A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

holding the front ranks, purchasing with their lives a crucial period in which the infantry was able to regroup. The Red Blades had shown valour, enough to earn comment from Coltaine himself.
    Sormo had lost two of his warlock children in the struggle against the Semk wizard-priests, although both Nil and Nether survived. 'We were lucky,' he said after reporting the deaths in a cool, dispassionate tone. 'The Semk god is a vicious Ascendant. It uses the wizards to channel its rage, without regard for their mortal flesh. Those unable to withstand their god's power simply disintegrated.'
    'That'll cut their numbers down,' Lull said with a grunt.
    'The god simply chooses more,' Sormo said. More and more he had begun to look like an old man, even in his gestures. Duiker watched the youth close his eyes and press his knuckles against them. 'More extreme measures must be taken.'
    The others were silent, until Chenned gave voice to everyone's uncertainty. 'What does that mean, Warlock?'
    Bult said, 'Words carried on breath can be heard ... by a vengeful, paranoid god. If no alternative exists, Sormo, then proceed.'
    The warlock slowly nodded.
    After a moment Bult sighed loudly, pausing to drink from a bladder before speaking. 'Kamist Reloe is heading north. He'll cross at the river mouth – Sekala town has a stone bridge. But to do so means he loses ten, maybe eleven days.'
    'The Guran infantry will stay with us,' Sulmar said. 'As will the Semk. They need not stand toe to toe to do us damage. Exhaustion will claim us before much longer.'
    Bult's wide mouth pressed into a straight line. 'Coltaine has proclaimed tomorrow a day of rest. Cattle will be slaughtered, the enemy's dead horses butchered and cooked. Weapons and armour repaired.'
    Duiker lifted his head. 'Do we still march for Ubaryd?'
    No-one answered.
    The historian studied the commanders. He saw nothing hopeful in their faces. 'The city has fallen.'
    'So claimed a Tithansi warleader,' Lull said. 'He had nothing to lose in telling us since he was dying anyway. Nether said he spoke truth. The Malazan fleet has fled Ubaryd. Even now tens of thousands of refugees are being driven northeast.'
    'More squalling nobles to perch on Coltaine's lap,' Chenned said with a sneer.
    'This is impossible,' Duiker said. 'If we cannot go to Ubaryd, what other city lies open to us?'
    'There is but one,' Bult said. 'Aren.'
    Duiker sat straight. 'Madness! Two hundred leagues!'
    'And another third, to be precise,' Lull said, baring his teeth.
    'Is Pormqual counterattacking? Is he marching north to meet us halfway? Is he even aware that we exist?'
    Bult's gaze held steady on the historian. 'Aware? I would think so, Historian. Will he march out from Aren? Counterattack?' The veteran shrugged.
    'I saw a company of Engineers on my way here,' Lull said. 'They were weeping, one and all.'
    Chenned asked, 'Why? Is their invisible commander lying on the bottom of the Sekala with a mouthful of mud?'
    Lull shook his head. 'They're out of cussers now. Just a crate or two of sharpers and burners. You'd think every one of their mothers had just croaked.'
    Coltaine finally spoke. 'They did well.'
    Bult nodded. 'Aye. Wish I'd been there to see the road go up.'
    'We were,' Duiker said. 'Victory tastes sweetest in the absence of haunting memories, Bult. Savour it.'
     
    In his tent, Duiker awoke to a soft, small hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to darkness.
    'Historian,' a voice said.
    'Nether? What hour is this? How long have I slept?'
    'Perhaps two,' she answered. 'Coltaine commands you to come with me. Now.'
    Duiker sat up. He'd been too tired to do more than simply lay his bedroll down on the floor. The blankets were sodden with sweat and condensation. He shivered with chill. 'What has happened?' he asked.
    'Nothing, yet. You are to witness. Quickly now, Historian. We have little time.'
    He stepped outside to a camp quietly moaning in the deepest hour of darkness before the arrival of false dawn. Thousands of voices made the dreadful, gelid sound. Wounds troubling exhausted sleep, the soft cries of soldiers beyond the arts of the healers and cutters, the lowing of livestock, shifting hooves underscoring the chorus in a restless, rumbling beat. Somewhere out on the plain north of them rose faint wailing, wives and mothers grieving the dead.
    As he followed Nether's spry, wool-cloaked form down the twisting lanes of the Wickan encampment, the historian was drawn into sorrow-laden thoughts. The