The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (183 page)

Blinking, Duiker tried to focus on the face before him, the face telling him this news in an urgent tone. But the first brush of recognition sent the historian reeling back in his mind. Too much pain was embedded in the memories that were so closely chained to that recognition. He stepped back.

The figure reached out a strong hand that closed on Duiker's ragged shirt and pulled the historian closer once again. The bearded mouth was moving, shaping words, demanding, angry words.

“—through to you, Historian! It's the assumptions, don't you see? Our only reports have come from that nobleman, Nethpara. But we need a soldier's assessment—do you understand? Damn you, it's almost dawn!”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Blistig's face twisted. “Mallick Rel has got through to Pormqual. Hood knows how, but he has! We're going to strike Korbolo's army—in less than an hour's time, when they're still drunk, still exhausted. We're marching out, Duiker! Do you understand me?”

Cruel…so cruel—

“How many are out there? We need reliable estimates—”

“Thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds—”

“Think, damn you! If we can knock these bastards out…before Sha'ik arrives—”

“I don't know, Blistig! That army grew with every Hood-cursed league!”

“Nethpara judges just under ten thousand—”

“The man's a fool.”

“He's also laying the deaths of thousands of innocent refugees at Coltaine's feet—”

“W—What?” The historian staggered, and if not for Blistig's grip would have fallen.

“Don't you see? Without you, Duiker, that version of what happened out there will win the day. It's already spread through the ranks and it's damned troubling. Certainty's crumbling—the desire for vengeance is weakening—”

It was enough. The historian felt a jolt. Eyes widening, he straightened. “Where is he? Nethpara! Where—”

“He's been in with Pormqual and Mallick Rel for the past two bells.”

“Take me there.”

A succession of horns echoed behind them, the call for assembly. Duiker's gaze swept past the commander to the ranks contracting into formation. He stared skyward, saw the stars dimming in a lightening sky.

“Fener's tusk,” Blistig growled. “It might be too late—”

“Take me to Pormqual—to Mallick Rel—”

“Follow me, then.”

The refugees were stirring as garrison soldiers moved among them, beginning the task of clearing the concourse to allow room for the High Fist's army.

Blistig pushed through the crowd, Duiker a step behind him. “Pormqual's ordered my garrison out with them,” the commander said over his shoulder. “Rearguard. That's in defiance of my responsibility. My task is to defend this city, yet the High Fist has been conscripting from my own soldiers, bleeding the companies. I'm down to three hundred now, barely enough to hold the walls. Especially with all the Red Blades under arrest—”

“Under arrest! Why?”

“Seven Cities blood—Pormqual doesn't trust them.”

“The fool! They're the most loyal soldiers of the Empire I've ever known—”

“I agree, Historian, but my opinion is worthless—”

“Mine had better not be,” Duiker said.

Blistig paused, turning. “Do you support the High Fist's decision to attack?”

“Hood, no!”

“Why?”

“Because we don't know how many are out there. Wiser to wait for Tavore, wiser still to let Korbolo fling his warriors against these walls—”

Blistig nodded. “We'd cut them to pieces. The question is, can you convince Pormqual of all you've just said?”

“You know him,” Duiker retorted. “I don't.”

The commander grimaced. “Let's go.”

The standards of the High Fist's army flanked a knot of mounted figures near the mouth of the main avenue leading off from the concourse. Blistig led the historian directly for them.

Duiker saw Pormqual seated atop a magnificent warhorse. The High Fist's armor was ornate, more decorative than functional. The jeweled hilt of a Grisian broadsword jutted from one hip; the helm bore a gold-threaded sunburst on the polished iron skullcap. His face looked sickly and bloodless.

Mallick Rel sat on a white horse beside the High Fist, silk-cloaked and weaponless, a sea-blue cloth wrapped about his head. Various officers, both mounted and on foot, surrounded them, and among that group Duiker saw Nethpara and Pullyk Alar.

A red mist descended on the scene as Duiker's stare fixed on the two noblemen. Increasing his pace, he pushed past Blistig, who snapped a hand out to drag the historian back.

