‘Imotan. Where are the atamans? We should discuss the coming engagement.’
‘You will discuss the matter with me. I have direct authority over all warriors.’
I see. What has been the political infighting there in your encampment these last few days, shaman? Clearly, I have been away for too long. ‘Very well. Let us find a vantage point.’
Imotan nodded to the standard-bearer who dipped the pennant forward. Blood, Toc noted to his distaste, dripped liberally from the skulls and pelts of the macabre standard, having soaked the shoulders and hair of the bearer. The massed bodyguard burst into howls of enthusiasm. Moments later, in the distance the calls were echoed and a great thunder of hooves kicked to life, shaking the ground. All along the north horizon of hilltops and crests of mounds horsemen advanced. Toc stared, his heart lurching; it was a massing such as he could not have imagined. Where had Imotan gathered such numbers? Seemed the coming of their old foe and totemic animal Ryllandaras might have given Imotan limitless reach. The bodyguard surged ahead and Toc and his troop kicked their mounts to join their numbers.
Forward Seti scouts – the small bands Toc had seen riding the grounds – directed Imotan's column to a rise that offered a prospect of the assembling forces. Toc rested his new horse, a slim grey youngling, next to the shaman's large bay. A heavily overcast sky frowned down on a wide, very shallow basin. To the south-east, the top of the tall promontory that supported the Great Sanctuary of Burn could just be made out as a smear of yellow and umber. After jockeying and scouting through the night, elements of both forces had settled on this front in a mutual, unspoken accord. Small flags could even be made out marking the marshalling points for various units. Forward elements from both armies were already forming up.
Opposite, the skirmishers of whom Toc had been hearing so much were pouring into the basin from the south like a flood. So many, Where did Laseen get them all? She must have emptied the gutters of Unta and every town in between. And they seemed eager enough, too. Within their formless tide could be made out the ruled straight columns of marching infantry. Malazan heavies. The very forces he'd counted on in the past to anchor his own light cavalry and skirmishers now arrayed against him. It was an intimidating sight. And what was this? A banner at the fore, the sceptre underscored by a sword! The Sword of the Empire! So it was true. That Fist – what was his name? – from the Seven Cities campaigns had claimed the title. Wait until Urko sees that! He'll wrap the man's own sword around his neck.
Seti bands, Imotan's outriders, had stormed down into the basin and were already beginning to exchange arrow and crossbow fire with the skirmishers. Choss's own light infantry and skirmishers, pitifully few in number, were scrambling to catch up. Three separate columns of Moranth Gold then entered from the west, escorted by troops of Talian cavalry. They made for the centre where the standard of the Sword of the Empire had been planted.
‘That horde of skirmishers must be contained and swept aside,’ Toc told Imotan, who nodded, stroking his grey-shot beard. ‘Our intelligence tells us Laseen hasn't the cavalry to oppose you.’
‘So you say. Yet if that is true then why is she here?’
Toc's brows rose at the question. ‘Well, I suppose I would have to say that she has no choice. She has to oppose us – to do otherwise would be to admit defeat. And that is hardly in her nature.’
‘Is she counting on some hidden asset to deliver her? What of the Kanese?’
Toc shook his head. ‘I don't believe they'll cross. A lot to lose and too little to gain.’
‘They could gain much by arriving in time to deliver her…’
‘Imotan,’ Toc said, gesturing to the battle grounds, ‘once it looks as if she will lose they will throw in with us. If she wins, her rule will be absolute. No one will rise to oppose her for a generation.’
The White Jackal shaman flinched at that, glowering. ‘There is more to this continent than just Tali and Unta.’ He turned to his guards. ‘Send word to the warbands.’ The guard bowed and rode off. ‘What of this mercenary army? Why are they not with us? Didn't Urko offer enough?’
Toc almost laughed, mastering himself in time. ‘The Crimson Guard wants the Empire crushed. That's their goal. I suppose they're thinking – why bloody themselves when we'll mangle each other for them, hey?’
‘Then why not get rid of them?’
‘It's Choss's estimate that despite the Avowed they are not a viable threat. He believes they don't have sufficient forces.’
‘Estimates?’ Imotan echoed. ‘You would gamble when so much is at stake?’
Toc edged up his shoulders in a small shrug. ‘Every engagement is a gamble. You make your best choices and hope you made no major mistakes.’
The shaman grunted a reluctant acceptance of the point. ‘And Laseen? Where is she?’
Toc scanned the east. ‘Hasn't arrived yet. She's probably in the rear.’
A coarse laugh from Imotan. ‘So why don't I send my warriors to the rear and rid us of her?’
‘Because she's probably guarded by all the Claw and mage cadre on the continent, that's why.’
‘Ah, yes,’ the shaman sneered. ‘Your vaunted mages. Where are they now? Where is the Tayschrenn, the Hairloc or the Nightchill now? Why are we even here assembling soldiers when in the old days your mages would turn this valley into an inferno?’
Toc eased his seat in his saddle, eyed the man edgeways. What odd directions the man's thoughts were flying in. Pre-battle jitters, perhaps. ‘We formed rank back then too, Imotan. Even with Tayschrenn. Because mages can't hold territory. In the end, it always comes down to leather on the ground – the plain spearman or army regular. They win the wars.’
‘Myself, I would say otherwise.’ Imotan hooked a leg around the pommel of his saddle. ‘I would say that you Malazans foolishly squandered your talent. Burned them up and drove them mad as your reach exceeded your grasp.’ He regarded Toc squarely. ‘And now you have none left worth the name.’
Toc answered the man's steady gaze from under knitted brows. He wasn't certain how to respond to that claim – or provocation. Could it even be denied? What was the man getting at?
Imotan gestured to the field. ‘Ah. Something is happening.’
Toc glanced down. What was happening was complete murderous chaos. Laseen's skirmishers were not waiting for their own heavies to complete their formations. They charged forward in waves, kneeling and firing, then retiring while the next rank took their place. A steady hail of bolts punished the Gold, who displayed astonishing discipline in retaining ranks. The Talian and Falaran flanking phalanxes were forming clean enough. Toc turned to a staffer. ‘Send word to Urko to sign the advance!’ To Imotan, ‘I'm surprised Laseen unleashed her skirmishers so early; but then she may not have had any say in the matter. They seem to think they can win this battle all on their own. Your warbands should retake the open ground – if you would, Imotan.’
The shaman nodded his assent, signed to a guard who rode off.
Below, signal flags waved frantically between the League elements. As one the Gold drew their heavy curved blades and advanced. Urko seemed to have sent the command already – or V'thell had simply lost patience. The flanking phalanxes moved forward as well, covering them. The skirmishers palpably shrank back. Far across the basin tall Imperial banners signalled Surly – Laseen, Toc corrected himself – entering amid a column of Untan cavalry, many bearing noble banners, and flanked by marching Malazan heavy infantry.
A Talian message rider stormed up to Toc, reined savagely. ‘General Urko inquires as to the disposition of the Seti,’ the man panted, his face flushed.