‘It is Corabb!’ He had been given a hook-bladed sword drawn from the Chosen One’s armoury, and he now raised it high in salute as the picket guards emerged from their places of hiding. ‘I must speak with Leoman! Where is he?’
‘Asleep,’ one of the sentinels growled. ‘If you’re lucky, Bhilan, your arrival, loud as it was, has awakened him. Ride to the centre of the summit, but leave your escort here.’
That brought Corabb up short. ‘They are Mathok’s own-’
‘Leoman’s orders. No-one from the oasis is allowed to enter our camp.’
Scowling, Corabb nodded and waved back his fellow horse warriors. ‘Take no offence, friends,’ he called, ‘I beg you.’ Without waiting to gauge their reaction, he dismounted and hurried to Leoman’s tent.
The warleader was standing outside the flap, drinking deep from a waterskin. He was out of his armour, wearing only a thin, sweat-stained linen shirt.
Corabb halted before him. ‘There is much to tell you, Leoman of the Flails.’
‘Out with it, then,’ Leoman replied when he’d finished drinking.
‘I was your only messenger to survive to reach Sha’ik. She has had a change of heart-she now commands that you lead the Army of the Apocalpyse come the morrow. She would have you, not Korbolo Dom, leading us to victory.’
‘Would she now,’ he drawled, then squinted and looked away. ‘The Napan has his assassins between us and Sha’ik?’
‘Aye, but they will not challenge our entire force-they would be mad to attempt such a thing.’
‘True. And Korbolo Dom knows this-’
‘He has not yet been informed of the change of command-at least he hadn’t when I left. Although Sha’ik had issued a demand for his presence-’
‘Which he will ignore. As for the rest, the Napan knows. Tell me, Corabb, do you think his Dogslayers will follow any other commander?’
‘They shall have no choice! The Chosen One has so ordered!’
Leoman slowly nodded. Then he turned back to his tent. ‘Break camp. We ride to Sha’ik.’
Exultation filled Corabb’s chest. Tomorrow would belong to Leoman of the Flails. ‘As it should be,’ he whispered.
Kalam stepped outside. His clothes were in tatters, but he was whole. Though decidedly shaken. He had always considered himself one of the ablest of assassins, and he had drawn a blade against a veritable host of inimical, deadly foes over the years. But Cotillion had put him to shame.
No wonder the bastard’s a god. Hood’s breath, I’ve never before seen such skill. And that damned rope!
Kalam drew a deep breath. He had done as the Patron of Assassins had asked. He had found the source of the threat to the Realm of Shadow. Or at least confirmed a host of suspicions. This fragment of Kurald Emurlahn will be the path to usurpation… by none other than the Crippled God. The House of Chains had come into play, and the world had grown very fraught indeed.
He shook himself. Leave that to Cotillion and Ammanas. He had other, more immediate tasks to attend to this night. And the Patron of Assassins had been kind enough to deliver a pair of Kalam’s favourite weapons…
His eyes lit upon the leprous corpse lying a half-dozen paces away, then narrowed. Kalam moved closer. Gods below, that is some wound. If I didn’t know better, I’d say from the sword of a T’lan Imass. The blood was thickening, soaking up dust from the flagstones.
Kalam paused to think. Korbolo Dom would not establish his army’s camp among the ruins of this city. Nor in the stone forest to the west. The Napan would want an area both clear and level, with sufficient room for banking and trenches, and open lines of sight.
East, then, what had once been irrigated fields for the city, long ago.
He swung in that direction and set out.
From one pool of darkness to the next, along strangely empty streets and alleys. Heavy layers of sorcery had settled upon this oasis, seeming to flow in streams-some of them so thick that Kalam found himself leaning forward in order to push his way through. A miasma of currents, mixed beyond recognition, and none of them palatable. His bones ached, his head hurt, and his eyes felt as if someone was stirring hot sand behind them.
He found a well-trod track heading due east and followed it, staying to one side where the shadows were deep. Then saw, two hundred paces ahead, a fortified embankment.
Malazan layout. That, Napan, was a mistake.
He was about to draw closer when he saw the vanguard to a company emerge through the gate. Soldiers on foot followed, flanked by lancers.
Kalam ducked into an alley.
The troop marched past at half-pace, weapons muffled, the horses’ hoofs leather-socked. Curious, but the fewer soldiers in the camp the better, as far as he was concerned. It was likely that all but the reserve companies would have been ensconced in their positions overlooking the field of battle. Of course, Korbolo Dom would not be careless when it came to protecting himself.
He calls himself master of the Talon, after all. Not that Cotillion, who was Dancer, knows a damned thing about them. Sparing the revelation only a sneer.
The last of the soldiers filed past. Kalam waited another fifty heartbeats, then he set out towards the Dogslayer encampment.
The embankment was preceded by a steep-sided trench. Sufficient encumbrance to a charging army, but only a minor inconvenience to a lone assassin. He clambered down, across, then up the far side, halting just beneath the crest-line.
There would be pickets. The gate was thirty paces on his left, lantern-lit. He moved to just beyond the light’s range, then edged up onto the bank. A guard patrolled within sight on his right, not close enough to spot the assassin as he squirmed across the hard-packed, sun-baked earth to the far edge.
Another trench, this one shallower, and beyond lay the ordered ranks of tents, the very centre of the grid dominated by a larger command tent.
Kalam made his way into the camp.
As he had suspected, most of the tents were empty, and before long he was crouched opposite the wide street encircling the command tent.
Guards lined every side, five paces apart, assault crossbows cocked and cradled in arms. Torches burned on poles every ten paces, bathing the street in flickering light. Three additional figures blocked the doorway, grey-clad and bearing no visible weapons.
Flesh and blood cordon… then sorcerous wards. Well, one thing at a time.
He drew out his pair of ribless crossbows. A Claw’s weapons, screw-torqued, the metal blackened. He set the quarrels in their grooves and carefully cocked both weapons. Then settled back to give the situation some thought.
Even as he watched he saw the air swirl before the command tent’s entrance, and a portal opened. Blinding white light, the flare of fire, then Kamist Reloe emerged. The portal contracted behind him, then winked out.
The mage looked exhausted but strangely triumphant. He gestured at the guards then strode into the tent. The three grey-clothed assassins followed the mage inside.
A hand light as a leaf settled on Kalam’s shoulder, and a voice rasped, ‘Eyes forward, soldier.’
He knew that voice, from more years back than he’d like to think. But that bastard’s dead. Dead before Surly took the throne.
‘Granted,’ the voice continued, and Kalam knew that acid-spattered face was grinning, ‘no love’s lost between me and the company I’m sharing… again. Figured I’d seen the last of every damn one of them… and you. Well, never mind that. Need a way in there, right? Best we mount a diversion, then. Give us fifty heartbeats… at least you can count those, Corporal.’ The hand lifted away.