‘A scream of terror.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘All right, soldiers, it’s time.’
When the last grains trickled down, the Adjunct turned from the hourglass and nodded to Gamet. ‘When will you join your companies, Fist?’
‘In a few moments, Adjunct. Although, because I intend to remain in my saddle, I will not ride out to them until the fighting starts.’
He saw her frown at that, but she made no comment, focusing instead on the two Wickan youths standing near the tent’s entrance. ‘Have you completed your rituals?’
The lad, Nil, shrugged. ‘We have spoken with the spirits, as you ordered.’
‘Spoken? That is all?’
‘Once, perhaps, we could have… compelled. But as we warned you long ago in Aren, our power is not as it once was.’
Nether added, ‘This land’s spirits are agitated at the moment, easily distracted. Something else is happening. We have done all we could, Adjunct. At the very least, if the desert raiders have a shaman among them, there will be little chance of the secret’s unveiling.’
‘Something else is happening, you said. What, specifically?’
Before she could answer, Gamet said, ‘Your pardon, Adjunct. I will take my leave now.’
‘Of course.’
The Fist left them to resume their conversation. A fog had settled on his mind, the moments before an engagement when uncertainty engendered unease and confusion. He had heard of this affliction claiming other commanders, but had not thought it would befall him. The rush of his own blood had created a wall of sound, muting the world beyond. And it seemed his other senses had dulled as well.
As he made his way towards his horse-held ready by a soldier-he shook his head, seeking to clear it. If the soldier said something to him when he took the reins and swung up into the saddle, he did not hear it.
The Adjunct had been displeased by his decision to ride into the battle. But the added mobility was, to Gamet’s mind, worth the risk. He set out through the camp at a slow canter. Fires had been allowed to die, the scenes surrounding him strangely ethereal. He passed figures hunched down around coals and envied them their freedom. Life had been simpler as a plain soldier. Gamet had begun to doubt his ability to command.
Age is no instant purchase of wisdom. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? She may have made me a Fist and given me a legion. And soldiers might well salute when they pass-though of course not here, in enemy territory, thank Hood. No, all these trappings are no assurance of my competence.
This night shall be my first test. Gods, I should have stayed retired. I should have refused her insistence-dammit, her assumption-that I would simply accept her wishes.
There was, he had come to believe, a weakness within him. A fool might call it a virtue, such… pliable equanimity. But he knew better.
He rode on, the fog of his mind growing ever thicker.
Eight hundred warriors crouched motionless, ghostly, amidst the boulders on the plain. Wearing dulled armour and telabas the colour of the terrain around them, they were virtually invisible, and Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas felt a surge of dark pride, even as another part of his mind wondered at Leoman’s protracted… hesitation.
Their warchief lay flat on the slope’s rise ten paces ahead. He had not moved in some time. Despite the chill, sweat trickled beneath Corabb’s armour, and he shifted his grip once more on the unfamiliar tulwar in his right hand. He’d always preferred axe-like weapons-something with a haft he could, if need be, grip with his other hand. He disliked the blade edge that reached down all the way to the hilt and wished he’d had time to file it blunt for the first half of its length.
I am a warrior who cannot tolerate sharp edges close to his body. Which spirits thought to make of me such an embodiment of confused irony? I curse them all.
He could wait no longer, and slowly crawled up alongside Leoman of the Flails.
Beyond the crest sprawled another basin, this one hummocked and thick with thorny brush. It flanked the encamped Malazan army on this side, and was between sixty and seventy paces in breadth.
‘Foolish,’ Corabb muttered, ‘to have chosen to stop here. I think we need have nothing to fear from this Adjunct.’
The breath slowly hissed between Leoman’s teeth. ‘Aye, plenty of cover for our approach.’
‘Then why do we wait, Warchief?’
‘I am wondering, Corabb.’
‘Wondering?’
‘About the Empress. She was once Mistress of the Claw. Its fierce potency was given shape by her, and we have all learned to fear those mage-assassins. Ominous origins, yes? And then, as Empress, there were the great leaders of her imperial military. Dujek Onearm. Admiral Nok. Coltaine. Greymane.’
