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Ride. Ride out. It’s time.
Then he was cinching the saddle of his horse, waiting for the beast to release its breath, then drawing it a notch tighter. A clever horse. Paran stables, of course. Fast and of almost legendary endurance. Impatient with incompetence, ever testing the rider’s claim to being in charge, but that was to be expected from such a fine breed.
Gamet swung himself into the saddle. It felt good to be riding once more. On the move, the ground whispering past as he rode down the back ramp, then round the jagged island and towards the basin.
He saw three figures ahead, standing at the ridge, and thought nothing strange as to their presence. They are what will come. These three .
Nil. Nether. The lad, Grub.
The last turned as Gamet reined in beside them. And nodded. ‘The Wickans and Malazans are on the flanks, Fist. But your assault will be straight up the Dogslayers’ main ramp.’ And he pointed.
Footsoldiers and cavalry were massing in the basin, moving through the thick gloom. Gamet could hear the whisper of armour, feel the thud of countless horse hoofs. He saw banners and standards, hanging limp and ragged.
‘Ride to them, Fist,’ Grub said.
And he saluted the child and set heels to his mount’s flanks.
Black and rust-red armour, visored helms with ornate cheek-guards, short thrusting javelins and kite shields, the rumble of countless booted feet-he rode alongside one column, casting an appraising eye over the companies of infantry.
Then a wing of cavalry swept round to engulf him. One rider rode close. A dragon-winged helm swivelled to face him. ‘Ride with us, soldier?’
‘I cannot,’ Gamet replied. ‘I am the Fist. I must command.’
‘Not this night,’ the warrior replied. ‘Fight at our sides, as the soldier you are. Remember the old battles? When all that was required was the guarding of the companions flanking you. Such will be this night. Leave the commanding to the lords. Ride with us in freedom. And glory.’
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Ride. Ride out. It’s time.
Then he was cinching the saddle of his horse, waiting for the beast to release its breath, then drawing it a notch tighter. A clever horse. Paran stables, of course. Fast and of almost legendary endurance. Impatient with incompetence, ever testing the rider’s claim to being in charge, but that was to be expected from such a fine breed.
Gamet swung himself into the saddle. It felt good to be riding once more. On the move, the ground whispering past as he rode down the back ramp, then round the jagged island and towards the basin.
He saw three figures ahead, standing at the ridge, and thought nothing strange as to their presence. They are what will come. These three .
Nil. Nether. The lad, Grub.
The last turned as Gamet reined in beside them. And nodded. ‘The Wickans and Malazans are on the flanks, Fist. But your assault will be straight up the Dogslayers’ main ramp.’ And he pointed.
Footsoldiers and cavalry were massing in the basin, moving through the thick gloom. Gamet could hear the whisper of armour, feel the thud of countless horse hoofs. He saw banners and standards, hanging limp and ragged.
‘Ride to them, Fist,’ Grub said.
And he saluted the child and set heels to his mount’s flanks.
Black and rust-red armour, visored helms with ornate cheek-guards, short thrusting javelins and kite shields, the rumble of countless booted feet-he rode alongside one column, casting an appraising eye over the companies of infantry.
Then a wing of cavalry swept round to engulf him. One rider rode close. A dragon-winged helm swivelled to face him. ‘Ride with us, soldier?’
‘I cannot,’ Gamet replied. ‘I am the Fist. I must command.’
‘Not this night,’ the warrior replied. ‘Fight at our sides, as the soldier you are. Remember the old battles? When all that was required was the guarding of the companions flanking you. Such will be this night. Leave the commanding to the lords. Ride with us in freedom. And glory.’
A surge of exultation swept through Gamet. The pain in his head was gone. He could feel his blood racing like fire in his muscles. He wanted this. Yes, he wanted this very thing.
Gamet unsheathed his sword, the sound an echoing rasp in the chill air.
His helmed companion laughed. ‘Are you with us, soldier?’
‘I am, friend.’
They reached the base of the cobbled ramp, slowing to firm up their formation. A broad wedge that then began assailing the slope, hoofs striking sparks off the stones.
The Dogslayers had yet to sound an alarm.
Fools. They’ve slept through it all. Or perhaps sorcery has deadened the sounds of our preparation. Ah, yes. Nil and Nether. They are still there, on the ridge the other side of the basin.
The company’s standard bearer was just a few horses to Gamet’s left. He squinted up at the banner, wondered that he had never seen it before. There was something of the Khundryl in its design, torn and frayed though it was. A clan of the Burned Tears, then-which made sense given the archaic armour his comrades were wearing. Archaic and half rotting, in fact. Too long stored in chests-moths and other vermin have assailed it, but the bronze looks sound enough, if tarnished and pitted. A word to the commanders later, I think …
Cool, gauging thoughts, even as his proud horse thundered alongside the others. Gamet glared upward, and saw the crest directly before them. He lifted high his longsword and loosed a savage scream.
The wedge poured over the crest, swept out into the unaware ranks of Dogslayers, still huddled down in their trenches.
Screams on all sides, strangely muted, almost faint. Sounds of battle, yet they seemed a league distant, as if carried on the wind. Gamet swung his sword, his eyes meeting those of Dogslayers, seeing the horror writ there. Watching mouths open to shriek, yet hardly any sound came forth, as if the sands were swallowing everything, absorbing sound as eagerly as they did blood and bile.
Masses surged over the trenches, blackened swords swinging and chopping down. The ramp to the east had been overrun by the Wickans. Gamet saw the waving standards and grinned. Crow. Foolish Dog. Weasel .
Out of the impenetrably black sky descended butterflies, in swarms, to flit above the carnage in the trenches.
On the ramp to the west there was the flash of Moranth munitions, sending grim reverberations through the earth, and Gamet could watch the slaughter over there, a scene panoramic and dulled, as if he was looking upon a mural-a painting where ancient armies warred in eternal battle.
They had come for the Dogslayers. For the butcherers of unarmed Malazans, soldier and civilian, the stubborn and the fleeing, the desperate and the helpless. The Dogslayers, who had given their souls to betrayal.
