A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

better work!'
    After a long moment, Quick Ben grinned down at the creature.
    But said nothing.
    The sticksnare scrambled after Quick Ben when he left the tent. The mage paused to look around. What he had thought to be rain had been, in fact, water dripping from the leaves of a broad, verdant oak, its branches hanging over the tent. It was late afternoon, the sky clear overhead.
    A Barghast encampment was sprawled out on all sides. Wicker and hide dwellings rose from the forest floor along the base of a lightly treed slope directly behind the wizard, whilst before him – to the south – were the dun-coloured humps of rounded tipis. The different styles reflected at least two distinct tribes. The mud-churned pathways crisscrossing the encampment were crowded with warriors, many wounded or bearing fallen kin.
    'Where,' Quick Ben asked Talamandas, 'are my fellow Bridgeburners?'
    'First into Capustan, Wizard, and still there. At the Thrall, likely.'
    'Did they get into any fighting?'
    'Only at the north gate – breaking through the siege line. Swiftly done. There are none wounded, Ben Adaephon Delat. Making your tribe unique, yes?'
    'So I see,' Quick Ben murmured, watching the warriors filing into the camp. 'Not much duelling of late, I take it.'
    The sticksnare grunted. 'True enough. Our gods have spoken to our shamans, who have in turn conveyed to the clan warriors a ... chastisement. It would appear that the White Faces are not yet done with these Pannions – or with your war, Wizard.'
    Quick Ben glanced down. 'You'll be marching south with us, Talamandas?'
    'We shall. It is not enough blunting the sword – we must sever the hand wielding it.'
    'I need to contact my allies ... in the army to the west. Should I attempt a warren?'
    'I am ready.'
    'Good. Let's find somewhere private.'
     
    Two leagues to the west of Capustan, in the shadows edging down a broad slope, the massed ranks of Malazan heavy infantry locked shields and advanced. Marines armed with crossbows ranged ahead, firing quarrels into the milling line of Betaklites less than thirty paces distant.
    Whiskeyjack watched through the slits of his helm's visor from where he had reined in at the hill's crest, his horse tossing its head at the smell of blood. Aides and messengers gathered around him.
    Dujek's flank attack on the Septarch's regiment of archers had virtually eliminated the whizzing flight of arrows from the valley side opposite. Whiskeyjack's heavy infantry had drawn their fire, which had provided Onearm's heavy cavalry the time needed to mount a charge along the north slope. Had the Pannion archers the discipline – and competent commanders – they would have had time to wheel in formation and loose at least three flights at the charging cavalry, perhaps sufficient to beat off the attack. Instead, they had milled in confusion upon seeing the horsewarriors closing on their right flank, then had disintegrated into a rout. Pursuit and wholesale slaughter followed.
    The marines slipped back through aisles in the advancing heavy infantry. They would reappear on each wing, resuming their crossbow-fire against the enemy line's edges. Before then, however, four thousand silent, scale-armoured and shield-bearing veterans closed with the Betaklites. Javelins preceded their charge when but a dozen paces remained, the long-headed, barbed spears cutting into the Pannion line – a tactic peculiar to Onearm's Host – then thrusting swords snapped from scabbards. And the Malazans surged forward.
    The Betaklite line crumpled.
    Whiskeyjack's heavy infantry reformed into individual four-squad wedges, each one independently driving deeper into the Pannion ranks once the battle was fully joined.
    The details before the commander were precise in following the Malazan doctrine of set battles, as devised by Dassem Ultor decades past. Shield-locked lines and squares worked best in defending engagements. When delivering chaos into massed enemy ranks in an assault, however, it was found that smaller, tighter units worked best. A successful advance that drove the enemy back often lost its momentum, and, indeed, its contact with the retreating foes, amidst a corpse-cluttered ground and the need to maintain closed ranks. Almost a thousand four-squad wedges, of thirty-five to forty soldiers each, on the other hand, actually delayed the moment of rout. Flight was more difficult, communication problematic, and lines of sight to fellow soldiers often broken – none knew