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!
Could he reach him in time?
Captain Skanarow kicked at one of her soldiers, pushing the idiot back into the shallow trench. ‘Keep digging!’ she snarled, and then returned her attention to that gleaming figure riding out towards the lizards. You stupid lying bastard! A Stormrider? Impossible-they live in the damned seas.
Ruthan, please, what are you doing?
Seeing the first line of the nearest phalanx level their bizarre clubs, Ruthan Gudd gritted his teeth. This Stormrider crap had better work. But gods below, it does hurt to wear. He wheeled his mount to face the Nah’ruk, and then raised high his sword.
Sunlight flashed through the ice.
A rider was coming up from behind and to his left. Poor bastard. That’s what you get for taking orders. Without a backward glance, he drove his spurs into the flanks of his mount. Sparks flashed from the ice. The beast lunged forward.
You sorry Malazans. Watch me, and then ask yourself: How deep can you dig?
Fiddler cocked his crossbow, carefully inserted a sharper-headed quarrel. Now that it was happening, he felt fine. Nothing more to be done, was there? Everything was alight, cut clear, the colours of the world suddenly saturated, beautiful beyond belief. He could taste it. He could taste it all. ‘Everybody loaded?’
Grunts and nods from his squad, all of them crouched down in the trench.
‘Keep your heads right down,’ Fiddler told them again. ‘We’ll hear the charge, count on it. Nobody pokes up for a look until my say so, understood?’
He saw, a few squads down, Balgrid edging up for a look. The healer shouted, ‘Gudd’s charging them!’
Along the entire line of marines, helmed heads sprung up like mushrooms.
Fuck!
Crump was on his hands and knees, a clutch of sharpers set like black-turtle eggs in a shallow pit pushed into the stony floor of the trench.
Ebron stared in horror. ‘Have you lost your mind? Spread ’em down the line, you idiot!’
Crump looked up, eyes widening. ‘Can’t do that, mage. They’re mine! All I got left!’
‘Someone could step on them!’
But Crump was shaking his head. ‘I’m protecting them, mage!’
Ebron swung round. ‘Cord! Sergeant! It’s Crump! He’s-’
The wire-bound clubs in the front line seemed to ignite like torches. Lightning arced from the blunt heads, two serpentine tendrils snaking into the air. From each weapon, one of the bolts twisted and spun to sink into one of the strange ceramic packs-a dozen such arcs for each pack. The second crackling tongue of white fire seemed to throb for an instant, and then as one they lashed out, a score or more converging on the charging, ice-clad rider and horse.