The iron ribs thunked, and the cusser quarrel leapt away, describing a graceful arc up and over the ridge. It sank out of sight.
Bodies were thrown skyward at the explosion, and screams filled the air.
‘Crossbows to bear,’ Cuttle snapped, ‘in case they come rolling over the-’
On the crest above them, the skyline was suddenly crowded with warriors.
‘Fall back!’ Fiddler shouted as he continued to reload. ‘Fall back!’
After sprawling into the thorn bush, Corabb dragged himself clear, spitting curses, and scrambled to his feet. The bodies of his comrades lay on all sides, struck down by heavy crossbow bolts or those terrible Moranth munitions. There had been more marines, hidden between the barrows, and now he could hear horses behind them, sweeping on to take the ridge-Khundryl-the bastards were in light armour only, and they had been ready and waiting.
He looked for Leoman, but could not see him among those warriors made visible by the sheets of flames left by the Malazan fire-grenados-and of those, few were still on their feet. Time had come, he decided, to withdraw.
He collected the tulwar from where it had fallen, then spun about and ran for the ridge.
And plunged headlong into a squad of marines.
Sudden shouts.
A huge soldier wearing the trappings of a Seti slammed a hide-wrapped shield into Corabb’s face. The desert warrior reeled back, blood gushing from his nose and mouth, and took a wild swing. The tulwar’s heavy blade cracked hard against something-and snapped clean just above the hilt.
Corabb landed hard on the ground.
A soldier passed close and left something on his lap.
Somewhere just up on the ridge another explosion ripped through the night-this one louder by far than any he had yet heard.
Stunned, blinking tears, Corabb sat up, and saw a small round clay ball roll down to land in front of his crotch.
Smoke rose from it-sputtering, foaming acid, just a drop, eating its way through.
Whimpering, Corabb rolled to one side-and came up against a discarded helm. He grabbed it and lunged back at the sharper, slamming the bronze cap over it.
Then he closed his eyes.
As the squad continued its retreat-the slope behind it a mass of blasted bodies from Fiddler’s second cusser, with Khundryl Burned Tears now crashing into the flank of the remaining attackers-Cuttle grabbed the sergeant’s shoulder and spun him around.
‘The bastard Koryk knocked down is about to be surprised, Fid.’
Fiddler fixed his gaze on the figure just now sitting up.
‘Left a smoking sharper in his lap,’ Cuttle added.
Both sappers halted to watch.
‘Four…’ The warrior made his horrific discovery and plunged to one side.
‘Three…’
Then rolled back directly onto the sharper.
‘Two…’
Thumping a helm down over it.
‘One.’
The detonation lifted the hapless man into the air on a man-high column of fire.
Yet he had managed to hold on to the helm, even as it lifted him still higher, up and over. Feet scything wildly in the air, he plummeted back down, landing to kick up a cloud of dust and smoke.
‘Now that-’
But Cuttle got no further, and both sappers simply stared in disbelief as the warrior scrambled upright, looked around, collected a discarded lance, then raced off back up the slope.
Gamet drove heels into his horse’s flanks. The mount pounded down into the basin from the west side, opposite where the Khundryl had come from.
Three knots of desert warriors had managed to weather the crossbow fire and munitions to assault one of the strong-points. They had driven the two hidden squads back onto the barrow as well, and the Fist saw his marines dragging wounded comrades into the trenchworks. Fewer than ten soldiers among the three squads were still fighting, desperately holding back the screaming raiders.
Gamet pulled his sword free as he urged his horse directly towards the beleaguered position. As he approached, he saw two marines go down before an onrush from one of the attacking groups-and the barrow was suddenly overrun.
The fugue gripping his senses seemed to redouble, and he began sawing the reins, confused, bewildered by the roar of sounds surrounding him.
‘Fist!’
He lifted his sword, as his horse cantered, as if of its own will, towards the barrow.
‘Fist Gamet! Pull out of there!’
Too many voices. Screams of the dying. The flames-they’re falling away. Darkness closing in. My soldiers are dying. Everywhere. It’s failed-the whole plan has failed-
A dozen raiders were rushing at him-and more movement, there, to his right-another squad of marines, fast closing, as if they’d been on their way to relieve the overrun strong-point, but now they were sprinting in his direction.
I don’t understand. Not here-the other way. Go there, go to my soldiers-
He saw something large fly from one of the marines’ hands, down into the midst of the warriors attacking him. ‘Fist?’
Two lances whipped out, seeking him. Then the night exploded.
He felt his horse lifted beneath him, pushing him down over the back of the saddle. The animal’s head snapped upward, impossibly so, as it continued arching back-to thump down between Gamet’s thighs a moment before he tumbled, boots leaving the stirrups, over the horse’s rump.
Down into a mist of blood and grit.
He blinked his eyes open, found himself lying in sodden mud, amidst bodies and parts of bodies, at the base of a crater. His helmet was gone. No sword in his hand.
I was… I was on a horse…
Someone slid down to slam against his side. He attempted to clamber away, but was dragged back down.
‘Fist Gamet, sir! I’m Sergeant Gesler-Captain Keneb’s 9th Company-can you hear me?’
‘Y-yes-I thought you were-’
‘Aye, Fist. But we dropped ’em, and now the rest of my squad and Borduke’s are relieving 3rd Company’s marines. We need to get you to a healer, sir.’
‘No, that’s all right.’ He struggled to sit up, but something was wrong with his legs-they were indifferent to his commands. ‘Tend to those on the barrow, Sergeant-’
‘We are, sir. Pella! Down here, help me with the Fist.’
Another marine arrived, this one much younger-oh, no, too young for this. I will ask the Adjunct to send him home. To his mother and father, yes. He should not have to die-‘You should not have to die.’
‘Sir?’
‘Only his horse between him and a cusser blast,’ Gesler said. ‘He’s addled, Pella. Now, take his arms…’
Addled? No, my mind is clear. Perfectly clear, now. Finally. They’re all too young for this. It’s Laseen’s war-let her fight it. Tavore-she was a child, once. But then the Empress murdered that child. Murdered her. I must tell the Adjunct…
Fiddler settled wearily beside the now dead hearth. He set his crossbow down and wiped the sweat and grime from his eyes. Cuttle eased down beside him. ‘Koryk’s head still aches,’ the sapper muttered, ‘but it don’t look like anything’s broken that wasn’t already broken.’
‘Except his helm,’ Fiddler replied.
‘Aye, except that. The only real scrap of the night for our squad, barring a few dozen quarrels loosed. And we didn’t even kill the bastard.’
‘You got too cute, Cuttle.’
The man sighed. ‘Aye, I did. Must be getting old.’
‘That’s what I concluded. Next time, just stab a pig-sticker in the bastard.’
‘Amazed he survived it in any case.’
The pursuit by the Khundryl had taken the Burned Tears far beyond the ridge, and what had begun as a raid against a Malazan army was now a tribal war. Two bells remained before dawn. Infantry had moved out into the basin to collect wounded, retrieve quarrels, and strip down the Malazan corpses-leaving nothing for the enemy to use. The grim, ugly conclusion to every battle, the only mercy the cover of darkness.