Stragglers were still emerging—three, two, a lone wounded warrior slumped over his saddle, two more.
The soldiers of the garrison had not understood how to meet a cavalry charge. It was as if they had never before seen such a thing, gaping at the precise execution, the deadly timing of the javelins launched when the two sides were but a dozen paces apart. The Bolkando line—formed up across the main street—had crumpled as the barbed javelins punched through shield and scale armour, as figures reeled, buckled and fouled others.
The Khundryl warhorses and their howling, scimitar-slashing riders then smashed into that tattered formation.
A slaughter. Until the rear sections of the Bolkando dispersed, scattering into clumps, pelting into the side avenues, the alleys, the sheltered mouths of stone-faced shops. The battle broke up then, knots spinning away. Khundryl warriors were forced to dismount, unable to press into the narrower alleys, or draw back out into the open soldiers crouched behind drawn-up shields in the niches of doorways. Still outnumbered, warriors of the Burned Tears began falling.
It had taken most of the morning to hunt down and butcher the last garrison soldier. And barely a bell to murder the townsfolk who had not fled—who had, presumably, imagined that seventy-five soldiers would prevail against a mere thirty savages—and then set fire to the town, roasting alive the few who had successfully hidden themselves.
Such scenes, Vedith knew, were raging across the entire countryside now. No one was spared, and to deliver the message in the clearest way imaginable, every Bolkando farm was being stripped of anything and everything edible or otherwise useful. The revolt had been ignited by the latest Bolkando price hike—a hundred per cent, applicable only to the Khundryl—on all necessities, including fodder for the horses. Revile us, yes, even as you take our silver and gold.
He had a dozen warriors with him now, one of them likely to die soon—well before they reached the encampment. And thick splinters rode up his forearm like extra longbones, pain throbbing.
Yes, the losses had been high. But then, what other troop had attacked a garrisoned town?
Still, he wondered if, perhaps, the Burned Tears had kicked awake the wrong nest.
‘Bind Sidab’s wounds,’ he now said in a growl. ‘Has he his sword?’
‘He has, Vedith.’
‘Give it to me—mine broke.’
Although he was dying and knew it, Sidab lifted his head at this and showed Vedith a red smile.
‘It shall weight my hand as did my father’s sword,’ Vedith said. ‘I shall wield it with pride, Sidab.’
The man nodded, smile fading. He coughed out a gout of blood and then slid out of his saddle, thumping heavily on to the cobbled road.
‘Sidab stays behind.’
The others nodded and spat to make a circle round the corpse, thus sanctifying the ground, completing the only funeral ceremony needed for Khundryl warriors on the path of war. Vedith reached out and took up the reins of Sidab’s horse. He would take the beast as well, and ride it, to ease his own mount’s discomfort. ‘We return to Warleader Gall. Our words shall make his eyes shine.’
Warleader Gall sagged back into his antler and rope throne, the knots creaking. ‘Coltaine’s sweet breath,’ he sighed, squeezing shut his eyes.
Jarabb, Tear Runner to the warleader and the only other occupant of Gall’s tent, removed his helmet, and then the padded doeskin cap, and raked thick fingers through his hair, before stepping forward and dropping to one knee. ‘Command me,’ he said.
Gall groaned. ‘Not now, Jarabb. The time for play’s over—my Fall-damned young braves have given us a war. Twenty raids have howled back into camp, sacks filled with hens and pups and whatnot. I’d wager nigh on a thousand innocent farmers and villagers already dead—’
‘And hundreds of soldiers, Warleader,’ reminded Jarabb. ‘The fortlets burn—’
‘And I’ve been coughing from the smoke all morning—we didn’t need to torch them—that timber would have been useful. So we spit and snarl like a desert lynx in her lair, and what do you think King Tarkulf is going to do? Wait, never mind him—the man’s got fungi for brains—it’s the Chancellor and his cute Conquestor we have to worry about. Let me tell you what they’ll do, Jarabb. They won’t demand we return to this camp. They won’t insist on reparations and blood-coin. No, they’ll raise an army and march straight for us.’
‘Warleader,’ Jarabb said, straightening, ‘wildlands beckon us north and east—once out on the plains, no one can catch us.’
