‘Bait? What do you mean?’
‘They don’t want us, man! They’ve never wanted us.’ He pointed to the mountains. ‘It’s the Moranth! They’re calling out the Moranth!’
K’ess rubbed his chin, nodding. Then he muttered darkly, ‘Knew we should’ve stayed at Dhavran.’
Shouts of alarm sounded and Bendan glanced up. The Seguleh had started up the valley. They came on at a slow jog, double-file. ‘Would ya look at that,’ Bone murmured from nearby. ‘Beautiful. Done for the Rhivi and now comin’ to finish us off.’
‘Shut up,’ Bendan snapped.
‘What’s that?’ Bone answered, grinning. ‘Thought you was all for butchery.’
‘Not like this.’
‘Aw. Not so pleasant when it’s you gettin’ pummelled, hey?’
‘I mean not like this!’ He thrust a hand behind them. ‘What’re we doin’ here? There’s nothing here but rocks. What’s the point?’
‘Point is we stood up,’ Hektar answered. Then he tilted his head, listening. ‘Swear I hear somethin’.’
Torvald held on for his life as the Silver sent her quorl stooping down the mountain slope, scudding over trees and stone outcroppings with barely an arm’s length to spare. They turned and the valley came into his sight ahead. The Seguleh were advancing in column on the Malazans, who had formed a new line, a much thinner line, along higher rough ground.
‘Open the satchel,’ Galene shouted over the wind tearing at them.
Arms wrapped in the leather strapping, his hands free, Tor reached for the heavy-duty leather pack tied to the saddle between them. He undid the metal clasps and opened the mouth of the pack. What he saw nestled within made him jump and the quorl jerked in answer, weaving unsteadily in its flight.
‘Careful!’ Galene called loudly, her voice pitched rather higher.
His gaze slit, Torvald peered down at the valley swooping up to meet them, the diminutive figures moving there, and he shook his head. ‘No. I won’t do it,’ he shouted.
Galene turned awkwardly in the saddle to glance back at him. ‘Take it out!’ she ordered, fierce.
‘No! How can you even consider-’ and he choked, his heart strangling him, as the quorl curved sideways, turning and diving as if meaning to smash into the valley floor below. Behind them, flight after flight of burdened quorl followed, all flitting downslope in a careering, rushing stream.
‘Night-damned arm,’ Bendan snarled, as he tried to raise his shield higher.
‘What’s that?’ Hektar asked.
‘Ach — took a slash on the shield arm. Now I can’t get it high enough!’
‘Use your belt. Strap it and tie it off.’
Bendan grunted. ‘Right. But then … what am I gonna do after?’
The big Dal Hon turned in his direction as if staring though his eyes were gone. Bendan ducked his head. ‘Ah. Right.’ Then he jerked, surprised. ‘Would ya look at that!’ He rose from his crouch pointing skyward where curve after curve of Moranth quorls came arching down the valley. They appeared to be swooping in on the closing Seguleh.
Bone straightened, shading his gaze. ‘Oh, no …’ he whispered.
‘What is it?’ Hektar asked, peering wildly about, his sword ready.
‘Moranth flyin’ in on their monster mounts,’ Bendan told him. ‘Gonna land and rush the Seguleh!’ He threw up his one good arm, shouting: ‘Yah!’
‘No, they aren’t,’ Bone said, his voice shaky. ‘Burn forgive us … The poor bastards …’
Bendan eyed him, frowning. ‘What’s that?’
The grizzled saboteur was hugging himself, backing away among the tall boulders. ‘Slaughter … Hood-damned slaughter!’
‘What’s the matter, man?’
The saboteur pointed to him. ‘Take cover,’ he ordered. ‘All o’ you take cover.’ He ran off up the lines, shouting as he went: ‘Get cover now, damn you all!’
Yet the lines were stirring, readying shields, regripping weapons. For the Seguleh were close now.
Galene reached behind herself one-handed to pull the fat oblong from its pack. Ducking from the driving wind, Tor grasped it in both hands, hugging it. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘It’s murder!’
‘Let go, fool!’ The quorl weaved drunkenly. Treetops slashed by beneath, almost striking Tor’s boots. The impossible storm of wind threatened to sweep him from the saddle. ‘This is war,’ she grated. ‘Our survival!’
‘But they stand no chance!’
She yanked the cusser free. ‘Then they should not have taken up the sword.’
The quorl dived even lower now. Tor rose off his seat in the descent. Just ahead the Seguleh column was spreading out. They now appeared so close, and he was rushing in upon them at such a ferocious speed, it seemed to him that they would collide. Before him the valley head rose rocky and steep, thin streams darkening the stone wall here and there. At its foot the Malazan line stood firm in their black surcoats, shields overlapping. Tor spared one quick glance back: line after line of quorl followed, their Silver drivers hunched forward as if racing, Red and Black passengers behind cradling the fat munitions in their arms.
Galene raised the cusser in both hands. The slashing wind snapped her flying jesses and straps about her armoured form.
Sword in hand, Aragan turned from the panting veteran saboteur to stare down into the valley. He took in the jogging Seguleh. Then, above, the swooping Moranth. And he felt as if he would faint. Oh, Hood, no … So close … He staggered forward, threw his arms out, bellowing: ‘Take cover now! Cover!’
Bendan felt himself bending backwards further and further as the Moranth quorl seemed to be coming straight for him personally. He saw riders throwing and dark objects tumbling through the air as the quorl tore overhead, so low it seemed he could stretch up and touch their delicate thrumming wingtips. He yanked Hektar — the only man still standing — down among the rearing jumbled boulders and bellowed in his ear over the roaring: ‘Shield!’
An enormous invisible wall struck Bendan, smashing him down into the rocks. His shield bashed him in the face, stunning him. Stones and dirt and thick choking clouds of dust came billowing over him and he coughed, spitting, and shaking his ringing pummelled head. Multiple blasts punished him, driving him down into the surrounding broken rocks, punching the breath from him.
He didn’t know if he lost consciousness, but at some point he realized that it seemed to be over. He’d been waiting, tensed, curled into a ball beneath his shield, for yet another concussion that never came. He dared to raise his head. Dirt and gravel tumbled from his back. He shook it from his hair and staggered up. All was obscured in hanging drifting smoke and swirling dust. He could hear nothing over the punishing ringing in his ears. He spat again, blinking, holding his chest where his ribs ached from the concussive waves that had battered him.
A huge shape shambled upright nearby, dirt sifting from him: Hektar, arms out, blindly searching about the rocks. Bendan clasped his arm. ‘I’m here,’ he croaked.
The Dal Hon wiped his face where a clear wetness had cut through the dirt caked beneath his bloodied wrappings. ‘Poor bastards,’ he was saying. ‘Poor fucking bastards.’
It occurred to Bendan that the man was crying.
Torvald had pressed himself to Galene’s back, one arm around her, the other clasping one of the saddle grips. He squeezed his eyes closed to miss their dizzying near vertical climb scudding over the naked rock face of the valley head. He felt the pressure wave of the multiple eruptions behind him. It was like a hand pressing him into the Moranth Silver and rushing the quorl along like a great tidal push.
Cold wetness chilled his cheeks in the slashing wind and he knew that he was weeping. Galene shifted in the saddle and adjusted the jesses and the quorl tilted, arching backwards. It seemed that they were turning round.