The Crippled God

dogs.’
    ‘Whatever. Stick a foot in one of those and we all go up.’
    Commander Erekala could feel the wind freshening, down from the north, funnelling up the narrow approach to the pass. Carried on thatbreeze was the smell of iron, leather, sweat and horses. Sister Staylock stood at his side, with a half-dozen messengers stationed behind them should commands need to be sent down to the flag stations positioned along the wall.
    The enemy forces were shaking out, seething motion all along the front lines. The medium and heavy infantry that had been positioned there in solid ranks since dawn were now splitting up to permit new troops to move forward in ragged formation. These newcomers bore no standards, and most of them had their shields still strapped to their backs. From what Erekala could make out, they were armed with crossbows and short swords.
    ‘Skirmishers?’ asked Staylock. ‘They don’t look light on their feet, Commander – some of them are wearing chain. Nor are they forming a line. Who are these soldiers?’
    ‘Marines.’
    ‘They appear … undisciplined, sir.’
    ‘It is my understanding, Sister Staylock, that against the Malazan marines the armies of the Seven Holy Cities had no counter. They are, in fact, unlike any other soldier on the field of battle.’
    She turned to eye him quizzically. ‘Sir, may I ask, what else have you heard about these marines?’
    Erekala leaned on the rail. ‘Heard? Yes, that would be the word.’
    They were advancing now, broken up into squads of eight or ten, clambering steadily over the rough ground towards the first trench, where waited masses of Shriven – Kolansii regulars. Solid enough soldiers, Erekala knew. Proficient if not spectacular, yet subject to the sorcery of the Forkrul Assail. Without the Pure, however, there would be no power sufficient to unleash in them any battle frenzy. Still, they would not buckle so long as the mixed-blood commanders held their nerve.
    ‘I don’t understand you, sir.’
    He glanced across at her. ‘The night of the Adjunct’s disengagement from the docks of Malaz City, Sister – where were you stationed?’
    ‘The outer screen of ships, sir.’
    ‘Ah. Do you recall, did you by chance happen to hear thunder that night – from the island?’
    Frowning, she shook her head. ‘Sir, for half that night I was in my sling, fast asleep.’
    ‘Very well. Your answer, Sister, is not long in coming, I fear.’
    Thirty rough and broken paces below the first berm now, the squads thinning out, those wielding crossbows raising their weapons.
    On the Shriven side, the pikes angled down, readying for the enemy to breach the top of the berm. The iron points formed a bristling wall. From the second trench the archers had moved up, nocking arrows butnot yet drawing. Once the Malazans reached the ridge line, coming into direct line of sight, the arrows would hiss their song, and as the first line of bodies tumbled, the archers would begin firing in longer arcs – to angle the arrows down the slope. And the advance would grind to a halt, with soldiers huddling under their shields, seeking cover from the rain of death.
    Twenty paces now, where there was a pause in the advance – only an instant – and then Erekala saw arms swinging, tiny objects sailing out from the hands.
    Too soon .
    Striking the bank two-thirds of the way up. Sudden billowing of thick black smoke, boiling out, devouring the lines of sight. Like a bank of fog, the impenetrable wall rolled up and over the berm’s topside.
    ‘Magery?’ gasped Staylock.
    Erekala shook his head.
    And from that rising tide of midnight, more objects sailed out, landing amidst the pike-wielding press of Shriven.
    Detonations and flashes of fire erupted along the entire length of the trench. The mass of Kolansii shook, and everywhere was the bright crimson of blood and torn flesh.
    A second wave of munitions landed.
    The report of their explosions echoed up the slope, followed by screams and shrieks of pain. The smoke was rolling into the trench, torn here and there by further detonations, but this just added dust and misted blood to the roiling mix.
    Along the second trench, the archers were wavering.
    ‘Begin firing blind,’ Erekala murmured. ‘Do it now .’
    And he was pleased to see Watered officers bellowing their commands, and the bows drawn back.
    A sleet of quarrels shot out from the smoke and dust, tore into the archers. And the heads of many of these quarrels were