‘All very well, but these Bolkando aren’t our enemy. They were supplying us—’
‘We loot all we can before fleeing.’
‘And won’t the Adjunct be thrilled by how we’ve smoothed the sand before her. This is a mess, Jarabb. A mess.’
‘What, then, will you do, Warleader?’
Gall finally opened his eyes, blinked, and then coughed. After a moment he said, ‘I won’t try to mend what cannot be undone. This aids the Adjunct nothing. No, we need to seize the bull’s cock.’ He surged to his feet, collected up his crow-feather cloak. ‘Break this camp—kill all livestock and start curing the meat. It will be weeks before the Bolkando muster the numbers they need against us. To ensure safe passage of the Bonehunters—not to mention the Grey Helms—we’re going to march on the capital. We’re going to pose such a threat that Tarkulf voids his bladder and overrules his advisors—I want the King thinking he might be facing a three-pronged invasion of his piss-ass latrine pit of a kingdom.’
Jarabb smiled. He could see the embers glowing in his warleader’s dark eyes. Which meant that, once all the orders were barked and all the other runners were scrambling dust-trails, Gall’s mood would be much improved.
Sufficient, perhaps, to once more invite some . . . play.
All he need do was make sure the old man’s wife was nowhere close.
Shield Anvil Tanakalian shifted uncomfortably beneath his chain surcoat. The quilted underpadding had worn through on his right shoulder—he should have patched it this morning and would have done so had he not been so eager to witness the landing of the first cohort of Grey Helms on this wretched ground.
For all his haste he found Mortal Sword Krughava already positioned on the rise overlooking the shoreline, red-faced beneath her heavy helm. Though the sun was barely above the mountain peaks to the east, the air was stifling, oppressive, swarming with sand flies. As he approached he could see in her eyes the doom of countless epic poems, as if she had devoted her life to absorbing the tragedies of a thousand years’ worth of fallen civilizations, finding the taste savagely pleasing.
Yes, she was a holy terror, this hard, iron woman.
Upon arriving at her side, he bowed in greeting. ‘Mortal Sword. This is a portentous occasion.’
‘Yet but two of us stand here, sir,’ she rumbled in reply, ‘when there should be three.’
He nodded. ‘A new Destriant must be chosen. Who among the elders have you considered, Mortal Sword?’
Four squat, broad-beamed avars—the landing craft of the Thrones of War—were fast closing on the channel wending through the mud flats, oar blades flashing. The tide wasn’t cooperating at all. The bay should be swelling with inflow; instead the water churned, as if confused. Tanakalian squinted at the lead avar, expecting it to run aground at any moment. The heavily burdened brothers and sisters would have to disembark and then slog on foot—he wondered how deep the mud was out there.
‘I am undecided,’ Krughava finally admitted. ‘None of our elders happens to be very old.’
True enough. This long sea voyage had worn through the lives of a score or more of the most ancient brothers and sisters. Tanakalian swung round to study the two encampments situated two thousand paces inland, one on this side of the river and the other on the opposite, west side. As yet there had been no direct contact with the Akrynnai delegation—if the mob of spike-haired, endlessly singing, spear-waving barbarians truly justified such an honorific. So long as they sta
yed on the other side of the river, the Akrynnai could sing until the mountains sank into the sea.
The Bolkando camp, an ever burgeoning city of gaudy tents, was already aswarm—as if the imminent landing of the Perish had sent them into a frenzy. Strange people, these Bolkando. Scar-faced yet effete, polite yet clearly bloodthirsty. Tanakalian did not trust them, and it looked as if their escort through the mountain passes and into the kingdom amounted to an entire army—three or four thousand strong—and though he didn’t think the average Bolkando soldier could hope to match a Grey Helm, still their sheer numbers were cause for concern. ‘Mortal Sword,’ he said, facing her once more, ‘do we march into betrayal?’
