The Crippled God

over his face. Drew out his sword and rose in his stirrups as still more soldiers crowded the ridge.
    ‘Draw breath, you bastards! And CHARGE! ’
    As he and Fist Rythe Bude drove their mounts down the slope, Ganoes Paran angled close to her. ‘Into that flank – leave the south alone!’
    ‘Yes sir!’
    ‘Look for any mixed-bloods.’
    The look she shot him was venomous. ‘Oh really, sir?’
    Behind them the ground shook as the Host thundered down the slope.
    ‘High Fist! If we take down their commanders! Mercy?’
    He glared ahead, drawing his mount away from the woman, angling towards the unoccupied flats between the fighters and the non-combatants. ‘Today, Fist, I don’t know the word!’
    But he knew he would change his mind. Cursed with softness. I got it all. Left nothing for Tavore, my sister of ice-cold iron. We should have shared it out. Like coins. Gods, so many things we should have done. Is it now too late? Does she live?
    Sister, do you live?
    High Watered Melest, still shaken by the deaths of the Pures, turned at the cries of shock and dismay from the Kolansii on the right flank, and his eyes widened upon seeing another foreign army pouring down from the hills. Even as he watched, they slammed into the heavy infantry – and these attackers were as heavily armoured, and with the weight of the downhill charge behind them they shattered the wing with the force of an avalanche.
    Howling in rage, he pushed back through the ranks – he needed one of the Pures’ horses, to attain a higher vantage point. They still held the centre and fully commanded the south side of the field. Victory was still possible.
    And he would win it.
    In his mind, drawing as much strength as he could from Akhrast Korvalain, he exhorted his soldiers into a battle frenzy.
    ‘ Kill them! All these who have so defied us on this day – destroy them! ’
    His horse lagging beneath him, beginning to weave, Paran cursed and slowed the beast. He fumbled in the saddlebag on his left, drew out a lacquered card. Glared at the lone rider painted on it. ‘Mathok! I know you can hear me! I’m about to open the gate for you. But listen! Come at the charge, do you understand? You wanted a damned Hood-balled blood-pissing fight, and now I’m giving it to you!’
    Paran kicked his horse forward again, pushing the poor beast into a gallop. He fixed his eyes on the place where he would tear open the gate, and then rose in his stirrups. ‘There,’ he said to the card, and then threw it.
    The card sailed out, level as a quarrel from a crossbow, so fast it blurred as it cut through the air.
    Beneath Paran, his horse stumbled. Then collapsed.
    He threw himself clear, struck hard, rolled and was still.
    Ruthan Gudd fought to defy the envelopment, but even with this unknown brute of a soldier fighting at his side he could not prevent the hundreds of Kolansii from swinging round, well beyond the reach of their swords.
    Behind him he felt a sudden surge rip through the regulars, pushing everyone forward a step. Twisting round, Ruthan strained to see the cause – but dust filled the air, and all he could see was the reeling mass of Malazans, now breaking apart, spilling out, as if in a berserk fever they now sought to charge – but before these soldiers there were no Kolansii.
    They are broken. They are finally —
    Thunder spun him round, and he stared, disbelieving, as thousands of warriors rode out from an enormous gate – but no, this ragged tear in the fabric of the world did not deserve so lofty a title. It was huge, opened to a howling wind – and it was barely thirty paces from the first ranks of the enemy.
    The riders bore lances, their mounts heavily armoured across chest and neck. They struck the disordered mass of heavy infantry – there had been no time to wheel, no time to draw shields round – and the concussion of that impact shuddered through the Kolansii. The wing split, broke apart – and suddenly all cohesion was lost, and the horse-warriors were delivering slaughter on all sides.
    The regular infantryman beside him stumbled then, leaned hardagainst Ruthan Gudd’s hip. Startled, he stared down, saw the man pressing his forehead against his ice-sheathed side.
    Eyes closed, the gasping Kanese breathed, ‘Gods below, that feels good.’
    Lostara Yil saw Adjunct Tavore stumbling away from the ranks. The pressure was gone – the enemy had other foes to deal with, and those foes were driving them back, away from the