‘Aye, sir, I’ll leave you to it, then.’
Riding clear of the press, Gamet brought his horse into a canter and moments later reined in alongside the Adjunct.
The position afforded them a clear view of the enemy emplacements, and, just as they observed, so too in turn were they being watched by a small knot of figures atop the central ramp.
‘How sharp are your eyes, Fist?’ the Adjunct asked.
‘Not sharp enough,’ he replied.
‘Korbolo Dom. Kamist Reloe. Six officers. Kamist has quested in our direction, seeking signs of mages. High Mages, specifically. Of course, given that Nil and Nether are with me, they cannot be found by Kamist Reloe’s sorceries. Tell me, Fist Gamet, how confident do you imagine Korbolo Dom feels right now?’
He studied her a moment. She was in her armour, the visor of her helm lifted, her eyes half-lidded against the bright glare bouncing from the basin’s hard-packed, crackled clay. ‘I would think, Adjunct,’ he replied slowly, ‘that his measure of confidence is wilting.’
She glanced over. ‘Wilting. Why?’
‘Because it all looks too easy. Too overwhelmingly in his favour, Adjunct.’
She fell silent, returning her gaze to the distant enemy.
Is this what she wanted me for? To ask that one question?
Gamet switched his attention to the two Wickans. Nil had grown during the march, leading Gamet to suspect that he would be a tall man in a few years’ time. He wore only a loincloth and looked feral with his wild, unbraided hair and green and black body-paint.
Nether, he realized with some surprise, had filled out beneath her deer-skin hides, a chubbiness that was common to girls before they came of age. The severity of her expression was very nearly fixed now, transforming what should have been a pretty face into a mien forbidding and burdened. Her black hair was shorn close, betokening a vow of grief.
‘Kamist’s questing is done,’ the Adjunct suddenly pronounced. ‘He will need to rest, now.’ She turned in her saddle and by some prearranged signal two Wickan warriors jogged up the slope. Tavore unhitched her sword-belt and passed it to them. They quickly retreated with the otataral weapon.
Reluctantly, Nil and Nether settled cross-legged onto the stony ground.
‘Fist Gamet,’ the Adjunct said, ‘if you would, draw your dagger and spill a few drops from your right palm.’
Without a word he tugged off his gauntlet, slid his dagger from its scabbard and scored the edge across the fleshy part of his hand. Blood welled from the cut. Gamet held it out, watched as the blood spilled down to the ground.
Dizziness struck him and he reeled in the saddle a moment before regaining his balance.
Nether voiced a hiss of surprise.
Gamet glanced down at her. Her eyes were closed, both hands pressed against the sandy ground. Nil had assumed the same posture and on his face flitted a wild sequence of emotions, fixing at last on fear.
The Fist was still feeling light-headed, a faint roaring sound filling his skull.
‘There are spirits here,’ Nil growled. ‘Rising with anger-’
‘A song,’ Nether cut in. ‘Of war, and warriors-’
‘New and old,’ her brother said. ‘So very new… and so very old. Battle and death, again and again-’
‘The land remembers every struggle played out on its surface, on all its surfaces, from the very beginning.’ Nether grimaced, then shivered, her eyes squeezed shut. ‘The goddess is as nothing to this power-yet she would… steal.’
The Adjunct’s voice was sharp. ‘Steal?’
‘The warren,’ Nil replied. ‘She would claim this fragment, and settle it upon this land like a parasite. Roots of shadow, slipping down to draw sustenance, to feed on the land’s memories.’
‘And the spirits will not have it,’ Nether whispered.
‘They are resisting?’ the Adjunct asked.
Both Wickans nodded, then Nil bared his teeth and said, ‘Ghosts cast no shadows. You were right, Adjunct. Gods, you were right!’
Right? Gamet wondered. Right about what?
‘And will they suffice?’ Tavore demanded.
Nil shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Only if the Talon Master does what you think he will do, Adjunct.’
‘Assuming,’ Nether added, ‘Sha’ik is unaware of the viper in her midst.’
‘Had she known,’ Tavore said, ‘she would have separated his head from his shoulders long ago.’
‘Perhaps,’ Nether replied, and Gamet heard the scepticism in her tone. ‘Unless she and her goddess decided to wait until all their enemies were gathered.’
The Adjunct returned her gaze to the distant officers. ‘Let us see, shall we?’
Both Wickans rose, then shared a glance unwitnessed by Tavore.
Gamet rubbed his uncut hand along his brow beneath the helm’s rim, and his fingers came away dripping with sweat. Something had used him, he realized shakily. Through the medium of his blood. He could hear distant music, a song of voices and unrecognizable instruments. A pressure was building in his skull. ‘If you are done with me, Adjunct,’ he said roughly.
She nodded without looking over. ‘Return to your legion, Fist. Convey to your officers, please, the following. Units may appear during the battle on the morrow which you will not recognize. They may seek orders, and you are to give them as if they were under your command.’
‘Understood, Adjunct.’
‘Have a cutter attend to your hand, Fist Gamet, and thank you. Also, ask the guards to return to me my sword.’
‘Aye.’ He wheeled his horse and walked it down the slope.
The headache was not fading, and the song itself seemed to have poisoned his veins, a music of flesh and bone that hinted of madness. Leave me in peace, damn you. I am naught but a soldier. A soldier…
Strings sat on the boulder, his head in his hands. He had flung off the helm but had no memory of having done so, and it lay at his feet, blurry and wavering behind the waves of pain that rose and fell like a storm-tossed sea. Voices were speaking around him, seeking to reach him, but he could make no sense of what was being said. The song had burgeoned sudden and fierce in his skull, flowing through his limbs like fire.
A hand gripped his shoulder, and he felt a sorcerous questing seep into his veins, tentatively at first, then flinching away entirely, only to return with more force-and with it, a spreading silence. Blissful peace, cool and calm.
Finally, the sergeant was able to look up.
He found his squad gathered around him. The hand fixed onto his shoulder was Bottle’s, and the lad’s face was pale, beaded with sweat. Their eyes locked, then Bottle nodded and slowly withdrew his hand.
‘Can you hear me, Sergeant?’
‘Faint, as if you were thirty paces away.’
‘Is the pain gone?’
‘Aye-what did you do?’
Bottle glanced away.
Strings frowned, then said, ‘Everyone else, back to work. Stay here, Bottle.’
Cuttle cuffed Tarr and the corporal straightened and mumbled, ‘Let’s go, soldiers. There’s pits to dig.’
The sergeant and Bottle watched the others head off, retrieving their picks and shovels as they went. The squad was positioned on the south-westernmost island, overlooking dunes that reached out to the horizon. A single, sufficiently wide corridor lay directly to the north, through which the enemy-if broken and fleeing-would come as they left the basin. Just beyond it lay a modest, flat-topped tel, on which a company of mounted desert warriors were ensconced, the crest dotted with scouts keeping a careful eye on the Malazans. ‘All right, Bottle,’ Strings said, ‘out with it.’
‘Spirits, Sergeant. They’re… awakening.’
‘And what in Hood’s name has that got to do with me?’