“Leave that till later, man. You've got a more immediate responsibility to deal with first.”

Trembling, Duiker forced his rage back. He managed a nod.

“Come on, the High Fist has seen us.”

Pormqual's expression was cold as he looked down on Duiker. His voice was shrill as he said, “Historian, your arrival is timely. We have two tasks before us this day, both of which require your presence—”

“High Fist—”

“Silence! Interrupt me again and I'll have your tongue cut out!” He paused, settled, then resumed his statement. “First of all, you shall yourself accompany us in the battle to come. To witness the proper means of dealing with that rabble. The selling of the lives of innocent refugees is not a bargain
I
shall make—there shall be no repetition of earlier tragedies, earlier crimes of treason! The fools out there have only now settled to sleep—and they shall pay for that stupidity, I assure you.

“Then, when the renegades have been slaughtered, we shall attend to other responsibilities, primarily your arrest and that of the warlocks known as Nil and Nether—the last remaining ‘officers' of Coltaine's horrific command. And I assure you, the punishment following your conviction shall match the severity of your crimes.” He gestured and an aide led Duiker's mare forward. “Alas, your beast is hardly fit for the company, but it shall suffice.

“Commander Blistig, prepare your soldiers for marching. We wish our rearguard to be no more and no less than three hundred paces behind us. I trust that is within your capabilities—if not, inform me now, and I shall happily place someone else in command of the garrison.”

“Aye, High Fist, the task is within my capabilities.”

Duiker's gaze swung to Mallick Rel, and the historian wondered at the satisfied flush in the priest's face, but only for a moment.
Ah, of course, past slights. Not a man to cross, are you, Rel?

In silence, the historian walked to his horse and climbed into the saddle. He laid a hand on the mare's thin, ungroomed neck, then gathered the reins.

The lead companies of medium cavalry were assembled at the gate. Once out of the city, little time would be wasted, as the horsewarriors would immediately part in a sweeping maneuver intended to surround Korbolo's encampment, while the infantry poured out from the gate to assemble into solid phalanxes before marching on the enemy position.

Blistig had departed the scene without a backward glance. Duiker stared at the distant gate, scanned the troops gathered there.

“Historian.”

He turned his head, looked down at Nethpara.

The nobleman was smiling. “You should have treated me with more respect. I suppose you see that now, although it's come too late for you.”

Nethpara did not notice Duiker slip his boot from the stirrup.

“For the insults you have committed upon my person…for the laying of hands on me, Historian, you shall suffer—”

“No doubt,” Duiker cut in. “And here's one last insult.” He kicked out, the toe of his boot driving into the nobleman's flabby throat, then up. Trachea crumpled inward, head snapped back with a crunching, popping sound, Nethpara pitched backward, thumped heavily on the cobblestones. His eyes stared up unseeing at the pale sky.

Pullyk Alar shrieked.

Soldiers closed in around the historian, weapons out.

“By all means,” Duiker said, “I shall welcome an end to this—”

“You shall not be so fortunate!” Pormqual hissed, white with rage.

Duiker sneered at the man. “You've already convicted me as an executioner. What's one more, you craven pile of dung?” He shifted his gaze to Mallick Rel. “And as for you, Jhistal, come closer—my life's still incomplete.”

The historian did not notice—nor did anyone else—the arrival of a captain of Blistig's garrison. The man had been about to speak with Duiker, to inform him of the safe delivery of a child to a grandfather. But at the word “Jhistal” he stiffened, then, eyes widening, he took a step back.

The gates opened just then, and the troops of cavalry poured through. Motion rippled through the legions of infantry as weapons were readied.

Keneb took another step back, that lone word echoing in his mind. He knew it from somewhere, but full awareness eluded him, even as alarms rang in his mind. A voice within was shouting that he needed to find Blistig—he did not yet know why, but it was imperative—

But he had run out of time.

Keneb stared out as the army surged toward the gate. The orders had been given, and the momentum was unstoppable.

The captain took another step back, his words to Duiker forgotten. He stumbled over Nethpara's body unnoticing, then spun about. And ran.