‘This journey must be considered one through hostile territory, Shield Anvil. We will march in armour, weapons at hand. Should the Bolkando escort precede us into the pass, then I shall have no cause for worry. Should they divide to form advance and rear elements, I will be forced to take measure of the strength of that rearguard. If it is modest then we need have little concern. If it is overstrength relative to the advance element, then one must consider the possibility that a second army awaits us at the far end of the pass. Given,’ she added, ‘that we must travel in column, such an ambush would put us at a disadvantage, initially at least.’
‘We had best hope,’ observed Tanakalian, ‘that they intend treating with us honourably.’
‘If not, they will regret their temerity, sir.’
Three legions, eighteen cohorts and three supply companies. Five thousand brothers and sisters in the land force. The remaining legions would accompany the Thrones of War on the ill-mapped sea-lanes south of the coast, seeking the Pelasiar Sea. It had been the judgement of both the Adjunct and Krughava that the Burned Tears needed support. Given the reported scarcity of resources in the Wastelands, the Bonehunters would travel independent of the more southerly forces consisting of the Khundryl mounted and the Perish foot legions. The two elements would march eastward on parallel tracks, with perhaps twenty leagues between them, until reaching the borders of the first kingdom beyond the Wastelands.
In Krughava’s mind, Tanakalian well knew, a holy war awaited them, the singular purpose of their existence, and upon that foreign soil the Grey Helms would find their glory, their heroic triumph in service to the Wolves of Winter. He shared with her that sense of purpose, fate’s bold promise, and like her he did not fear war. They were trained in the ways of violence, sworn to those cusps of history hacked into shape on battlefields. With sword and will, they could change the world. Such was the truth of war, for all that soft fools might wish otherwise, might dream of peace and harmony between strangers.
Romantics with their wishful notions invariably delivered the asp’s bite, whether they sought to or not. Hope and faith seeped through like the sweetest nectar, only to sour into vile poison. Most virtues, Tanakalian well knew, were defenceless. Abused and corrupted with ease, ever made to turn in the wielder’s hand. It took a self-deluded mind to force justice upon a world when that world cared for nothing; when all reality mocked the righteous with its indifference.
War swept such games aside. It was pure, unapologetic in its brutality. Justice arrived with the taste of blood, both sweet and bitter and that too was as it should be.
No, he would tell the Mortal Sword nothing of the Destriant’s final words of terror, of his unmanned panic, the shrill clangour of his warnings. Such failings served no one, after all.
Even so, Tanakalian vowed to remain watchful, wary, trusting nothing and expecting betrayal from every stranger.
Run’Thurvian was too old for war. Fear took his life—I could see that clearly enough. He was blind, driven to madness. Babbling. It was all so . . . undignified.
The avars had run aground over a hundred paces from the high-tide mark. Burdened soldiers stumbled shin-deep in fly-swarmed mud, whilst the crews struggled to drag the boats free to retrace their route back to the anchored Thrones.
They were in for a long day.
‘Well now,’ muttered Chancellor Rava as he perused the coded missive, ‘our dear King seems to have led our precious kingdom into a royal mess.’
Avalt paced in front of the old man, from one side of the tent’s shrouded chamber to the other. He could guess at most of the details hidden on the parchment in Rava’s hands. The Chancellor’s comment was, if the truth was laid bare, entirely inaccurate. The ‘mess’ didn’t come from King Tarkulf. In fact, it was without question the product of certain excesses among servants of the Chancellor and, indeed, of Conquestor Avalt himself. ‘What we now need to determine,’ he said, his voice still cracking from the tirade he had delivered a short time earlier to a select company of merchant agents and spies, ‘is the nature of the relationship between our Perish friends and these Khundryl bandits.’
‘True,’ Rava replied. ‘However, do recall that the Perish seem to hold to an absurdly elevated notion of honour. Once we present to them our version of the Khundryl’s sudden, inexplicable rampage . . . once we speak of the atrocities and the slaughter of hundreds, if not thousands of innocents . . .’ he smiled, ‘I believe we shall see, to our blessed relief, a most stern disavowal from the Mortal Sword.’
Avalt’s nod was sharp. ‘Which will permit me to concentrate my forces on crushing the Khundryl without having to worry about the Perish.’
Rava’s watery eyes seemed to slide from Avalt as he asked, ‘Is there cause for worry, Conquestor? Do we not possess the military might to obliterate both forces if necessary?’
