soon as the earth trembled to the first heavy footfall of the first marching phalanx.
We saw their sky keeps. We knew they weren’t gone. We knew they were gathering.

But that was so far away, and so long ago now.

The reek of their oils was heavy on the wind that still poured out from the warren. Beyond the ochre veil he could see a deepness, a darkness that did not belong.

They have come here, to the Wastelands.

They have been this way before.

Ambitions and desires spun like ash from a pyre. All at once, it was clear that nothing was important, nothing beyond this moment and what was about to begin. Could anyone have predicted this? Could anyone have pierced the solid unknown of the future, carving through to this scene?

There were times, he knew, when even the gods staggered back, reeled with bloodied faces.
No, the gods didn’t manage this. They could not guess the Adjunct’s heart, that wellspring so full with all she would reveal to none. We were ever the shaved knuckle, but in whose hand would we be found? None knew. None could even dream . . .

He stood alone, warrens awake and seething within him. He would do what he could, for as long as he was able. And then he would fall, and there would be no one left but a score of squad mages and the Atri-Ceda.

On this day, we shall witness the death of friends. On this day, we may well join them.

The High Mage Adaephon Ben Delat drew from a pouch a handful of acorns and flung them to the ground. He squinted once more at the deepness beyond the veil, and then down to the Nah’ruk legions. Monstrous in their implacability—
steal one away and it’s damned near mindless. Gather them in their thousands,
and their will becomes one . . . and that will is . . . gods below . . . it is so very cold . . .

The Nah’ruk were half again as tall as a man and perhaps twice the weight. Little of their upper bodies could be seen, even as they drew to within two hundred paces, for they were clad in sheaths of enamel or boiled-leather armour extending out to their upper arms and reaching down to protect their forward-thrusting thighs. The stubs of their tails bore similar armour, but in finer scales. Wide helms enclosed their heads, short snouts emerging between ornate cheek-guards. Those in the front lines held arcane clubs of some sort, blunt-ended and wrapped in bundles of what looked like wire. For each dozen or so, one warrior walked burdened beneath a massive ceramic pack that sat high on its shoulders.

Behind this first line of warriors the other ranks carried short-handled halberds or falchions, held vertically. Each phalanx presented a breadth of at least a hundred warriors, all marching in perfect time, upper bodies leaning forward above their muscled, reptilian legs. There were no standards, no banners, and no obvious vanguard of commanders. As far as Ruthan Gudd could determine, there was nothing to distinguish one from another, barring those wearing the strange kit bags.

Frost glistened from his entire body now, and ice had spread thick as armour to encase the horse beneath him. It was already dead, he knew, but the ice knew to answer his commands. He rode a dozen paces ahead of the front line of Malazans, knowing that countless eyes were upon him, knowing they were struggling to understand what they were seeing—not just this alien army so clearly intent on their annihilation, but Ruthan Gudd himself, out here astride a horse sheathed in ice, the ice murky with hints of the form it had engulfed.

He held the Stormrider sword as if it was an extension of his forearm—ice had crept up to his shoulder, gleaming yet flowing as would water.

Eyeing the Nah’ruk, he muttered under his breath. ‘
Yes, you see me. You mark me. Send your fury my way. First and last, strike me
 . . .’

Behind him, from haphazard trenches, an ominous hush. The Bonehunters crouched as if pinned to the ground, caught unawares, so rocked by the unexpected impossibility of this that not a single defiant shout sounded, not a single weapon hammered the rim of a shield. Though he did not turn round, he knew that all motion had ceased. No more orders to be given. None were, truth be told, necessary.

By his rough count, over forty thousand Nah’ruk were advancing upon them. He almost caught an echo of the cacophony only moments away, as if the future’s walls were about to be shattered, flinging horror back into the past—to this moment, to ring deafeningly in his skull.

‘Too bad,’ he muttered. ‘It was such a pretty day.’

‘Hood’s breath, who is that?’

Adjunct Tavore’s eyes narrowed. ‘Captain Ruthan Gudd.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Lostara Yil replied. ‘What’s happened to him?’

In answer the Adjunct could only shake her head.

Lostara shifted on her horse, free hand drifting to the knife at her belt, and then twitching away.
Sword, you idiot. Not the knife. The stupid sword.
A face drifted into her mind. Henar Vygulf. He would be with Brys right now, ready to set off with orders. The Letherii were set back, forming two distinct outside flanks, like the outer bends of a bow. They would witness the collision of the front lines, and then, she hoped, they’d quickly see the suicidal insanity of standing against these damned lizards, and Brys would deliberately rout his army.
Get the Hood out of here—leave all the gear behind—just flee. Don’t die like us, don’t stand just because we’re standing. Just get out, Brys—Henar—I pray you. I beg you.

She heard horse hoofs and glanced over to see Fist Keneb riding down the length of the humped berm, passing the ranks of his dug-in soldiers.
What’s he doing?

He was riding for Captain Ruthan Gudd.

Tavore spoke. ‘Sound horn, signaller—order Fist Keneb to personally withdraw.’

A blast of wails lifted into the air.

‘He’s ignoring it,’ Lostara said. ‘The fool!’

Quick Ben caught sight of Ruthan Gudd and he grunted.
I’ll be damned. A Maelbit Nerruse-whore-spawn Stormrider. Who knew?

But what was he doing out front like that? After a moment, the High Mage swore under his breath.
You want ’em to take you first. You want to draw them to you. You’re giving the Bonehunters a dozen heartbeats to realize what they have to deal with. Captain Ruthan Gudd, or whoever you are . . . gods, what can I possibly say? Go well, Captain.

Go well.

Swearing, Keneb savagely drove his spurs into the flanks of his mount. That was Ruthan Gudd, and if the fool wasn’t what he pretended to be, then the Malazans needed him more than ever.
The man could be a damned god but single-handedly charging those things will still see him chopped to pieces. Ruthan! We need you—whoever and whatever you are—we need you alive!