A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

have reported an army ascending to the pass.'
    Ah, no. So soon.
    B'nagga laughed. 'Do we ambush them? Shall I send my wolves forward?'
    'They are not yet at the bridge,' Fear replied. 'I expect they will seek to contest that crossing should we fail to reach it before them. For the moment, however, they are in a slow-march, and, it seems, not expecting much opposition.'
    'That much is clear,' Hanradi said. 'What commander would seek an engagement against an enemy upslope? This is a probe. At first contact they will withdraw. Back to High Fort. Fear, we should bloody them all the way.'
    'B'nagga, send half your force forward. Observe the enemy, but remain unseen.'
    The K'risnan who had spoken earlier said, 'Fear, there will be a mage cadre attached to the army.'
    Fear nodded. 'Withdraw the wraiths barring a dozen or so. I would convey the belief that those few are but residents of the area. The enemy must remain unsuspecting. Hanradi Khalag, our warriors must be made ready to march. You will lead them.'
    'We shall be under way before mid-morning.'
    Trull watched the Merude chief walk away, then said, 'Those Letherii mages will prove troublesome.'
    The K'risnan grunted. 'Trull Sengar, we are their match.'
    He looked at the two warlocks. Chiefs' sons. Of Rhulad's age.
    The K'risnan's smile was knowing. 'We are linked to Hannan Mosag, and through him to the emperor himself. Trull Sengar, the power we now call upon is more vast, and deadlier, than any the Edur have known before.'
    'And that does not concern you? What is the aspect of this power? Do you even know? Does Hannan Mosag know? Rhulad?'
    'The power comes to the emperor through the sword,' the K'risnan said.
    'That is no answer—'
    'Trull!' Fear snapped. 'No more. I have asked that you assemble a unit from our village. Have you done so?'
    'Yes, brother. Fifty warriors, half of them unblooded, as you commanded.'
    'And have you created squads and chosen your officers?'
    Trull nodded.
    'Lead them to the bridge. Take advance positions on the other side and wait until Hanradi's forces reach you – it should not be a long wait.'
    'And if the Letherii have sent scouts ahead and they arrive first?'
    'Gauge their strength and act accordingly. But Trull, no last stands. A skirmish will suffice to hold up the enemy's advance, particularly if they are uncertain as to your strength. Now, gather your warriors and be off.'
    'Very well.'
    There was no point in arguing any further, he told himself as he made his way to where his company waited. No-one wanted to listen. Independent thought had been relinquished, with appalling eagerness, it seemed to him, and in its place had risen a stolid resolve to question nothing. Worse, Trull found he could not help himself. Even as he saw the anger grow in the faces of those around him – anger that he dare challenge, that he dare think in ways contrary to theirs, and so threaten their certainty – he was unable to stay silent.
    Momentum was building all around him, and the stronger it grew, the more he resisted it. In a way, he suspected, he was becoming as reactionary as they were, driven into extreme opposition, and though he struggled against this dogmatic obstinacy it was a battle he sensed he was losing.
    There was nothing of value in such opposed positions of thought. And no possible conclusion but his own isolation and, eventually, the loss of trust.
    His warriors were waiting, gear packed, armour donned. Trull knew them all by name, and had endeavoured to achieve a balanced force, not just in skill but in attitude. Accordingly, he knew many of them resented being under his command, for his dissatisfaction with this war was well known. None the less, he knew they would follow him.
    There were no nobles among them.
    Trull joined the warrior he had chosen as his captain. Ahlrada Ahn had trained alongside Trull, specializing in the Merude cutlass as his preferred weapon. He was left-handed, rare among the Edur, yet used his other hand to wield a short, wide-bladed knife for close fighting. The bell-hilt of his cutlass sprouted a profusion of quillons designed to trap opposing sword-blades and spear-shafts, and his ceaseless exercises concentrating on that tactic had made his left wrist almost twice the bulk of its opposite. Trull had seen more than one of his practice spears snap at a shoulder-wrenching twist from Ahlrada's sword-arm.
    The warrior also hated him, for reasons Trull had yet to fathom. Although now, he amended, Ahlrada