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here at this pathetic backwater? Why had the surviving rag-ends of
insurrectionist armies and a last few newly anointed Falah'd converged here?
Prisoners boasted of its extraordinary antiquity and named it the hidden
progenitor of all the Holy Cities themselves. A convenient claim now that all
the rest had fallen, and a sad one too. It spoke of just how far a proud
civilization had been reduced. The last undignified scrambling of a defeated
people.
Dassem gestured to his signal corps and the messengers stopped coming; he had
turned over the battle to the sub-commanders of the Third Army: Amaron, Choss,
and Whiskeyjack.
Temper approached. 'The last one then?'
Dassem glanced over, his dark eyes softening. 'Aye. The last.'
Temper thought of all he had heard whispered from so many sources - of Pacts
and Vows sworn to the Hooded One himself. Steeling himself, he ventured, 'You
can't just walk away.'
Dassem slapped at the dust coating his long surcoat of bur-gundy and grey, the
Imperial sceptre at its chest. 'That's the last of my worries, Temper. There
are plenty of others all too eager to do his work. Lady knows, they're
practically lined up.'
'It can't be that easy.'
'Easy!' The First Sword's black eyes blazed and Temper jerked back a step.
Dassem passed one gauntleted hand across his eyes as if wiping away a vision
of horror. His long black hair, plaited back and tied at his neck, lashed in
the wind like the horsetail plume at the helmet under his arm. He shaded his
gaze to scan the battle. 'He made a mistake,' he whispered aloud.
Temper wondered: was this meant to be overheard?
'All that has ever mattered to me has been taken. I have nothing left to lose
. . .'
Though he ached to take his commander's shoulders and, shout - But what of
your own soul, Dassem? - Temper held his tongue.
He sensed he had pushed as far as he dared, had been given all that this man
was prepared to give. Besides, what did he know of pacts made in his
grandfather's time? Or of Hood's murky intentions, for that matter?
A roar went up from thousands of throats as the Malazan regulars of the Third
Army pushed on through the next level of the layered defences.
'Soon, now. We'll see Surgen soon,' Dassem said under his breath. His lips
drew back from his teeth, his features tensed, eager. Although they were the
enemy, Temper found himself pitying the soldiers ranged against them. Dassem
drew on his helm and started forward. Temper and the rest of the Sword -Point,
Ferrule, Quillion, Hilt and Edge - fell in around him.
As they advanced, Temper kept a look ahead for Surgen -Surgen Ress, the man
who claimed to be the last of the Holy City's patroned and anointed champions.
Never mind there were only seven Holy Cities and that all seven champions had
fallen to Dassem's sword. He gave life to Y'Ghatan's claim to be the eighth
Holy City, hidden, but the eldest. Temper wondered just how long such a
pretence could last.
Wounded soldiers, some carried, others staggering, appeared out of the
wind-lashed dust like summoned spirits. All paused at the sight of Dassem's
black horsehair plume. Those that could, saluted; most simply watched them
pass with battle-dulled eyes.
They reached a second tall earthen embrasure and its ramp. Corpses lay thick
upon it: Malazan infantry in scaled armour under grey surcoats; Seven City
defenders lying in droves, robes and headscarves tossing in the wind, brown
limbs askew. Crossing the second wall defences, Temper and his brothers
tightened their protective ring.
Sweat soaked the padding under Temper's armour and dripped from his brows.
Grit scoured his mouth as dry as baked stone. He blinked, his eyes burning and
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watering in the dust. The screams and clash of arms deafened him as always,
but he stood more relaxed than at former engagements. He knew that the
surviving Seven City priest-mages, the Falah'd, could not strike so long as
they were held in check by the Malazan cadre mages.
A runner reached them, saluted. 'Surgen has taken the field. Right flank.'
Dassem dismissed him, eyed his bodyguard. 'I'll try not to let him slip away
this time.' Temper and his brothers smiled as Dassem drew his sword. They
advanced to the right.
The regulars parted to allow them passage. Dassem stepped to the front while
Point and Edge took his flanks. Temper, Hilt, Ferrule and Quillion fell in to
guard his back.
They reached the front lines. Sergeants directed Dassem through the swirling
maelstrom of dust and struggling bodies to Surgen's position in the lines.
Spying Dassem's plume the Y'Ghatan soldiers howled, suddenly berserk with
fury. They launched themselves forward in a frenzy, as if meaning to bury the
ranked soldiers. Temper knew that those who engaged Dassem and fell had been
promised a blessed martyrdom. Then, from the screen of blowing dust, appeared
Surgen's escort of twenty hand-picked bodyguards, in red headscarves and
bearing facial hatch-lines. Dassem committed himself to the front. The
Y'Ghatan infantry pushed in like a crushing wall. Soon, in the sweep and shift
of battle, Temper found their position enisled by Seven City defenders.
At first he was not worried. It had happened before, and would no doubt happen
again. He was certain even now Malazan regulars were counter-attacking to
reach them. Surgen appeared, clashed briefly with Edge, but it was clear that
Edge was not the man Surgen wanted, and so he pulled back to move on to
Dassem, who stood alone, none daring to engage him, or those who did lasting
no longer than a single exchange.
The blades met, ringing continuously. Surgen's escort pressed around Temper,
eager to hack down him and his brothers to encircle Dassem. But such tactics
had often been attempted. Temper fought a careful, defensive duel with sword
and shield. Heavily armoured, he did not exert himself but rather delayed and
deferred, waiting for an opening to fell his opponent. And ultimately,
secretly, his advantage was that he knew: he had only to last long enough for
Dassem to finish his man.
At first it went poorly for the defenders. Dassem bore Surgen back and the
Sword advanced with Dassem, covering him against all comers. Seemingly
overborne, the last of the Seven City champions continued to retreat, step
after step. Still Temper waited for the Malazan regulars to reach them. Yet
this day the Y'Ghatan defenders, citizen-soldiers bolstered by veterans of all
the other smashed native armies, held where before they had broken.
Dassem advanced and Temper finished off the last of the escort guards opposing
him, then edged sideways to close the gap. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]