Steven Erikson - Dust of Dreams

The huge Bluerose saluted.

‘When you have them,’ Brys said before the man turned away, ‘ride for the supply train.’

The soldier frowned.

Brys gritted his teeth. ‘I will not stand here watching this slaughter. We will close with the enemy.’

They saw the impossibly thick bolt of lightning tear down from the dark stain ahead. As the shockwaves drummed through the ground, Warleader Gall raised an arm to signal a halt. He faced Kisswhere, his face ashen. ‘I am sending you to the Mortal Sword Krughava-tell her the Malazans are assailed, and that the Khundryl ride to their succour.’

She stared at the man. ‘Warleader-’

‘Ride, soldier-you are not Khundryl-you do not understand what it is to fight from a horse. Tell Krughava the gods were cruel this day, for she will not reach the Malazans in time.’

‘Who is their enemy?’ Kisswhere demanded. ‘Your shamans-’

‘Are blind. We know less than you. Ride, Kisswhere.’

She swung her horse round.

Gall rose in his stirrups and faced his warriors. He drew his tulwar and held it high. And said nothing.

In answer, six thousand weapons were freed and lifted skyward.

Gall pulled his horse round. ‘Ride ahead, Rafala, until you sight the enemy.’

The woman kicked her mount into a gallop.

After a moment, Gall led his army after her, at a quick canter, and the sound of thunder grew louder, and the yellow sky deepened to brown in which flashes bloomed like wounds.

He wondered what his wife was doing.

Worse than chopping down trees. Fiddler gave up trying to hack through legs and began hamstringing the bastards, ducking the slashes of notched weapons, dodging the downward swings. The surviving Malazans had been driven from the first trench, were now struggling to hold a fighting withdrawal across the ten paces to the heavies’ trench.

Crossbow quarrels and arrows spat out from the troops arrayed behind the heavies, winging at heights mercifully above the heads of the soldiers in their desperate retreat. Most missiles shattered against enamel, but a few were punching through, finding gaps in the Nah’ruk’s armour. Beasts were toppling here and there.

But not enough. The phalanx was a machine, devouring everything in its path.

Fiddler had lost his cusser and lobber in the first trench. The shortsword felt puny as a thorn in his hand. A glancing blow had sent his helm flying and blood streamed down the right side of his head.

He saw Koryk pushing his sword through a Nah’ruk’s neck; saw another lizard step in behind the man, halberd lifting high. Bolts punched into both armpits. The creature fell forward, burying Koryk. Smiles rushed over, diving and rolling to evade a lashing falchion.

Cuttle stumbled up against Fiddler. ‘Retreat’s sounded!’

‘I heard-’

‘Quick Ben’s been Rannalled, Fid-that giant strike-’

‘I know. Forget him-help me get the squad back-the heavies will hold, enough so we can regroup. Go on, I ain’t seen Corabb or Bottle-’

Nah’ruk and human corpses half-buried Bottle, but he was in no hurry to move. He saw more of the lizards marching past on all sides.

We never even slowed them.

Quick, whatever happened to subtlety?

He could see a sliver of sky, could see the wyval wheeling round up there, eager to descend and feed. Grandma, you always said don’t reach too far. Close your dead eyes now, and remember, I loved you so.

He left his body, winged skyward.

Corabb yanked hard and dragged his sword from the Nah’ruk’s left eye socket, then he reached down to take up again Shoaly’s ankle-but the man had stopped screaming and as he looked he saw in the heavy’s face a slackness, a dullness to the staring eyes.

A line of Nah’ruk was closing, only a few paces away. Swearing, Corabb released his grip and turned to run.

The trench of the heavy infantry was just ahead. He saw helmed faces, weapons readied. Arrows and quarrels hissed over them and the thud and snap of their impacts was torrential behind him. Corabb hurried over.

Cuttle fell in beside him. ‘Seen Tarr?’

‘Seen him go down.’

‘Bottle?’

Corabb shook his head. ‘Smiles? Koryk?’

‘Fid’s got ’em.’

‘Fiddler! He’s-’

The first trench directly behind the two marines erupted. Nah’ruk ranks simply vanished in blue clouds.

‘What-’

‘Some bastard stepped on a cusser!’ Cuttle said. ‘Serves ’em right! C’mon!’

Deathly pale faces beneath helm rims-but the heavies were standing, ready. Two parted and let the marines through.

One shouted over at Cuttle. ‘Those clubs-’

‘Got ’em, soldier!’ Cuttle yelled back. ‘Now it’s just iron.’

At once a shout rose from the length of the trench. ‘ HAIL THE MARINES! ’

And the faces around Corabb suddenly darkened, teeth baring. The instant transformation took his breath away. Iron, aye, you know all about iron.

The Nah’ruk were five steps behind them.

The heavies rose to meet them.

Hedge watched as the lizards clambered from the enormous crater where Quick Ben had been, watched as they re-formed their ranks and resumed their advance. Twisting from where he was lying, he then looked back to study the Letherii legions drawing up at a steady half-trot, pikes set and slowly angling in overlapping layers.

Hedge grunted. Good weapons for this.

‘Bridgeburners! Listen up! Never mind the High Mage. He’s ashes on the wind. We’re going to soften up the lizards for the Letherii. Ready your munitions. One salvo when I say so and then we retreat and if the Letherii are sharp, they’ll make room for us! If they don’t, then swing to the right-to the right, got it? And run like Hood himself is on your heels!’

‘Commander!’ someone cried out.

‘What?’

‘Who’s Hood?’

Gods below. ‘He’s just the guy you don’t want on your heels, right?’

‘Oh. Right.’

Hedge lifted his head. Shit, these ones got clubs and nodes. ‘Check your munitions! Switch to Blue. You hear me? Blues! And aim for that front line! Nodes, lads and lasses, those white lumps!’

‘Commander!’

‘Hood’s the-’

‘I hear horses! Coming from the southeast-I think-is that horses?’

Hedge rose slightly higher. He saw two lizard phalanxes smartly wheeling. Oh gods…

Rolling into a charge, Gall leaned forward on his horse. Just like the Malazans to find the ugliest foes the whole damned world had to offer. And the scariest. But those squares had no pikes to fend off a cavalry charge-and they would pay for that.

When he’d led his army up to where Rafala had reined in, he’d seen-in the first dozen heartbeats-all he’d needed to see.

The enemy was devouring the Malazan army, driving them back, cutting down hundreds of soldiers if they were no more than children. This was slaughter, and barely a third of the phalanxes had actually closed with the Bonehunters.

He saw the Letherii moving up on both flanks, forming bristling pike walls in a saw-tooth presentation, but they’d yet to meet the enemy. Out to the far flanks mounted troops mustered, yet held far back-unaccountably so, as far as Gall was concerned.

Directly ahead of the Khundryl charge, two phalanxes were closing up to present a solid defensive line, denying the Burned Tears the opportunity to drive between the squares, winging arrows on both sides. Gall needed make no gestures or call out commands-his lead warriors knew to draw up upon loosing their arrows; they knew their lanes, through which the heavier lancers would pass to drive deep into the wounded front ranks of the enemy-drive in, and then withdraw. There would be no chance of shattering these phalanxes-the demons were too big, too heavily armoured. They would not break before a charge.