How he longed for a fire! A hot meal, something to warm his hands over. But some bastard had forbidden all fires. That bastard being he. But they’d arrived. They’d made it. And though tired, wrung out, he judged his men and women angry and damned irritated enough to still look forward to a fight.
And the entire time young Kyle, the Adjunct, had ridden with him, though usually keeping to the extreme lead elements. He was an awkward rider, clearly not used to horses, but freakishly hardy, able to ride all day then walk the perimeter through the night. In his opinion the youth may not have the tactical experience to command, but what he did have could not be learned: that certain something that made men and women willing to follow his orders. Rillish saw how the troopers regarded him, the deference, the way their eyes tracked that weapon at his hip. It was similar to the way they acted in Greymane’s presence.
It was a regard that were he, Rillish, a lesser man would drive him to a petty and galling resentment. He pulled a boot off and wriggled his toes. Good thing he wasn’t so inclined. He was just a gentleman trooper, here to do his people right, then retire and get contentedly fat. He may not like the Adjunct’s choosing to accompany the squads tasked with preserving the bridge, but he could hardly stop him. Another commander might have taken the action as some sort of personal affront, or dismissed the youth as a glory-chaser. But the truth was that the contingent had a low chance for survival, and the Adjunct’s presence could help greatly. He would have gone himself but for Greymane’s orders placing him in command of the attack meant to draw attention from the bridge teams. He would lead the probe against the extreme easterly lines while the majority of his forces waited in the north for a drive to the bridge. Ahead of everyone, though, five squads would float down the Ancy to the bridge and once there act to preserve it from any possible demolition. Captain Betteries had outlined what he had in mind and he was satisfied with the man’s choices. It would be a small force counting on secrecy, but should something arise signals had been established.
Rillish rummaged in a saddlebag and unwrapped an old bruised pear. Biting into it reverently, he held the sweet flesh of the fruit in his mouth, tried to ease the tension from his shoulders. Nectar. Absolute nectar. He could look forward to four hours or so of sleep before the night attack. And he would sleep; the troops knew their jobs. He was now in that enviable, but difficult, command position of seeming irrelevancy. The challenge for him was to refrain from interfering and to trust the men and women to do the right thing.
Another problem was that on paper he commanded all the Fourth’s elements. But in truth his charging advance had spread his command over several days’ march. Flash floods had cut off sections of the columns, delaying their advance for days. Tremors had sent landslides across paths down steep valley sides, mangling and stranding units. It was as if the very land were battling them — at least here in the north. The result was that he currently had with him at the leading edge of his spear-like dash less than three thousand soldiers of the Fourth. Indeed, had the Skolati mustered the will and coordination for a counter-offensive, they could have found him embarrassingly exposed.
But they hadn’t. That had been Greymane’s throw. He had judged the Skolati shattered and proceeded upon the assumption. And privately Rillish agreed. Not that he had to — it just made his job a little bit easier to bear.
Communiques from the main body under Greymane put the van of his forces still two days’ march away — a distance the High Fist intended to cross in one day and night of continuous forced march beginning immediately. Thus Rillish’s orders. Hold until the High Fist arrived with the van. If they were to choose to destroy the bridge, they would do so tomorrow. Every hour thereafter strengthened Greymane’s position as more and more of the Fourth and the Eighth dribbled in.
These messengers also talked among the men before returning, and it appeared that Greymane’s reputation among the troops had gained an even greater burnishing. Soldiers, being the inveterate superstitious lot they were, attributed their good luck in avoiding the worst of these strange manifestations of flood and earth tremors to Greymane’s, and his High Mage’s, protection. A comparison Rillish might also choose to resent. But he was of the mind that anything that strengthened the morale of the troops was to be encouraged, even if he personally came out the worse for it.
He finished the pear, said goodnight to his aides, then rolled up in his blanket and promptly fell asleep.
*
At their camp among the rocks Suth sat with the rest of the 17th and thought about what to do before the night wake-up call. They and four other squads had been selected to make for the bridge. Some fifty or so men and women, give or take. He doubted, for example, that Faro would show, though Pyke was still with them — to everyone’s disgust. Should he try to sleep? Why bother when he knew he wouldn’t? He eyed Wess, who was taking his time preparing a long-stemmed pipe. The herbs going into that bowl might help him sleep but he couldn’t face the river half numb. To one side Dim was already asleep, while Lard was steadily working through his remaining stash of food. Sergeant Goss sat in low conversation with Len and Keri; discussing the bridge no doubt.
Then Pyke sent up a low laugh, pointing aside. ‘Look who’s here, Yana. It’s your boyfriend! Dragging his sorry arse back for a grab at yours.’
It was a stoop-shouldered hulking trooper from the 5th, shaggy-headed like the great horned cattle of the Dal Hon savannah. Suth couldn’t remember the fellow’s name. Gipe, something like that. Yana stood, flicked Pyke a gesture, faced the fellow hands on hips.
‘What have you got to say, then?’ she demanded.
The fellow hung his head, kicked at the ground. ‘Sorry. I guess.’
‘Sorry,’ Yana echoed. She crossed her arms. ‘You’re sorry?’
‘Yeah!’ He looked up all sullen; then, eyeing Yana, his expression melted away to a kind of hurt mope. ‘Yeah.’
Shaking her head, Yana stepped up to take his head in her hands and planted a great kiss on his lips. ‘Silly fool! You just had to say so!’
The consternation mixed with delight that played across the man’s unguarded face almost made Suth laugh out loud. Helpless. Utterly helpless in her hands.
They linked arms and Yana scooped up her bedroll as they walked off.
‘Brainless oaf,’ Pyke said. ‘Probably doesn’t even remember what he’s supposed to be sorry for.’
‘It ain’t the what of it that matters,’ Wess commented from where he lay on his side, eyes closed, pipe cradled gently in one hand.
Pyke wrinkled his face. ‘What in Hood’s name is that supposed to mean?’
Keri walked up holding a blanket at her shoulders. She was eyeing the retreating couple and stopped before Suth. ‘They make up again?’
Suth nodded. ‘Yeah. Again?’
The woman had a strange sort of half-smile on her lips as she looked down at him. ‘Yeah. They always make up before every standing battle then have a big ol’ fight afterwards and break up.’
Suth snorted. These Malazan soldiers — the oddest lot of misfits all jammed together.
‘Me, I get all tense. Can’t sleep. What about you?’
Shrugging, Suth had almost said no, not really, when he looked up at the woman standing over him in the blanket, her shirt untucked and untied, and the words died in his mouth. He swallowed and stammered, ‘Yeah. Me too. Tense.’
The smile broadened and as she reached down he reached up and they entwined arms. ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘I know a way to work off all that tension. And bring your blanket — I don’t want to freeze my arse off.’