But all at once words dried up, and Gesler could only stare downward as the Assassin wheeled over the battlefield, the massive encampment, a crater that could swallow a palace, and the vast stain of what looked like coals amidst flame-licked tree-stumps-no, not stumps. Limbs. Scorched Nah’ruk, still burning. Was it magic that hit them? Gesler could not believe that. A single release of a warren, torching thousands? And that crater-a hundred cussers maybe… but we didn’t have a hundred cussers.
He could hear Stormy shouting at him, but the voice seemed impossibly distant, too far away to be of any concern. Trenches ribboned a ridge, some of them filled with shattered armour and weapons. Lesser craters pocked the summit, crowded with bones. Off to one side, hundreds of Nah’ruk were moving through the carcasses of horses and blackened bodies. Heavy wagons trailed them, slabs of meat heaped on their beds. Dozens of Nah’ruk were harnessed to them, straining in their yokes.
That was a Khundryl charge. Wiped out. At least some of the allies arrived in time-in time for what? Dying. Gods, this was the Lord’s cruellest push. They weren’t looking for a fight-not with damned lizards, anyway. Not here in the useless Wastelands.
The Shi’gal Assassin’s voice intruded. ‘Your kin have damaged the Nah’ruk. This harvest was paid for, Mortal Sword. At least three Furies have been destroyed.’
Those were my friends. This wasn’t their fight.
‘They were brave. They did not surrender.’
Gesler frowned. Was surrender possible?
‘I do not know. I doubt it. The matter is irrelevant. Against us, tomorrow, there will be no quarter.’
‘You got that right,’ Gesler said in a growl.
‘Gesler!’
Blinking, the scene spinning away from his mind, he turned to Stormy. Wiping his eyes, he said, ‘It’s bad. Bad as it can get. The Nah’ruk were marching to meet these K’Chain Che’Malle. They slammed like a fist right into the Bonehunters. Stormy, there was slaughter, but only one army remains-’
Gu’Rull spoke once again in his mind. ‘I have found a trail, Mortal Sword. Signs of retreat. Shall we pursue it? The Nah’ruk can feel our approach-our Ve’Gath are as thunder in the earth. They prepare to march to meet us-the sky is a place of no light, there are alien winds-I cannot-’
Lightning flashed to the south, cracking through the night. Gesler grunted as the concussion reverberated through his skull. Assassin? Where are you? Answer me-what’s happened?
But he could not reach out to the winged lizard; he could not find Gu’Rull anywhere. Shit.
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But all at once words dried up, and Gesler could only stare downward as the Assassin wheeled over the battlefield, the massive encampment, a crater that could swallow a palace, and the vast stain of what looked like coals amidst flame-licked tree-stumps-no, not stumps. Limbs. Scorched Nah’ruk, still burning. Was it magic that hit them? Gesler could not believe that. A single release of a warren, torching thousands? And that crater-a hundred cussers maybe… but we didn’t have a hundred cussers.
He could hear Stormy shouting at him, but the voice seemed impossibly distant, too far away to be of any concern. Trenches ribboned a ridge, some of them filled with shattered armour and weapons. Lesser craters pocked the summit, crowded with bones. Off to one side, hundreds of Nah’ruk were moving through the carcasses of horses and blackened bodies. Heavy wagons trailed them, slabs of meat heaped on their beds. Dozens of Nah’ruk were harnessed to them, straining in their yokes.
That was a Khundryl charge. Wiped out. At least some of the allies arrived in time-in time for what? Dying. Gods, this was the Lord’s cruellest push. They weren’t looking for a fight-not with damned lizards, anyway. Not here in the useless Wastelands.
The Shi’gal Assassin’s voice intruded. ‘Your kin have damaged the Nah’ruk. This harvest was paid for, Mortal Sword. At least three Furies have been destroyed.’
Those were my friends. This wasn’t their fight.
‘They were brave. They did not surrender.’
Gesler frowned. Was surrender possible?
‘I do not know. I doubt it. The matter is irrelevant. Against us, tomorrow, there will be no quarter.’
‘You got that right,’ Gesler said in a growl.
‘Gesler!’
Blinking, the scene spinning away from his mind, he turned to Stormy. Wiping his eyes, he said, ‘It’s bad. Bad as it can get. The Nah’ruk were marching to meet these K’Chain Che’Malle. They slammed like a fist right into the Bonehunters. Stormy, there was slaughter, but only one army remains-’
Gu’Rull spoke once again in his mind. ‘I have found a trail, Mortal Sword. Signs of retreat. Shall we pursue it? The Nah’ruk can feel our approach-our Ve’Gath are as thunder in the earth. They prepare to march to meet us-the sky is a place of no light, there are alien winds-I cannot-’
Lightning flashed to the south, cracking through the night. Gesler grunted as the concussion reverberated through his skull. Assassin? Where are you? Answer me-what’s happened?
But he could not reach out to the winged lizard; he could not find Gu’Rull anywhere. Shit.
‘Is that a damned storm cloud up ahead, Gesler? Is that blood on your face? Tell me what the Hood’s going on!’
‘You really that curious?’ Gesler said, baring his teeth. He then spat. ‘The Nah’ruk have dropped everything. They’re coming for us. We’re on our own.’
‘And the Bonehunters?’
‘We’re on our own.’
The scouts emerged from the unforgiving darkness. On this night the Slashes had vanished, taking the stars and the jade glow with them. Even the swollen haze that was the moon did not dare the sky. Shivering in the sudden chill, Warleader Strahl waited for the scouts to reach him.
The two Senan warriors were hunched over, as if fearful, or perhaps wounded. When they halted before him, both knelt. They were exhausted, he saw, their chests heaving.
Look at them. Look at this darkness. Has the world ended this night?
He would not rush them, demanding words they would struggle to feed. The dread was thick enough in their harsh breaths.
Behind the Warleader the Senan Barghast waited. Some slept, but for most sleep would not come. Hunger. Thirst. The famine of loss, a song of soft weeping. He could feel scores of eyes fixed upon him, seeing, he knew, little more than a vague, smudged silhouette. Seeing the truth of him, and before them he had nowhere to hide.
One of the scouts had recovered his wind. ‘Warleader. Two armies on the plain.’
‘The Malazans-’
‘No, Warleader-these are demons-’
The other hissed, ‘ There are thousands! ’
‘Two armies, you said.’
‘They march towards each other-through the night-we are almost between them! Warleader, we must retreat-we must flee from here!’
‘Go into the camp, both of you. Rest. Leave me. Say nothing.’
Once they’d staggered off, he drew his furs closer about his shoulders. This dusk, they’d sighted a Moon’s Spawn, but one of hard angles and planes-his sharper-eyed warriors claimed it was carved in the shape of a dragon. Two demon armies-what better place to clash than on the Wastelands? Kill each other. Yours is not our war. We mean to find the Malazans… do we not? Our old enemy, a worthy one.