Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)
Page 250‘A moment, soldier. A moment. Something you said.’ The Chancellor looked up. ‘Five of the six Edur, killed at the very beginning of the ambush. And the discovery of Edur corpses on the roads leading in from the coast. No Letherii bodies on those roads?’
‘None that we found, sir, no.’
‘Yet the sixth Edur survived that initial strike in the glade-how?’
‘It must have seemed that he didn’t. The quarrel in his back, sir, the one that eventually killed him. He was sent tumbling from his saddle. I doubt any one expected him to rise again, to regain his mount-’
‘You saw all this with your own eyes?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘That quarrel-before or after the thunder and fire?’
The corporal frowned, then said, ‘Before. Just before-not even a blink from one to the next, I think. Yes, I am certain. He was the very first struck.’
‘Because he was clearly in command?’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘You may go now, soldier. Sirryn, remain with me a moment.’
As soon as the door closed Triban Gnol was’ on his feet. ‘Errant fend! A damned invasion! Against the Letherii Empire!’
‘Sounds more like against the Edur,’ Sirryn ventured.
The Chancellor glared across at him. ‘You damned fool. That is incidental-an interesting detail at most. Without true relevance. Sirryn, the Edur rule us-perhaps only in name, yes, but they are our occupiers. In our midst. Able to command Letherii forces as befits their need.’
He slammed a fist down on the table. The lacquered box jumped, the lid clattering free. Triban Gnol stared at what lay within. ‘We are at war,’ he said. ‘Not our war-not the one we planned for-no. War!’
‘We will crush these invaders, sir-’
‘Of course we will, once we meet their sorcery with our own. That too is not relevant.’
‘I do not understand, sir.’
‘Sir?’
‘An invitation. He is to come to the palace.’
‘When?’
‘Immediately.’
Sirryn saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Go.’
As the door closed a second time, Triban Gnol stared down at his desk. Down into the box with its dislodged lid. Wherein sat a small, squat bottle. A third of its contents remaining.
Triban Gnol often drew satisfaction from the sight of it, the very knowledge of it when hidden within its box. He would recall pouring the contents into the vessel of wine from which he knew Ezgara Diskanar would drink, there on that last terrible day. In the throne room. Ezgara, and that pathetic First Eunuch. Nisall should have followed. Not Brys. No, anyone but Brys Beddict.
Regrettable, that.
Every field of battle holds every cry uttered
Threaded like roots between stones and broken armour, shattered weapons, leather clasps rotting into the earth.
Centuries are as nothing to those voices, those aggrieved souls.
They die in the now
And the now is for ever.
– On the Deal Plains, Rael of Longspit,
Fire had taken the grasses. Wind and water had taken the soil. The level stretch where the two drainage channels debouched was a scatter of button cacti, fist-sized cobbles and fire-cracked rock. The Letherii outrider’s corpse had rolled down from the ridge leaving a path of spattered blood now black as ink on the rocks. Coyotes, wolves or perhaps Awl dogs had chewed away the softer tissues-face and gut, buttocks and inner thighs-leaving the rest to the flies and their maggot spawn.
Overseer Brohl Handar-who knew he should have died at Bast Fulmar, had indeed believed at that last moment that he would, absurdly killed by his own sword-gestured to two of his troop to remain on the ridge and waved the others to the highest rise thirty paces away, on the other side of one of the gullies, then walked his horse down onto the flat. Steeling himself against the stench of the dead soldier, he forced his reluctant mount closer.
The K’risnan had reached him in time. With the power to heal, a power pure-no stain of chaos-that was, Brohl Handar now understood, a blessing. Kurald Emurlahn. Darkness reborn. He would not question it, would not doubt it. Blessing.