Lives of the Three
THE SOUND OF FLIES AND WASPS WAS A SOLID, BUZZING HUM IN THE hot air of the gorge, and already the stench had grown overpowering. Fist Gamet loosened the clasp on the buckle and lifted the battered iron helmet from his head. The felt liner was sodden with sweat, itching against his scalp, but, as the flies swarmed him, he did not remove it.
He continued watching from the slight rise at the south end of the gorge as the Adjunct walked her horse through the carnage below.
Three hundred Seti and over a hundred horses lay dead, mostly from arrows, in the steep-sided ravine they had been led into. It could not have taken long, even including rounding up and leading off the surviving mounts. There had been less than a bell between the advance Seti riders and the Khundryl, and had Temul not ordered his Wickans back to cover the main army… well, we would have lost them as well. As it was, those Wickans had prevented another raid on the supply train, their presence alone sufficient to trigger a sudden withdrawal by the enemy-with not a single drop of blood spilled. The warleader commanding the desert horse warriors had been too cagey to see his force ensnared in an out-and-out battle.
Far better to rely upon… errors in judgement. The Seti not assigned as flanking riders to the vanguard had defied orders, and had died as a result. And all the bastard needs from us is more stupid mistakes.
Something in the scene below was raising the hairs on his neck. The Adjunct rode alone through the slaughter, her back straight, unmindful of her horse’s skittish progress.
It’s never the flies that are the trouble, it’s the wasps. One sting and that well-bred beast will lose its mind. Could rear and throw her off, break her neck. Or could bolt, straight down the gorge, and then try to take one of the steep sides… like some of those Seti horses tried to do…
Instead, the horse simply continued picking its way over the bodies, and the clouds of wasps did little more than rise and then wheel from its path, alighting once more upon their feast as soon as mount and rider had passed.
An old soldier at the Fist’s side coughed and spat, then, at Gamet’s glance, mumbled an apology.
‘No need… Captain. It’s a grisly sight, and we’re all too close…’
‘Not that, sir. Only…’ he paused, then slowly shook his head. ‘Never mind, sir. Just an old memory, that’s all.’
Gamet nodded. ‘I’ve a few of those myself. So, Fist Tene Baralta wants to know if he needs to send his healers forward. The answer you may bring him lies before you.’
‘Aye, sir.’
He watched the grizzled old soldier back his horse clear then swing it round and ride off. Then Gamet fixed his attention once more upon the Adjunct.
She had reached the far end, where most of the bodies lay, heaped up against blood-splashed stone walls, and, after a long moment, during which she scanned the scene on all sides, she gathered the reins and began retracing her path.
Gamet set the helm on his head once more and closed the clasp.
She reached the slope and rode up to halt alongside him.
He had never before seen her expression so severe. A woman with few of a woman’s charms, as they say of her, in tones approaching pity. ‘Adjunct.’
‘He left many of them wounded,’ she said. ‘Anticipating, perhaps, that we’d reach them in time. Wounded Malazans are better than dead ones, after all.’
‘Assuming that warleader seeks to delay us, aye.’
‘He does. Even with the Khundryl supply lines, our resources are strained as it is. The loss of the wagons last night will be felt by everyone.’
‘Then why didn’t Sha’ik send this warleader against us as soon as we crossed the Vathar River? We’re a week or less away from the Whirlwind Wall. She could have purchased another month or more, and we’d be in far worse shape when we finally arrived.’
‘You are correct, Fist. And I have no answer for you. Temul has gauged this raiding party’s strength at just under two thousand-he was fairly certain that the midday contact on the flank revealed the enemy’s full force, since he sighted supply horses as well as those taken from the Seti. Thus, a rather large raiding army.’
Gamet ruminated on this for a time, then he grunted. ‘It’s almost as if we’re facing a confused opposition, one at odds with itself.’
‘The same thought had occurred to me. For the moment, however, we must concern ourselves with this warleader, else he bleed us to death.’
Gamet swung his horse around. ‘More words with Gall, then,’ he said, grimacing. ‘If we can get them out of their great-grandfathers’ armour, they might actually manage a ride up a hill without leaving their horses blown.’
‘I want the marines out tonight, Fist.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘The marines, Adjunct? On foot? You wish the pickets bolstered?’
She drew a deep breath. ‘In the year 1147, Dassem Ultor was faced with a similar situation, with a much smaller army and three entire tribal nations mauling him virtually every night.’
After a moment Gamet nodded. ‘I know the scenario, Adjunct, and I recall his answer. The marines will be sent out tonight.’
‘Be sure they understand what is expected of them, Fist Gamet.’
‘There’s some veterans among them,’ he replied. ‘And in any case, I plan to command the operation myself.’
‘That will not be-’
‘Yes, it will, Adjunct. My apologies. But… yes, it will.’
‘So be it.’
It was one thing to doubt his commander’s measure, but another entirely to doubt his own.
There were three types of scorpion common in the odhan, none of which displayed any toleration for either of the others. Early in the second week Strings had drawn his two fellow sergeants aside to unveil his scheme. Both Gesler and Borduke had proved agreeable, particularly at the offer of splitting the profits three ways. Borduke was first to draw the odd-coloured stone and was quick to choose the Red-backed Bastard-outwardly the meanest of the three scorpion types. Gesler had followed, choosing the amber In Out-so named for its transparent exoskeleton through which, if one was inclined to look carefully, various poisons could be seen racing beneath its carapace.
The two sergeants had then looked with pity upon their hapless companion. The Lord’s luck that the man with the idea in the first place should be left with the Birdshit scorpion-puny and flat and black and looking like its namesake. Of course, when it came to the three-way split of the main profits, none of that really mattered. Only in the private wagers between the three sergeants would Strings come out wanting.
But Strings had affected only mild disappointment at being left with the Birdshit, answering with naught but a slight shrug as he collected the handful of pebbles they had used in choosing the order of selection. And neither Gesler nor Borduke caught the old sapper’s twitch of a smile as he turned away, nor his seemingly casual glance to where Cuttle sat in the shade of a boulder-a glance answered with the slightest of nods.
The squads were then set to the task of finding their respective champions whilst on the march, and, when that failed, at dusk when the horrid little creatures were wont to scuttle out from their hiding places in search of something to kill.
Word quickly spread, and soon the wagers started pouring in. Borduke’s soldier, Maybe, was chosen for the task of bet-holder, given his extraordinary ability to retain facts. And one Holder was selected from each squad, who then in turn selected a Trainer.