A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

the others. Fist, the refugees shall cross the river, under the benign protection of Korbolo Dom—'
    Coltaine spun to his warlocks. 'To your clans. Send Bult and the captains to me.'
    Shouts now sounded from the Wickans in the clearing as the mass of refugees surged forward, pushing through, down to the ford. The Fist found a nearby soldier. 'Have the clan war chiefs withdraw their warriors from their path – we cannot contest this.'
    He's right – we won't be able to stop the fools.
    Bult and the captains arrived in a rush and Coltaine snapped out his commands. Those orders made it clear to Duiker that the Fist was preparing for the worst. As the officers raced off, Coltaine faced the historian.
    'Go to the sappers. By my command they are to join the refugee train, insignia and uniforms exchanged for mundane garb—'
    'That won't be necessary, Fist – they all wear assorted rags and looted gear anyway. But I'll have them tie their helms to their belts.'
    'Go.'
    Duiker set off. The sky was lightening, and with that burgeoning glow the butterflies stirred on all sides, a silent shimmering that sent shivers through the historian for no obvious reason. He worked his way up the seething train, skirting one edge and pushing through the ranks of infantry who were standing back and watching the refugees without expression.
    He spied a ragtag knot of soldiers seated well back from the trail, almost at the edge of the flanking picket line. The company ignored the refugees and seemed busy with the task of coiling ropes. A few glanced up as Duiker arrived.
    'Coltaine commands you join the refugees,' the historian said. 'No arguments – take off your helms, now—'
    'Who's arguing?' one squat, wide soldier muttered.
    'What are you planning with the ropes?' Duiker demanded.
    The sapper looked up, his eyes narrow slashes in his wide, battered face. 'We did some reconnoitring of our own, old man. Now if you'd shut up we can get ready, right?'
    Three soldiers appeared from the forest side, approaching at a jog. One carried a severed head by its braid, trailing threads of blood. 'This one's done his last nod at post,' the man commented, dropping his prize to thud and roll on the ground. No-one else took notice, nor did the three sappers report to anyone.
    The entire company seemed to complete their preparations all at once, ropes around one shoulder, helms strapped to belts, crossbows readied, then hidden beneath loose raincapes and telaban. In silence they rose and began making their way towards the mass of refugees.
    Duiker hesitated. He turned to look down at the crossing. The head of the refugee column had pushed out into the ford, which was proving waist-deep, at least forty paces wide, its bottom thick, cloying mud. Butterflies swarmed above the mass of humanity in sunlit explosions of pallid yellow. A dozen Wickan horsewarriors had been sent ahead to guide the column. Behind them came the wagons of the noble blood – the only refugees staying dry and above the chaotic tumult. The historian glanced over at the surging train where the sappers had gone but they were nowhere to be seen, swallowed up in the crowds. From somewhere farther up the trader track came the terrible lowing of cattle being slaughtered.
    The flanking infantry were readying weapons – Coltaine was clearly anticipating a rearguard defence of the landing.
    Still the historian hesitated. If he joined the refugees and the worst came to pass, the ensuing panic would be as deadly as any slaughter visited upon them by Korbolo Dom's forces. Hood's breath! We are now truly at that bastard's mercy.
    A hand closed on his arm and he spun around to see his nameless marine at his side.
    'Come on,' she said. 'Into the mob – we're to support the sappers.'
    'In what? Nothing has befallen the refugees yet – and they're near to halfway across—'
    'Aye, and look at the heads turning to look downstream. The rebels have made a floating bridge – no, you can't see it from here, but it's there, packed with pikemen—'
    'Pikemen? Doing what?'
    'Watching. Waiting. Come on, lover, the nightmare's about to begin.'
    They joined the mass of refugees, entered that human current as it poured down towards the landing. A sudden roar and muted clash of weapons announced that the rearguard had been struck. The tide's momentum increased. Packed within that jostling chaos, Duiker could see little to either side or behind – but the slope ahead was revealed, as was the River Vathar