A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Cuttle.'
    'Believe me, it wasn't intentional.'
     
    Seated nearby, hidden from the others in a brush-bordered
hollow, Bottle smiled. So that's how the veterans get ready for
a fight. Same as everyone else. That did indeed comfort him.
Mostly. Well, maybe not. Better had they been confident,
brash and swaggering. This – what was coming – sounded
all too uncertain.
    He had just returned from the mage gathering. Magical
probes had revealed a muted presence in Y'Ghatan, the
priestly kind, for the most part, and what there was of that
was confused, panicked. Or strangely quiescent. For the
sappers' advance, Bottle would be drawing upon Meanas,
rolling banks of mist, tumbling darkness on all sides. Easily
dispelled, if a mage of any skill was on the wall, but there
didn't seem to be any. Most troubling of all, Bottle would
need all his concentration to work Meanas, thus preventing
him from using spirit magic. Leaving him as blind as
those few enemy soldiers on the wall.
    He admitted to a bad run of nerves – he hadn't been
nearly so shaky at Raraku. And with Leoman's ambush in
the sandstorm, well, it was an ambush, wasn't it – there'd
been no time for terror. In any case, he didn't like this
feeling.
    Rising into a crouch, he moved away, up and out of the
hollow, straightening and walking casually into the squad's
camp. It seemed Strings didn't mind leaving his soldiers
alone for a while before things heated up, letting them
chew on their own thoughts, then – hopefully – reining
everyone in at the last moment.
    Koryk was tying yet more fetishes onto the various
rings and loops in his armour, strips of coloured cloth, bird
bones and chain-links to add to the ubiquitous finger bones
that now signified the Fourteenth Army. Smiles was
flipping her throwing-knives, the blades slapping softly on
the leather of her gloves. Tarr stood nearby, shield already
strapped on his left arm, short sword in his gauntleted
right hand, most of his face hidden by his helm's
cheek-guards.
    Turning, Bottle studied the distant city. Dark – there
seemed not a single lantern glowing from that squat,
squalid heap. He already hated Y'Ghatan.
    A low whistle in the night. Sudden stirring. Cuttle
appeared. 'Sappers, to me. It's time.'
    Gods below, so it is.
     
    Leoman stood in the Falah'd's throne room. Eleven
warriors were arrayed before him, glassy-eyed, their leather
armour webbed in harnesses with straps and loops dangling.
Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas studied them – familiar faces
one and all, yet now barely recognizable beneath the blood
and strips of skin. Deliverers of the Apocalypse, sworn now
to fanaticism, sworn not to see the coming dawn, bound to
death this night. The very sight of them, with their drugsoaked
eyes, chilled Corabb.
    'You know what is asked of you this night,' Leoman said
to his chosen warriors. 'Leave now, my brothers and sisters,
under the pure eyes of Dryjhna, and we shall meet again at
Hood's Gate.'
    They bowed and headed off.
    Corabb watched until the last of them vanished
beyond the great doors, then faced Leoman. 'Warleader,
what is to happen? What have you planned? You spoke
of Dryjhna, yet this night you have bargained with the
Queen of Dreams. Speak to me, before I begin to lose
faith.'
    'Poor Corabb,' Dunsparrow murmured.
    Leoman shot her a glare, then said, 'No time, Corabb,
but I tell you this – I have had my fill of fanatics, through
this lifetime and a dozen others, I have had my fill—'
    Boots sounded on the floor in the hallway beyond, and
they turned as a tall, cloaked warrior strode in, drawing his
hood back. Corabb's eyes widened, and hope surged
through him as he stepped forward. 'High Mage L'oric!
Truly, Dryjhna shines bright in the sky tonight!'
    The tall man was massaging one shoulder, wincing as he
said, 'Would that I could have arrived within the damned
city walls – too many mages stirring in the Malazan camp.
Leoman, I did not know you had the power to summon – I
tell you, I was headed elsewhere—'
    'The Queen of Dreams, L'oric'
    'Again? What does she want?'
    Leoman shrugged. 'You were part of the deal, I'm afraid.'
    'What deal?'
    'I will explain later. In any case, we need you this night.
Come, we climb to the South Tower.'
    Another surge of hope. Corabb knew he could trust
Leoman. The Holy Warrior possessed a plan, a diabolical,
brilliant plan. He had been a fool to doubt. He set off in the
wake of Dunsparrow, High Mage L'oric and Leoman of
the Flails.
    L'oric. Now we can fight