Sixty paces on, Keneb's mind was suddenly flooded with the memory of when he had last heard the word “Jhistal.”

 

Duiker rode with the mounted officers out onto the plain.

Korbolo Dom's army looked to be in full panicked flight, though the historian noted that they still held on to their weapons even as they fled back over the mound and its facing slope. The High Fist's cavalry rode hard to either side, quickly outpacing the footsoldiers as they pushed to complete the encirclement. Both wings rode beyond line of sight, into the evenly distributed hills of the burial ground.

The High Fist's legions moved at double time, silent and determined. They had no hope of catching the fleeing army until the cavalry had completed the encirclement, closing off all avenues of escape.

“As you predicted, High Fist!” Mallick Rel shouted to Pormqual as they cantered along. “They are routed!”

“But they shall not escape, shall they?” Pormqual laughed, pitching unevenly in his saddle.

Gods below, the High Fist can't even ride
.

The pursuit took them up and over the first barrow, and they rode among the corpses of the Seventh and the Wickans. Those looted bodies spread northward in a wide swath, mapping the route of Coltaine's running battle, over the next barrow, then around the base of the one beyond. Duiker struggled to keep from scanning those corpses, seeking familiar faces in their unfamiliar expressions of death. He stared forward, studying the fleeing renegades.

Pormqual periodically slowed their pace to keep within the midst of the infantry. The wings of cavalry were somewhere ahead, and had not reappeared. In the meantime, the thousands of fleeing soldiers stayed ahead of the phalanxes, sweeping around the barrows, leaving booty behind as they went.

The High Fist and his army doggedly pursued, down into a vast basin, packed with the routed enemy who began pouring up the gently sloping sides. Dust ringed the crest to the east and west, and directly ahead.

“The encirclement is complete!” Pormqual cried. “See the dust!”

Duiker frowned at that dust. Faintly, he heard the sounds of battle. A moment later those sounds began to diminish, while the rising dust thickened, deepened.

The infantry marched down into the basin.

Something's wrong…

The fleeing soldiers had reached the crests now on all sides but the south, but instead of continuing their panicked pace, they slowed, readied their weapons and turned about.

The curtain of dust climbed higher behind those warriors, then mounted figures appeared—not Pormqual's cavalry, but tribal riders. A moment later the ring of footsoldiers thickened, as rank after rank joined them.

Duiker spun in his saddle. Seven Cities cavalry lined the south skylines, closing the back door.

And so we ride into the simplest of traps. Leaving Aren defenseless…

“Mallick!” Pormqual shrieked, reining in. “What is happening! What has happened?”

The priest's head was jerking in all directions, his jaw dropping. “Treachery!” he hissed. He swung his white horse around, eyes fixing on Duiker. “This is your doing, Historian! Part of the bargain Nethpara hinted at! More, I see the sorcery around you now—you have been communicating with Korbolo Dom! Gods, we were fools!”

Duiker ignored the man, his eyes squinting as he studied the scene to the south, and the tag-end elements of Pormqual's army as they wheeled about to face the threat now behind them. Clearly, the High Fist's cavalry wings had been annihilated.

“We are surrounded! They are in the tens of thousands! We shall be slaughtered!” The High Fist jabbed a finger at the historian. “Kill him! Kill him now!”

“Wait!” Mallick Rel shouted. He turned to Pormqual. “Please, High Fist, leave that to me, I beg you! Be assured that I shall exact a worthy punishment!”

“As you say, then, but—” Pormqual glared about. “What shall we do, Mallick?”

The priest pointed to the north. “There, riders approach under a white flag—let us see what Korbolo Dom proposes, High Fist! What have we to lose?”

“I cannot speak with them!” Pormqual gibbered. “I cannot think! Mallick—please!”

“Very well,” the Jhistal priest acceded. He swung his mount around, jabbed spurred heels into the beast's flanks and rode through the milling ranks of the High Fist's trapped army.

Midway up the distant north slope, the converging riders met. The parley lasted less than a minute, then Mallick wheeled and rode back.