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Tavore straightened. ‘Where-’

Lostara reached the woman, pulled her down to the ground. ‘You shouldn’t even be alive, Tavore. Stay here-you’re in shock. Stay here-I’ll find help-’Advertisement

‘Quick Ben-the High Mage-’

‘Aye.’ Lostara stood over the Adjunct, who was sitting as would a child. The captain looked over to where she’d last seen Quick Ben.

He’d annihilated an entire phalanx, and where it had been the fires of superheated flesh, hide and bone still raged in an inferno. She saw him marching towards another phalanx, above him the sky convulsing, blackening like a bruise.

Sorcery erupted from the High Mage, struck the phalanx. Burning corpses lifted into the air.

‘I see him. Adjunct-I can’t-’

From the darkness in the sky a sudden glow, blinding, and then an enormous spear of lightning descended. She saw the High Mage look up, saw him raise his arms-and then the bolt struck. The explosion could have levelled a tenement block. Even the Nah’ruk in the phalanx thirty or more paces away were flattened like sheaves of wheat. Flanking units buckled on the facing sides.

The shock wave staggered Lostara, stole her breath, deafened her. Hands to her face, she slumped down, struck the ground hard.

Pearl?

Skanarow threw herself down into the second trench where the heavies were waiting. ‘The marines are overrun! Sound the fall-back-and make room for the survivors-let ’em through! Get ready to hold this trench!’

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She saw a messenger, unhorsed, crouching behind the headless corpse of a heavy. ‘You-find Captain Kindly. I just saw the vanguard go down-and I don’t know where Blistig is, so as far as I’m concerned Kindly’s now in command. Tell him, we need to begin a retreat-we can’t hold. Understood?’

The young man nodded.

‘Go.’

Brys flinched as the Nah’ruk lines struck the Malazan defences. He saw the heavy falchions descending. Barely slowing, the lizards swarmed over the first trench and began closing on the next one.

‘Aranict-’

‘I think she lives, Commander.’

Brys swung round in his saddle, caught the eyes of his outriders. ‘We need to retrieve the Adjunct. Volunteers only.’

One rider pushed through the others. Henar Vygulf.

Brys nodded. ‘Get your spare horses, Lieutenant.’

The huge Bluerose saluted.

‘When you have them,’ Brys said before the man turned away, ‘ride for the supply train.’

The soldier frowned.

Brys gritted his teeth. ‘I will not stand here watching this slaughter. We will close with the enemy.’

They saw the impossibly thick bolt of lightning tear down from the dark stain ahead. As the shockwaves drummed through the ground, Warleader Gall raised an arm to signal a halt. He faced Kisswhere, his face ashen. ‘I am sending you to the Mortal Sword Krughava-tell her the Malazans are assailed, and that the Khundryl ride to their succour.’

She stared at the man. ‘Warleader-’

‘Ride, soldier-you are not Khundryl-you do not understand what it is to fight from a horse. Tell Krughava the gods were cruel this day, for she will not reach the Malazans in time.’

‘Who is their enemy?’ Kisswhere demanded. ‘Your shamans-’

‘Are blind. We know less than you. Ride, Kisswhere.’

She swung her horse round.

Gall rose in his stirrups and faced his warriors. He drew his tulwar and held it high. And said nothing.

In answer, six thousand weapons were freed and lifted skyward.

Gall pulled his horse round. ‘Ride ahead, Rafala, until you sight the enemy.’

The woman kicked her mount into a gallop.

After a moment, Gall led his army after her, at a quick canter, and the sound of thunder grew louder, and the yellow sky deepened to brown in which flashes bloomed like wounds.

He wondered what his wife was doing.

Worse than chopping down trees. Fiddler gave up trying to hack through legs and began hamstringing the bastards, ducking the slashes of notched weapons, dodging the downward swings. The surviving Malazans had been driven from the first trench, were now struggling to hold a fighting withdrawal across the ten paces to the heavies’ trench.

Crossbow quarrels and arrows spat out from the troops arrayed behind the heavies, winging at heights mercifully above the heads of the soldiers in their desperate retreat. Most missiles shattered against enamel, but a few were punching through, finding gaps in the Nah’ruk’s armour. Beasts were toppling here and there.

But not enough. The phalanx was a machine, devouring everything in its path. pqdm.com