Steven Erikson - Gardens of the Moon

He seemed to flinch.

Tattersail found her mouth dry. She cleared her throat. «I've heard of you, of course. I've heard the.»

«Doesn't matter,» he interrupted, his voice grating. «Old stories grow like weeds.»

She rubbed at her face, feeling grime gather under her nails.

Bridgeburners. They'd been the old Emperor's elite, his favourites, but since Laseen's bloody coup nine years ago they'd been pushed hard into every rat's nest in sight. Almost a decade of this had cut them down to a single, under-manned division. Among them, names had emerged. The survivors, mostly squad sergeants, names that pushed their way into the Malazan armies on Genabackis, and beyond. Names, spicing the already sweeping legend of Onearm's Host. Detoran, Antsy, Spindle, Whiskeyjack. Names heavy with glory and bitter with the cynicism that every army feeds on. They carried with them like an emblazoned standard the madness of this unending campaign.

Sergeant Whiskeyjack was studying the wreckage on the hill. Tattersail watched him piece together what had happened. A muscle in his cheek twitched. He looked at her with new understanding, a hint of softening behind his grey eyes that almost broke Tattersail then and there. «Are you the last left in the cadre?» he asked.

She looked away, feeling brittle. «The last left standing. It wasn't skill, either. just lucky.»

If he heard her bitterness he gave no sign, falling silent as he watched his two Seven Cities soldiers crouching low over Hairlock.

Tattersail licked her lips, shifted uneasily. She glanced over to the two soldiers. A quiet conversation was under way. She heard Hairlock laugh, the sound a soft jolt that made her wince. «The tall one,» she said. «He's a mage, isn't he?»

Whiskeyjack grunted, then said, «His name's Quick Ben.»

«Not the one he was born with.»

«No.

She rolled her shoulders against the weight of her cloak, momentarily easing the dull pain in her lower back. «I should know him, Sergeant. That kind of power gets noticed. He's no novice.»

«No,» Whiskeylack replied. «He isn't.»

She felt herself getting angry. «I want an explanation. What's happening here?»

Whiskeyjack grimaced. «Not much, by the looks of it.» He raised his voice. «Quick Ben!»

The mage looked over. «Some last-minute negotiations, Sergeant,» he said, flashing a white grin.

«Hood's Breath.» Tattersail sighed, turning away. The girl, she saw, still stood at the hill's crest and seemed to be studying the Moranth columns passing into the city. As if sensing Tattersail's attention, her head snapped around. Her expression startled the sorceress. Tattersail pulled her eyes away. «Is this what's left of your squad, Sergeant? Two desert marauders and a blood-hungry recruit?»

Whiskeyjack's tone was flat: «I have seven left.»

«This morning?»

«Fifteen.»

Something's wrong here. Feeling a need to say something, she said, «Better than most.» She cursed silently as the blood drained from the sergeant's face. «Still,» she added, «I'm sure they were good men, the ones you lost.»

«Good at dying,» he said.

The brutality of his words shocked her. Mentally reeling, she squeezed shut her eyes, fighting back tears of bewilderment and frustration. Too much has happened. I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready for Whiskeyjack, a man buckling under his own legend, a man who's climbed more than one mountain of the dead in service to the Empire.

The Bridgeburners hadn't shown themselves much over the past three years. Since the siege began, they'd been assigned the task of undermining Pale's massive, ancient walls. That order had come straight from the capital, and it was either a cruel joke or the product of appalling ignorance: the whole valley was a glacial dump, a rock pile plugging a crevice that reached so far underground even Tattersail's mages had trouble finding its bottom. They've been underground three years running. When was the last time they saw the sun?

Tattersail stiffened suddenly. «Sergeant.» She opened her eyes to him.

«You've been in your tunnels since this morning?»

With sinking understanding, she watched anguish flit across the man's face. «What tunnels?» he said softly, then moved to stride past her.

She reached out and closed her hand on his arm. A shock seemed to run through him. «Whiskeyjack,» she whispered, «you've guessed as much. About-about me, about what happened here on this hill, all these soldiers.» She hesitated, then said, «Failure's something we share. I'm sorry.»

He pulled away, eyes averted. «Don't be, Sorceress.» He met her gaze. «Regret's not something we can afford.»

She watched him walk to his soldiers.

A young woman's voice spoke directly behind Tattersail. «We numbered fourteen hundred this morning, Sorceress.»

Tattersail turned. At this close range, she saw that the girl couldn't be more than fifteen years old. The exception was her eyes, which held the dull glint of weathered onyx-they looked ancient, every emotion eroded away into extinction. «And now?»

The girl's shrug was almost careless. «Thirty, maybe thirty-five. Four of the five tunnels fell in completely. We were in the fifth and dug our way out. Fiddler and Hedge are working on the others, but they figure everybody else's been buried for good. They tried to round up some help.» A cold, knowing smile spread across her mud-streaked face. «But your master, the High Mage, stopped them.»

«Tayschrenn did what? Why?»

The girl frowned, as if disappointed. Then she simply walked away, stopping at the hill's crest and facing the city again.

Tattersail stared after her. The girl had thrown that last statement at her as if hunting for some particular response. Complicity? In any case, a clean miss. Tayschrenn's not making any friends. Good. The day had been a disaster, and the blame fell squarely at the High Mage's feet. She stared at Pale, then lifted her gaze to the smoke-filled sky above it.

That massive, looming shape she had greeted every morning for the last three years was indeed gone. She still had trouble believing it, despite the evidence of her eyes. «You warned us,» she whispered to the empty sky, as the memories of the morning returned. «You warned us, didn't you?»

She'd been sleeping with Calot the past four months: a little diversionary pleasure to ease the boredom of a siege that wasn't going anywhere. At least, that was how she explained to herself their unprofessional conduct.

It was more than that, of course, much more. But being honest with herself had never been one of Tattersail's strengths.

The magical summons, when it came, awakened her before Calot. The mage's small but well-proportioned body was snug in the many soft pillows of her flesh. She opened her eyes to find him clinging to her like a child. Then he, too, sensed the calling and awoke to her smile.

«Hairlock?» he asked, shivering as he climbed out from under the blankets.

Tattersail grimaced. «Who else? The man never sleeps.»

«What now, I wonder?» He stood, looking around for his tunic.

She was watching him. He was so thin, making them an odd combination. Through the faint dawn light seeping through the canvas tent walls, the sharp, bony angles of his body looked soft, almost child-like.

For a man a century old, he carried it well. «Hairlock's been running errands for Dujek,» she said. «It's probably just an update.»

Calot grunted as he pulled on his boots. «That's what you get for taking command of the cadre, «Sail. Anyway, it was easier saluting Nedurian, let me tell you. Whenever I look at you, I just want to-»

«Stick to business, Calot,» Tattersail. said, meaning it with humour though it came out with enough of an edge to make Calot glance at her sharply.