The sergeant, with a final glance at Gesler and Truth-who were dragging a foaming Stormy away-then moved to crouch down beside Ibb. ‘All right, lad, what follows is for the marines only, and especially the sergeants. We’re about to become our own Joyful Union to big, bad Mangonel tonight. I’ll explain what the Adjunct has ordered-repeat what I say, Ibb, word for word-got it?’
Three bells had passed since the sunset. Dust from the Whirlwind Wall obscured the stars, making the darkness beyond the hearth-fires almost impenetrable. Squads from the infantry trooped out to relieve those stationed at the pickets. In the Khundryl camp, the warriors removed their heavy armour and prepared to settle in for the night. Along the army encampment’s outermost trenches, Wickan and Seti horse warriors patrolled.
At the 4th squad’s fire, Fiddler returned from the company’s wagons with his kit bag. He set it down and untied the draws.
Nearby sprawled Cuttle, his eyes glittering reflected flames, watching as the sergeant began withdrawing variously sized, hide-wrapped objects. Moments later he had assembled a dozen such items, which he then began unwrapping, revealing the glint of polished wood and blackened iron.
The others in the squad were busy checking over their weapons and armour one last time, saying nothing as the tension slowly built among the small group of soldiers.
‘Been some time since I last saw one of those,’ Cuttle muttered as Fiddler laid out the objects. ‘I’ve seen imitations, some of them almost as good as the originals.’
Fiddler grunted. ‘There’s a few out there. It’s the knock-back where the biggest danger lies, since if it’s too hard the whole damn thing explodes upon release. Me and Hedge worked out this design ourselves, then we found a Mare jeweller in Malaz City-what she was doing there I’ve no idea-’
‘A jeweller? Not a weaponsmith?’
‘Aye.’ He began assembling the crossbow. ‘And a wood-carver for the stops and plugs-those need replacing after twenty or so shots-’
‘When they’re pulped.’
‘Or splitting, aye. It’s the ribs, when they spring back-that’s what sends the shockwave forward. Unlike a regular crossbow, where the quarrel’s fast enough out of the slot to escape that vibration. Here, the quarrel’s a pig, heavy and weighted on the head end-it never leaves the slot as fast as you’d like, so you need something to absorb that knock-back, before it gets to the quarrel shaft.’
‘And the clay ball attached to it. Clever solution, Fid.’
‘It’s worked so far.’
‘And if it does fail…’
Fiddler looked up and grinned. ‘I won’t be the one with breath to complain.’ The last fitting clicked into place, and the sergeant set the bulky weapon down, turning his attention to the individually wrapped quarrels.
Cuttle slowly straightened. ‘Those ain’t got sharpers on them.’
‘Hood no, I can throw sharpers.’
‘And that crossbow can lob cussers far enough? Hard to believe.’
‘Well, the idea is to aim and shoot, then bite a mouthful of dirt.’
‘I can see the wisdom in that, Fid. Now, you let us all know when you’re firing, right?’
‘Nice and loud, aye.’
‘And what word should we listen for?’
Fiddler noticed that the rest of his squad had ceased their preparations and were now waiting for his answer. He shrugged. ‘Duck. Or sometimes what Hedge used to use.’
‘Which was?’
‘A scream of terror.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘All right, soldiers, it’s time.’
When the last grains trickled down, the Adjunct turned from the hourglass and nodded to Gamet. ‘When will you join your companies, Fist?’
‘In a few moments, Adjunct. Although, because I intend to remain in my saddle, I will not ride out to them until the fighting starts.’
He saw her frown at that, but she made no comment, focusing instead on the two Wickan youths standing near the tent’s entrance. ‘Have you completed your rituals?’
The lad, Nil, shrugged. ‘We have spoken with the spirits, as you ordered.’
‘Spoken? That is all?’
‘Once, perhaps, we could have… compelled. But as we warned you long ago in Aren, our power is not as it once was.’
Nether added, ‘This land’s spirits are agitated at the moment, easily distracted. Something else is happening. We have done all we could, Adjunct. At the very least, if the desert raiders have a shaman among them, there will be little chance of the secret’s unveiling.’
‘Something else is happening, you said. What, specifically?’
Before she could answer, Gamet said, ‘Your pardon, Adjunct. I will take my leave now.’
‘Of course.’
The Fist left them to resume their conversation. A fog had settled on his mind, the moments before an engagement when uncertainty engendered unease and confusion. He had heard of this affliction claiming other commanders, but had not thought it would befall him. The rush of his own blood had created a wall of sound, muting the world beyond. And it seemed his other senses had dulled as well.
As he made his way towards his horse-held ready by a soldier-he shook his head, seeking to clear it. If the soldier said something to him when he took the reins and swung up into the saddle, he did not hear it.
The Adjunct had been displeased by his decision to ride into the battle. But the added mobility was, to Gamet’s mind, worth the risk. He set out through the camp at a slow canter. Fires had been allowed to die, the scenes surrounding him strangely ethereal. He passed figures hunched down around coals and envied them their freedom. Life had been simpler as a plain soldier. Gamet had begun to doubt his ability to command.
Age is no instant purchase of wisdom. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? She may have made me a Fist and given me a legion. And soldiers might well salute when they pass-though of course not here, in enemy territory, thank Hood. No, all these trappings are no assurance of my competence.
This night shall be my first test. Gods, I should have stayed retired. I should have refused her insistence-dammit, her assumption-that I would simply accept her wishes.
There was, he had come to believe, a weakness within him. A fool might call it a virtue, such… pliable equanimity. But he knew better.
He rode on, the fog of his mind growing ever thicker.
Eight hundred warriors crouched motionless, ghostly, amidst the boulders on the plain. Wearing dulled armour and telabas the colour of the terrain around them, they were virtually invisible, and Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas felt a surge of dark pride, even as another part of his mind wondered at Leoman’s protracted… hesitation.
Their warchief lay flat on the slope’s rise ten paces ahead. He had not moved in some time. Despite the chill, sweat trickled beneath Corabb’s armour, and he shifted his grip once more on the unfamiliar tulwar in his right hand. He’d always preferred axe-like weapons-something with a haft he could, if need be, grip with his other hand. He disliked the blade edge that reached down all the way to the hilt and wished he’d had time to file it blunt for the first half of its length.
I am a warrior who cannot tolerate sharp edges close to his body. Which spirits thought to make of me such an embodiment of confused irony? I curse them all.
He could wait no longer, and slowly crawled up alongside Leoman of the Flails.
Beyond the crest sprawled another basin, this one hummocked and thick with thorny brush. It flanked the encamped Malazan army on this side, and was between sixty and seventy paces in breadth.
‘Foolish,’ Corabb muttered, ‘to have chosen to stop here. I think we need have nothing to fear from this Adjunct.’
The breath slowly hissed between Leoman’s teeth. ‘Aye, plenty of cover for our approach.’
‘Then why do we wait, Warchief?’