‘Shatter!’ bellowed his army.
‘Yes!’ Pin Dollop screamed back.
‘Run shrieking for the hills!’
‘Exactly! Now, follow me, as we charge into legend!’ And he dragged his horse round, set heels to its flanks, and led the wild charge into the mass of ordered legions directly ahead.
This was glory! This was jaw-dropping courage, breathtaking audacity, a charge not just into legend but into the hoary myths that crawled and stumbled their way down through all of history!
His horse tripped over a badger den, throwing the Grand General from the saddle. He landed in a perfect shoulder roll and lithely regained his feet even as he dragged free his shortsword.
Directly ahead, thirty thousand archers nocked arrows.
Laughing fearlessly, Pin Dollop glanced back—
To see his legions shattered, the soldiers flinging down their weapons and running shrieking for the hills.
He spun back round as thirty thousand arrows arced into the sky, all converging on Pin Dollop.
He ducked.
Well disguised beneath a heavy damp cloak, Ophal D’Neeth Flatroq sat perched upon the high saddle, stroking his pet slow-worm, which he kept covered up lest the sight of it frighten one of countless refugees lining the narrow road.
After some time, he sighed and twisted in the saddle. ‘Willl you two thtop gwarrrwing at each other! It wuth awwrll a mithunderthtanding, yeth?’
‘He tried to strangle me!’ snapped Beetle Praata.
‘And he made me groom and water and feed a dead horse!’ retorted Puny Sploor.
‘Oh, bother! Methenger Beetle, find uth a dank cave for the night, willll you? And you, Puny Thploor, clearrr uth a path thwough thethe wefugeeth!’
‘Oh really? And how exactly do I do that?’
‘I don’t know why I keep you on, to be honetht.’
‘You keep me on because I’m the only man in the world who doesn’t throw up at the sight of you eating, oh Failed Ambassador of the Burning City of Farrog!’
Well, Ophal conceded, the man had a point there. He gestured with one gloved hand. ‘Wellll, do the betht you can, then. And you, Methenger, why are you thtill here? A cave, I thaid!’
‘Right,’ Beetle growled, taking up his reins. ‘Another fucking cave. Right. Got it.’ He rode off.
Ophal sighed again. At least Eeemlee his pet slow-worm never complained. He resumed stroking it. Then glanced down to find that it was dead. ‘Puny Thploor, betht look away, ath I am hungwy.’
A full day’s travel from the city of Farrog and Emancipor could still see, when looking back, the pillar of black smoke. He wiped at his itchy, stinging eyes, and glanced at his master who sat beside him on the bench. ‘I have to admit, sir, that I’m glad you didn’t have to kill and maim too many of them citizens before the rest broke and ran.’
‘Mister Reese, your mercy remains a quaint if somewhat tiresome affectation. For myself, I confess to some disappointment. The demons bound in my sword are very frustrated indeed. We shall have to find us another city, or situation, in which to exercise my obligations to them.’
‘Really? When?’
‘Oh, not too soon, I assure you.’ He lifted a hand and gestured ahead. ‘Do you see Korbal there? He rides well the updraghts, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘I think he prefers being a crow to being a man.’
‘On occasion, Mister Reese, I share his bias.’
‘Ain’t noticed that much of late, Master.’
‘Well, it is easier keeping you company this way, Mister Reese, than being a crow balanced upon your rather thin shoulder.’
‘All on account of me, huh? Well, I’m, er, flattered.’
‘As you should be. That said, you must understand, frustration stalks us, alas. Oh, the endless wealth we steal soothes the soul, to be sure. But the true exercise of power, Mister Reese, ah, so fleeting!’
‘Forgiving me being forward and all, Master, but what you two need is a keep somewhere. Impregnable, unassailable, forbidding, suitably haunted.’
‘Hmm, a curious notion, Mister Reese. Mind you, do recall Blearmouth. Oh yes, it all started off well, and our wintering there was most enjoyable, until the infernal Nehemothanai caught wind of us. I admit that I grow weary of staying one step ahead of them, in particular that army and the Mysterious Lady commanding them.’
‘A strong enough keep, sir,’ ventured Emancipor, ‘and you’d not have to worry.’
‘You appear to share our weariness in this endless journey.’
‘Well, Master, it’s all the same to me, to be honest.’
‘Perhaps if Korbal Broach assembled an army of undead …’
‘That’d be fine, sir, if they weren’t so, uh, useless.’
‘Granted, although I warn you not to venture such opinions within hearing of my erstwhile comrade.’
‘Not me, sir. Never. Not a chance.’
‘Now, Mister Reese, I well see your exhaustion. Do retire to the confines of the carriage and get yourself some sleep. I can manage the traces for a time, I assure you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Emancipor said, handing the traces over to his master. He stretched out the kinks in his back. ‘I’ll just have me a pipe first, then, by way of relaxing and whatnot.’
‘Best be quick,’ Bauchelain advised. ‘I am of a mind to take this carriage into a warren, to traverse the wild raging flames of some nether realm, if only to confuse our trail.’
Emancipor stuffed the pipe back into its pouch and made for the carriage door. ‘I can smoke later,’ he said hastily.
‘As you will, Mister Reese. Now then, you may hear the horses screaming. Pay that no mind. They’re used to it.’
Emancipor paused at the door. ‘Aye, sir, and so am I.’
About the Author
Steven Erikson is an archaeologist and anthropologist – and the author of one of the defining works of Epic Fantasy: ‘The Malazan Book of the Fallen’, which has been hailed ‘a masterwork of the imagination’. The first novel in this astonishing ten-book series, Gardens of the Moon, was shortlisted for the World Fantasy Award. He has also written a number of novellas set in the same fantasy world and Willful Child, an affectionate parody of a long-running science fiction television series. Forge of Darkness begins the Kharkanas Trilogy – a series which takes readers back to the origins of the Malazan world. Fall of Light continues this epic tale. Steven Erikson lives in Victoria, Canada.
This edition first published in Great Britain in 2018 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Steven Erikson
Crack’d Pot Trail copyright © 2009
The Wurms of Blearmouth copyright © 2012
The Fiends of Nightmaria copyright © 2016
Cover Illustrations by Steve Stone