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The girl smiled as if at a private joke. «Sorry.»
Tattersail grunted. It figured. She tucked the package under an arm and staggered down the slope.
Sergeant Whiskeyjack kicked at a helmet and watched as it tumbled and bounced down the hillside. He spun and glared at Quick Ben. «It's done?»
The wizard's eyes darted to Sorry, then he nodded.
«You will draw unwarranted attention on our squad,» the young girl told Whiskeyjack. «High Mage Tayschre
The sergeant raised an eyebrow. «Unwarranted attention? What the hell does that mean?»
Sorry made no reply.
Whiskeyjack bit back sharp words. What had Fiddler called her? An unca
His gaze swung back to Tattersail. She was crossing the killing field below. The ravens rose screaming from her path, and remained circling overhead, their caws uneasy and frightened. The sergeant felt Kalam's solid presence at his side.
«Hood's Breath,» Whiskeyjack muttered. «That sorceress seems an unholy terror as far as those birds are concerned.»
«Not her,» Kalam said. «It's what she's carrying.»
Whiskeyjack scratched his beard, his eyes narrowing. «This stinks. You sure it's necessary?»
Kalam shrugged.
«Whiskeyjack,» Quick Ben said, behind them, «they kept us in the tu
The sergeant faced his wizard. A dozen paces beyond stood Sorry, well within hearing range. Whiskeyjack scowled at her, but said nothing.
After a moment of heavy silence, the sergeant turned his attention to the city. The last of the Moranth legions was marching beneath the West Gate's arch. Columns of black smoke rose from behind the battered, scarred walls. He knew something of the history of grim enmity between the Moranth and the citizens of the once Free City of Pale. Contested trade routes, two mercantile powers at each other's throat. And Pale won more often than not. At long last it seemed that the black-armoured warriors from beyond the western mountains, whose faces remained hidden behind the chitinous visors on their helms and who spoke in clicks and buzzes, were evening the score. Faintly, beyond the cries of carrion birds, came the wail of men, women and children dying beneath the sword.
«Sounds like the Empress is keeping her word with the Moranth,» Quick Ben said quietly. «An hour of slaughter. I didn't think Dujek-»
«Dujek knows his orders,» Whiskeyjack cut in. «And there's a High Mage taloned on his shoulder.»
«An hour,» Kalam repeated. «Then we clean up the mess.»
«Not our squad,» Whiskeyjack said. «We've received new orders.»
The two men stared at their sergeant.
«And you still need convincing?» Quick Ben demanded. «They're driving us into the ground. They mean to.»
«Enough!» Whiskeyjack barked. «Not now. Kalam, find Fiddler. We need resupply from the Moranth. Round up the rest, Quick, and take Sorry with you. Join me outside the High Fist's tent in an hour.»
«And you?» Quick Ben asked. «What are you going to do?»
The sergeant heard an ill-concealed yearning in the wizard's voice. The man needed a direction, or maybe confirmation that they were doing the right thing. A little late for that. Even so, Whiskeyjack felt a pang of regret-he couldn't give what Quick Ben wanted the most. He couldn't tell him that things would turn out for the best. He sank down on his haunches, his eyes on Pale. «What am I going to do? I'm going to do some thinking, Quick Ben. I've been listening to you and Kalam, to Mallet and Fiddler, even Trotts has been jawing in my ear. Well, now it's my turn. So leave me be, Wizard, and take that damn girl with you.»
Quick Ben flinched, seeming to withdraw. Something in Whiskeyjack's words had made him very unhappy-or maybe everything.
The sergeant was too tired to worry about it. He had their new assignment to think over. Had he been a religious man, Whiskeyjack would have let blood in Hood's Bowl, calling upon the shades of his ancestors. As much as he hated to admit it, he shared the feeling among his squad: someone in the Empire wanted the Bridgeburners dead.
Pale was behind them now, the nightmare nothing but the taste of ashes in his mouth. Ahead lay their next destination: the legendary city of Darujhistan. Whiskeyjack had a premonition that a new nightmare was about to begin.
Down in the camp just beyond the last crest of denuded hills, horsedrawn carts loaded with wounded soldiers crowded the narrow aisles between the tent rows. All the precise order of the Malazan encampment had disintegrated, and the air was febrile with soldiers screaming their pain, giving voice to horror.
Tattersail threaded her way around the dazed survivors, stepping across puddles of blood in the wagon-ruts, her eyes lingering on an obscene pile of amputated limbs outside the cutter tents. From the massive sprawl of the camp followers» slum of tents and shelters came a wailing dirge-a broken chorus of thousands of voices, the sound a chilling reminder that war was always a thing of grief.
In some military headquarters back in the Empire's capital of Unta, three thousand leagues distant, an anonymous aide would paint a red stroke across the 2nd Army on the active list, and then write in fine script beside it: Pale, late winter, the 1163rd Year of Burn's Sleep. Thus would the death of nine thousand men and women be noted. And then forgotten.
Tattersail grimaced. Some of us won't forget. The Bridgeburners harboured some frightening suspicions. The thought of challenging Tayschre
Shake your fist all you want but dead is dead. She'd witnessed all too many scenes of death since she'd first joined the ranks of the Malazan Empire, but at least they couldn't be laid squarely at her feet. That was the difference, and it had been enough for a long time. Not as I once was. I've spent twenty years washing the blood from my hands. Right now, however, the scene that rose again and again behind her eyes was the empty armour on the hilltop, and it gnawed at her heart. Those men and women had been ru
They'd come to her for salvation. And they died for it.
And if I had sacrificed myself then? Cast my Warren's defences on to Being alive, Tattersail concluded as she approached her tent, isn't the same as feeling good about it. She entered her tent and closed the flap behind her, then stood surveying her worldly possessions. Scant few, after two hundred and nineteen years of life. The oak chest containing her book of Thyr sorcery remained sealed by warding spells; the small collection of alchemical devices lay scattered on the tabletop beside her cot, like a child's toys abandoned in mid-game.