A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

Wickan horse-warriors cleared the crest and plunged, broadswords swinging down in fearful slaughter.
    Another signal wailed above the din.
    The woman at Duiker's side rapped a gauntleted hand against his chest. 'Forward, old man!'
    He took a step, then hesitated. Aye, time for the soldier to go forward. But I'm a historian – I have to see, I have to witness, and to Hood with arrow-fire! 'Not this time,' Duiker said, turning to scramble his way up the embankment.
    'See you tonight!' she shouted after him, before joining the rest of the marines as they marched forward.
    Duiker pulled himself to the top, gaining a mouthful of sandy earth in the bargain. Coughing and gagging, he pushed himself to his feet, then looked around.
    The bank's flat surface was honeycombed with angled shafts. Cocoons of tent cloth lay half in, half out of some of the man-sized holes. The historian stared at them a moment longer in disbelief, then swung his attention to the ramp.
    The marines' forward momentum had been stalled by the retrieval of the trampled sappers. There were broken bones aplenty, Duiker could see, but the shields – now battered into so much scrap – and their dented helms had for the most part protected the crazed soldiers.
    Beyond the crest, on the flatland to the west, the Foolish Dog horsewarriors pursued the routed remnants of Kamist Reloe's vaunted elites. The commander's own tent, situated on a low hill a hundred paces from the crest, was sinking beneath flames and smoke. Duiker suspected that the rebel High Mage had set that fire himself, destroying anything of potential use to Coltaine before fleeing through whatever paths his warren offered him.
    Duiker turned to survey the basin.
    The battle down there still raged. The Seventh's ring of defence around the wagons of the wounded remained, though distorted by a concerted, relentless push from the Ubari heavy infantry on the northern side. The wagons themselves were rolling southward. Tepasi and Sialk cavalry harried the rear guard, where the Hissari Loyals stood fast... and died by the score.
    We could lose this one yet.
    A double blast of horns from the crest commanded the Foolish Dog's recall. Duiker could see Coltaine, his black feather cape grey with dust, sitting astride his charger on the crest. The historian saw him gesture to his staff and the recall horns sounded again, in quicker succession. We need you now!
    But those mounts will be spent. They did the impossible. They charged uphill, with a speed that grew and grew, with a speed like nothing I have ever seen before. The historian frowned, then spun around.
    Nil and Nether still stood to either side of the lone mare. A light wind was ruffling the beast's mane and tail, but it did not otherwise move. A ripple of unease chilled Duiker. What have they done?
    Distant howling caught the historian's attention. A large mounted force was crossing the river, their standards too distant to discern their identity. Then Duiker spied small tawny shapes streaming out ahead of the riders. Wickan cattle' dogs. That's the Weasel Clan.
    The horsewarriors broke into a canter as they cleared the river bed.
    The Tepasi and Sialk cavalry were caught completely unawares, first by a wave of ill-tempered dogs that ignored horses to fling themselves at riders, sixty snarling pounds of teeth and muscle dragging soldiers from their saddles, then by the Wickans themselves, who announced their arrival by launching severed heads through the air before them and raising an eerie, blood-freezing cry a moment before striking the cavalry's flank.
    Within a score of heartbeats the Tepasi and Sialk riders
    were gone – dead or dying or in full flight. The Weasel horsewarriors
    barely paused in re-forming before wheeling at a canter to close with the
    Ubari, the mottle-coated cattle-dogs loping alongside them.
    The enemy broke on both sides, flinching away with a timing that, although instinctive, was precise.
    Foolish Dog riders poured back down the ramp, parting around the warlocks and their motionless horse, then wheeling to the south in pursuit of the fleeing Halafan and Sialk infantry and the Tithansi archers.
    Duiker sank to his knees, suddenly overwhelmed, his emotions a cauldron of grief, anger and horror. Speak not of victory this day. No, do not speak at all.
    Somone stumbled onto the bank, breath ragged. Footsteps dragged closer, then a gauntleted hand fell heavily on the historian's shoulder. A voice that Duiker struggled to