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Living simply, Febryl belatedly considered, should not be made synonymous with seeing simply, since the former was both noble and laudable, whilst the latter was a flaw most deadly. A careless error, and, alas, he had made it.
And now, he concluded, it was too late.
And as for altering the plans, oh, it was too late for that as well.
Somehow, the newly arriving day had lost its glamour.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was said the captain’s adopted child-who at that time was known by the unfortunate name of Grub-refused the wagon on the march. That he walked the entire way, even as, in the first week beneath the year’s hottest sun, fit and hale soldiers stumbled and fell.
This is perhaps invention, for by all accounts he was at that time no more than five years of age. And the captain himself, from whose journals much of that journey and the clash in which it culminated is related in detail, writes very little of Grub, more concerned as he was with the rigours of command. As a result, of the future First Sword of the Late Empire period, scant details, beyond the legendary and probably fictitious, are known.
Lives of the Three
Moragalle
The sound of flies and wasps was a solid, buzzing hum in the hot air of the gorge, and already the stench had grown overpowering. Fist Gamet loosened the clasp on the buckle and lifted the battered iron helmet from his head. The felt liner was sodden with sweat, itching against his scalp, but, as the flies swarmed him, he did not remove it.
He continued watching from the slight rise at the south end of the gorge as the Adjunct walked her horse through the carnage below.
Three hundred Seti and over a hundred horses lay dead, mostly from arrows, in the steep-sided ravine they had been led into. It could not have taken long, even including rounding up and leading off the surviving mounts. There had been less than a bell between the advance Seti riders and the Khundryl, and had Temul not ordered his Wickans back to cover the main army… well, we would have lost them as well . As it was, those Wickans had prevented another raid on the supply train, their presence alone sufficient to trigger a sudden withdrawal by the enemy-with not a single drop of blood spilled. The warleader commanding the desert horse warriors had been too cagey to see his force ensnared in an out-and-out battle.
Far better to rely upon… errors in judgement. The Seti not assigned as flanking riders to the vanguard had defied orders, and had died as a result. And all the bastard needs from us is more stupid mistakes .
Something in the scene below was raising the hairs on his neck. The Adjunct rode alone through the slaughter, her back straight, unmindful of her horse’s skittish progress.
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Living simply, Febryl belatedly considered, should not be made synonymous with seeing simply, since the former was both noble and laudable, whilst the latter was a flaw most deadly. A careless error, and, alas, he had made it.
And now, he concluded, it was too late.
And as for altering the plans, oh, it was too late for that as well.
Somehow, the newly arriving day had lost its glamour.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was said the captain’s adopted child-who at that time was known by the unfortunate name of Grub-refused the wagon on the march. That he walked the entire way, even as, in the first week beneath the year’s hottest sun, fit and hale soldiers stumbled and fell.
This is perhaps invention, for by all accounts he was at that time no more than five years of age. And the captain himself, from whose journals much of that journey and the clash in which it culminated is related in detail, writes very little of Grub, more concerned as he was with the rigours of command. As a result, of the future First Sword of the Late Empire period, scant details, beyond the legendary and probably fictitious, are known.
Lives of the Three
Moragalle
The sound of flies and wasps was a solid, buzzing hum in the hot air of the gorge, and already the stench had grown overpowering. Fist Gamet loosened the clasp on the buckle and lifted the battered iron helmet from his head. The felt liner was sodden with sweat, itching against his scalp, but, as the flies swarmed him, he did not remove it.
He continued watching from the slight rise at the south end of the gorge as the Adjunct walked her horse through the carnage below.
Three hundred Seti and over a hundred horses lay dead, mostly from arrows, in the steep-sided ravine they had been led into. It could not have taken long, even including rounding up and leading off the surviving mounts. There had been less than a bell between the advance Seti riders and the Khundryl, and had Temul not ordered his Wickans back to cover the main army… well, we would have lost them as well . As it was, those Wickans had prevented another raid on the supply train, their presence alone sufficient to trigger a sudden withdrawal by the enemy-with not a single drop of blood spilled. The warleader commanding the desert horse warriors had been too cagey to see his force ensnared in an out-and-out battle.
Far better to rely upon… errors in judgement. The Seti not assigned as flanking riders to the vanguard had defied orders, and had died as a result. And all the bastard needs from us is more stupid mistakes .
Something in the scene below was raising the hairs on his neck. The Adjunct rode alone through the slaughter, her back straight, unmindful of her horse’s skittish progress.
It’s never the flies that are the trouble, it’s the wasps. One sting and that well-bred beast will lose its mind. Could rear and throw her off, break her neck. Or could bolt, straight down the gorge, and then try to take one of the steep sides… like some of those Seti horses tried to do …
Instead, the horse simply continued picking its way over the bodies, and the clouds of wasps did little more than rise and then wheel from its path, alighting once more upon their feast as soon as mount and rider had passed.
An old soldier at the Fist’s side coughed and spat, then, at Gamet’s glance, mumbled an apology.
‘No need… Captain. It’s a grisly sight, and we’re all too close…’
‘Not that, sir. Only…’ he paused, then slowly shook his head. ‘Never mind, sir. Just an old memory, that’s all.’
Gamet nodded. ‘I’ve a few of those myself. So, Fist Tene Baralta wants to know if he needs to send his healers forward. The answer you may bring him lies before you.’
‘Aye, sir.’
He watched the grizzled old soldier back his horse clear then swing it round and ride off. Then Gamet fixed his attention once more upon the Adjunct.
She had reached the far end, where most of the bodies lay, heaped up against blood-splashed stone walls, and, after a long moment, during which she scanned the scene on all sides, she gathered the reins and began retracing her path.
Gamet set the helm on his head once more and closed the clasp.
She reached the slope and rode up to halt alongside him.
He had never before seen her expression so severe. A woman with few of a woman’s charms, as they say of her, in tones approaching pity . ‘Adjunct.’
‘He left many of them wounded,’ she said. ‘Anticipating, perhaps, that we’d reach them in time. Wounded Malazans are better than dead ones, after all.’
‘Assuming that warleader seeks to delay us, aye.’
‘He does. Even with the Khundryl supply lines, our resources are strained as it is. The loss of the wagons last night will be felt by everyone.’
