Reaper's Gale

And she had been proved right. The Letherii had shattered like thin ice on a puddle. And what had happened to their mages? Nowhere in sight, leading Lostara to believe that those mages had used themselves up with that terrible conflagration they’d unleashed earlier.



Moranth munitions broke the Letherii apart-the Letherii commander had sent archers down the slope and the Bonehunters had had to wither a hail of sleeting arrows on their advance. There had been three hundred or so killed or wounded but there should have been more. Malazan armour, it turned out, was superior to the local armour; and once the skirmishers drew within range of their crossbows and sharpers, the enemy archers took heavy losses before fleeing back up the slope.



The Malazans simply followed them.



Sharpers, a few cussers sailing over the heads of the front Letherii ranks. Burners along the slope of the far left flank to ward off a modest cavalry charge. Smokers into the press to sow confusion. And then the wedges struck home.



Even then, had the Letherii stiffened their defence along the ridge, they could have bloodied the Malazans. Instead, they melted back, the lines collapsing, writhing like a wounded snake, and all at once the rout began. And with it, unmitigated slaughter.



The Adjunct had let her soldiers go, and Lostara Yil understood that decision. So much held down, for so long-and the growing belief that Fist Keneb and all his marines were dead. Murdered by sorcery. Such things can only be answered one sword-swing at a time, until the arm grows leaden, until the breaths are gulped down ragged and desperate.



And now, into the camp, the last of the soldiers were returning from their slaughter of Letherii. Faces,drawn, expressions numbed-as if each soldier had but just awakened from a nightmare, one in which he or she-surprise-was the monster.



She hardens them, for that is what she needs.



The Adjunct spoke, ‘Grub does not behave like a child who has lost his father.’



Lostara Yil snorted. ‘The lad is addled, Adjunct. You saw him dance. You heard him singing about candles.’



‘Addled. Yes, perhaps.’



‘In any case,’ Lostara persisted, ‘unlike Sinn, Grub has no talents, no way of knowing the fate of Fist Keneb. As for Sinn, well, as you know, I have little faith in her. Not because I believe her without power. She has that, Dryjhna knows.’ Then she shrugged. ‘Adjunct, they were on their own-entirely on their own-for so long. Under strength to conduct a full-scale invasion.’ She stopped then, realizing how critical all of this sounded. And isn’t it just that? A



criticism of this, and of you, Adjunct. Didn’t we abandon them?



‘I am aware of the views among the soldiers,’ Tavore said, inflectionless.



‘Adjunct,’ Lostara said, ‘we cannot conduct much of a siege, unless we use what sappers we have and most of our heavier munitions-I sense you’re in something of a hurry and have no interest in settling in. When will the rest of the Perish and the Khundryl be joining us?’



‘They shall not be joining us,’ Tavore replied. ‘We shall be joining them. To the east.’



The other half of this campaign. Another invasion, then. Damn you, Adjunct, 1 wish you shared your strategies. With me. Hood, with anyone! ‘I have wondered,’ she said, ‘at the disordered response from the Tiste Edur and the Letherii.’



The Adjunct sighed, so low, so drawn out that Lostara Yil barely caught it. Then Tavore said, ‘This empire is unwell. Our original assessment that the Tiste Edur were unpopular overseers was accurate. Where we erred, with respect to Fist Keneb’s landing, was in not sufficiently comprehending the complexities of that relationship. The split has occurred, Captain. It just took longer.’



At the expense of over a thousand marines.



‘Fist Keneb would not send a runner,’ Tavore said. ‘He would, in fact, lead his marines straight for Letheras. “First in, last out,” as Sergeant Fiddler might say.’



‘Last in, looking around,’ Lostara said without thinking, then winced. ‘Sorry, Adjunct-’



‘The Bonehunters’ motto, Captain?’



She would not meet her commander’s eyes. ‘Not a serious one, Adjunct. Coined by some heavy infantry soldier, I am told-’



‘Who?’



She thought desperately. ‘Nefarrias Bredd, I think.’



And caught, from the corner of her eye, a faint smile twitch Tavore’s thin lips. Then it was gone and, in truth, might never have been.



‘It may prove,’ the Adjunct said, ‘that Fist Keneb will earn us that ironic motto-those of us here, that is, in this camp.’