Avalt stiffened. ‘Of course, Chancellor. But have you forgotten our latest intelligence from Lether? The third element in this foreign alliance intends to march through our kingdom. Perhaps, even then, we could crush all three forces. But at a dreadful cost. Furthermore, we do not know yet what agreements have been fashioned between the Letherii and these Malazans—we could well end up with the very war we did everything we could to avoid—’
‘Resulting in the exposure of our deceptions with regard to our putative allies, the Saphii and the Akrynnai.’
‘Said deceptions making obvious the betrayals we intended—yet with us suddenly incapable of backing them with force. It is one thing to make promises only to abandon our allies in the field—if we cannot then occupy the lands of those allies once their armies have been annihilated, then the entire enterprise fails.’
‘Let us assume, for the moment,’ said Rava, ‘that the Letherii threat no longer exists, and so the great Bolkando Alliance need never show its paper fangs. What we presently face, at its worst, is three disconnected armies marching every which way across our kingdom. One of those has now given us a bloody nose, but it is likely that the Khundryl will beat a hasty retreat, now that they’ve satisfied their bloodlust. They will take their loot and flee into the Wastelands. Naturally, that will be a fatal error—we need only move a few legions of your Third Regulars to occupy the border forts and trenchworks—so that whatever remnants of the Khundryl come crawling back will not present any sort of threat.’ He raised a finger. ‘We must be sure to have our own commanders in charge, to profit from enslaving the Khundryl refugees.’
‘Of course.’
‘To continue, then, we are left with the Perish and the Malazans, and both, by all counts, appear eminently civilized. Of a sort to deplore the Khundryl excesses, and indeed they may end up feeling somewhat responsible. They may, in fact, offer reparations.’
Avalt had ceased pacing and he now stood, staring down at the Chancellor. ‘What, then, of the ambush we were planning in the pass?’
‘I would advise that it remain in place, for the moment, Conquestor. At least until we are able to gauge the Mortal Sword’s reaction when we deliver the news of the Khundryl and their unwarranted depredations.’
‘I assume you will assure the Mortal Sword of our faith in her and her Grey Helms,’ said Avalt. ‘And that we recognize that the actions of barbarians—allies or not—cannot be predicted, and that we in no way hold the Perish responsible.’<
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Rava was nodding. ‘And so, having said just that, the fact that we are observed to array our escort in a defensive posture will simply indicate our . . . cautious natures.’
‘Thus encouraging the Mortal Sword to make allowances, in her desire to alleviate our newfound uncertainty.’
‘Precisely. Well said, Conquestor.’
Avalt resumed pacing. ‘So, we drive the Khundryl into the Wastelands, and then enslave whoever makes it back. We ambush the Perish, resulting in a treasure trove of exquisite weaponry and armour—sufficient to outfit a new elite element—’
‘Two units,’ Rava reminded him. ‘Your private guard and one for me as well.’
‘As agreed, Chancellor. To resume, we are then facing one remaining army. The Malazans.’
‘We must assume that word will reach them of the fate of their allies.’
‘To which they will react, either with a perception of sudden vulnerability, in which case they will beat a retreat, or with anger, inciting aggression on their part.’
‘Less than ten thousand of the fools,’ observed Rava. ‘If we invite our allies among the Akrynnai and Saphii, we can divide the spoils—’
‘I want those crossbows of theirs,’ Avalt said. ‘I cannot tell you how frustrating it has been to fail again and again in stealing one thus far. With a legion or two armed with those weapons I could overrun Saphinand in a month.’
‘All in due course,’ Rava said.
‘All of this assumes the Letherii do not get involved.’
The Chancellor sighed, and then made a face. ‘My finest spies fall one after another in that court, and those few who have managed to escape are convinced that King Tehol is even worse than Tarkulf. A useless, bumbling idiot.’
‘But you are not convinced, Chancellor?’
‘Of course not.’ He paused, and then said, ‘most of the time. We may be dealing with a situation there uncannily identical to our own.’
Avalt caught his breath, frozen in place once again. ‘Errant’s nudge, can it be, Rava?’