Screams on all sides, strangely muted, almost faint. Sounds of battle, yet they seemed a league distant, as if carried on the wind. Gamet swung his sword, his eyes meeting those of Dogslayers, seeing the horror writ there. Watching mouths open to shriek, yet hardly any sound came forth, as if the sands were swallowing everything, absorbing sound as eagerly as they did blood and bile.
Masses surged over the trenches, blackened swords swinging and chopping down. The ramp to the east had been overrun by the Wickans. Gamet saw the waving standards and grinned. Crow. Foolish Dog. Weasel.
Out of the impenetrably black sky descended butterflies, in swarms, to flit above the carnage in the trenches.
On the ramp to the west there was the flash of Moranth munitions, sending grim reverberations through the earth, and Gamet could watch the slaughter over there, a scene panoramic and dulled, as if he was looking upon a mural-a painting where ancient armies warred in eternal battle.
They had come for the Dogslayers. For the butcherers of unarmed Malazans, soldier and civilian, the stubborn and the fleeing, the desperate and the helpless. The Dogslayers, who had given their souls to betrayal.
The fight raged on, but it was overwhelmingly one-sided. The enemy seemed strangely incapable of mustering any kind of defence. They simply died in their trenches, or seeking to retreat they were run down after but a few strides. Skewered by lances, javelins. Trampled beneath chopping hoofs.
Gamet understood their horror, saw with a certain satisfaction the terror in their faces as he and his comrades delivered death.
He could hear the battle song now, rising and falling like waves on a pebbled shore, yet building towards a climax yet to come-yet to come, but soon. Soon. Yes, we’ve needed a song. We’ve waited a long time for such a song. To honour our deeds, our struggles. Our lives and our deaths. We’ve needed our own voice, so that our spirits could march, march ever onward.
To battle.
To war.
Manning these walls of crumbled brick and sand. Defending the bone-dry harbours and the dead cities that once blazed with ancient dreams, that once flickered life’s reflection on the warm, shallow sea.
Even memories need to be defended.
Even memories.
He fought on, side by side with his dark warrior companions-and so grew to love them, these stalwart comrades, and when at last the dragon-helmed horse warrior rode up and reined in before him, Gamet whirled his sword in greeting.
The rider laughed once again. Reached up a blood-spattered, gauntleted hand, and raised the visor-to reveal the face of a dark-skinned woman, her eyes a stunning blue within a web of desert lines.
‘There are more!’ Gamet shouted-though even to his own ears his voice sounded far away. ‘More enemies! We must ride!’
Her teeth flashed white as she laughed again. ‘Not the tribes, my friend! They are kin. This battle is done-others will shed blood come the morrow. We march to the shores, soldier-will you join us?’
He saw more than professional interest in her eyes.
‘I shall.’
‘You would leave your friends, Gamet Ul’Paran?’
‘For you, yes.’
Her smile, and the laugh that followed, stole the old man’s heart.
A final glance to the other ramps showed no movement. The Wickans to the east had ridden on, although a lone crow was wheeling overhead. The Malazans to the west had withdrawn. And the butterflies had vanished. In the trenches of the Dogslayers, an hour before dawn, only the dead remained.
Vengeance. She will be pleased. She will understand, and be pleased.
As am I.
Goodbye, Adjunct Tavore.
Koryk slowly settled down beside him, stared northeastward as if seeking to discover what so held the man’s attention. ‘What is it?’ he asked after a time. ‘What are you looking at, Sergeant?’
Fiddler wiped at his eyes. ‘Nothing… or nothing that makes sense.’
‘We’re not going to see battle in the morning, are we?’
He glanced over, studied the young Seti’s hard-edged features, wanting to see something in them, though he was not quite certain what. After a moment, he sighed and shrugged. ‘The glory of battle, Koryk, dwells only in the bard’s voice, in the teller’s woven words. Glory belongs to ghosts and poets. What you hear and dream isn’t the same as what you live-blur the distinction at your own peril, lad.’
‘You’ve been a soldier all your life, Sergeant. If it doesn’t ease a thirst within you, why are you here?’
‘I’ve no answer to that,’ Fiddler admitted. ‘I think, maybe, I was called here.’
‘That song Bottle said you were hearing?’
‘Aye.’
‘What does it mean? That song?’
‘Quick Ben will have a better answer to that, I think. But my gut is whispering one thing over and over again. The Bridgeburners, lad, have ascended.’
Koryk made a warding sign and edged away slightly.
‘Or, at least, the dead ones have. The rest of us, we’re just… malingering. Here in the mortal realm.’
‘Expecting to die soon, then?’
Fiddler grunted. ‘Wasn’t planning on it.’
‘Good, because we like our sergeant just fine.’
The Seti moved away. Fiddler returned his gaze to the distant oasis. Appreciate that, lad. He narrowed his eyes, but the darkness defied him. Something was going on there. Feels as if… as if friends are fighting. I can almost hear sounds of battle. Almost.
Suddenly, two howls rose into the night.
Fiddler was on his feet. ‘Hood’s breath!’
From Smiles: ‘Gods, what was that?’
No. Couldn’t have been. But…
And then the darkness above the oasis began to change.
The row of horse warriors rode up before them amidst swirling dust, the horses stamping and tossing heads in jittery fear.
Beside him, Leoman of the Flails raised a hand to halt his company, then gestured Corabb to follow as he trotted his mount towards the newcomers.
Mathok nodded in greeting. ‘We have missed you, Leoman-’
‘My shaman has fallen unconcious,’ Leoman cut in. ‘He chose oblivion over terror. What is going on in the oasis, Mathok?’
The warleader made a warding sign. ‘Raraku has awakened. Ghosts have risen, the Holy Desert’s very own memories.’
‘And who is their enemy?’
Mathok shook his head. ‘Betrayal upon betrayal, Leoman. I have withdrawn my warriors from the oasis and encamped them between Sha’ik and the Malazans. Chaos has claimed all else-’
‘So you do not have an answer for me.’
‘I fear the battle is already lost-’
‘Sha’ik?’
‘I have the Book with me. I am sworn to protect it.’
Leoman frowned.
Shifting on his saddle, Corabb glared northeastward. Preternatural darkness engulfed the oasis, and it seemed to swarm as if filled with living creatures, winged shadows, spectral demons. And on the ground beneath, he thought he could see the movement of masses of soldiery. Corabb shivered.
‘To Y’Ghatan?’ Leoman asked.
Mathok nodded. ‘With my own tribe as escort. Leaving almost nine thousand desert warriors at your disposal… for you to command.’
But Leoman shook his head. ‘This battle will belong to the Dogslayers, Mathok. There is no choice left to me. I have not the time to greatly modify our tactics. The positions are set-she waited too long. You did not answer me, Mathok. What of Sha’ik?’
‘The goddess holds her still,’ the warleader replied. ‘Even Korbolo Dom’s assassins cannot get to her.’