Night of Knives (21 page)

Point snorted. ‘Not in this rat’s nest of a land. There’ll always be another, and another. These people will never face the truth.’

Temper watched the snapping cloth, the marines standing guard at the entrance, and his four brother bodyguards waiting next to them. ‘Maybe so. But he says it’s
his
last.’

Point glanced at him, his eyes narrow within the shade of his helm. ‘You don’t
really
believe that. He’s always sayin’ that.’

‘I don’t know. That Bloorgian priest, Lanesh – you’ve heard the things he’s been ranting.’

Point slapped the sword sheathed at his side. ‘That pig. He’s just eaten up that Dassem’s closer to Hood than he’ll ever be. Ferrule says we ought to gut him, and for once I agree with that murdering brute.’

Temper straightened as the tent flap was thrown back and officers filed out. ‘Here they come.’

Dassem stepped out, his horsehair-plumed helm under one arm. The four others of his ‘sword’ bodyguard met him there. Soldiers nearby in the ranks shouted, ‘Hail the Sword!’ Dassem raised a gauntleted hand in answer. A few of the mage cadre emerged: old man A’Karonys with a staff taller than he was; the giant Bedurian; the woman Nightchill; and the short bald walking stump of a man, Hairlock.

Point murmured, ‘I wish the old ogre was still around. He always kept that bitch in check.’

Temper grunted agreement. The
bitch,
Surly, remained hidden within the tent. Talian and Falaran Sub-Fists and commanders came out and headed to their posts. In their wake they left messengers running with last minute orders. From behind the city walls horns sounded distant alarm. After a last dust-ridden pass and javelin toss, the harrying Y’Ghatan cavalry withdrew.

The assault lasted through the entire day. The thunder and roar of battle rose and fell as flank commanders probed the defences, searching for a weakness. Smoke and the stench of burnt flesh washed over Temper as A’Karonys lashed the walls with flames, only to be pushed back by what remained of the Holy Falah’d. Ranged around Dassem, Sword of the Empire and commander of the Imperial forces, Temper and his brethren watched and waited through the day’s punishing heat for the time when the Sword would commit itself to the field. Runners came and went, conveying intelligence to Dassem, relaying his orders. A company of saboteurs emerged from the churning winds. Caked in dust but grinning, they saluted Dassem. Somewhere, the defences had been breached.

Slowly, step by step, the regular infantry advanced. They scrambled up the first incline of the lowest terrace to the broached first ring of walls. Here the Imperial sappers had done their work, undermining and blasting entire sections. So far, the defenders held a death-grip on these breaches. Piled cask and timber barriers went up at night, while each day the Malazans tore them down. Scaling a siege ramp, Temper calculated that every footstep taken up the dusty rotten slope cost a thousand men. An impenetrable cloud of reddish dust obscured everything. Ahead, muted screams and the thundering clash of arms reached him through the gusting wind.

Temper scanned the next walls – no more than heaped sun-baked mud bricks. Why 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 burgundy 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 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.

Surgen attacked with both swords and Dassem countered, his blade a blur. Then a flash across Temper’s vision and Dassem gasped, bowed forward as if cradling a wound. Another attack? An arrow or bolt? Temper couldn’t be sure what he saw. Surgen was also startled, but instantly pressed his advantage. One-handed, Dassem fended off the blows while grasping at his chest. Quillion and Edge broke formation to interpose themselves.

Then Hood’s Own Paths cracked open upon them.

Smelling the blood of a champion who’d stood for as long as any could remember, Surgen, his remaining escort, and the regulars lunged in upon them. Quillion and Hilt fought fanatically as the Sword attempted to retreat as a unit. But only Dassem could match Surgen, and so Quillion fell to the twin swords of the anointed and Holy-patroned champion.

Temper bellowed for relief but his voice was lost in the defenders’ frenzied shouts. Dassem struggled, head hanging, staggering. Neither Temper nor any of his remaining brothers could spare an instant’s concentration to help steady him. It tortured Temper to feel the man stumble against his back as they withdrew, pace by pace, over the uneven ground.

What had struck him?
Temper wondered, blazing with fury.
Who
could have reached him? How could it be that on this day, at this hour, the Y’Ghatan soldier-citizenry defeated Malazan professionals? What gave them the backbone?

Surrounded, they struggled to retreat. Temper could only shield-bash continuously, slashing any hands that grabbed at the sharpened iron edges of his shield. For a moment, the five of them surfaced intact like a wave-tossed piece of wreckage. Then they were four: he, Dassem, Point and Ferrule. They held for heartbeats longer until Surgen broached the crowd like a bear scattering a pack of dogs. Though apparently injured near to death, Dassem still easily parried and dropped the regulars. Point moved to intercept Surgen while Temper and Ferrule fended off the encircling mob.

And still the Malazan regulars had yet to push through. Point faced Surgen. Temper saw little of the duel – he was too busy staving off Seven City infantry throwing themselves against him in a desperate bid to bear him down. Glimpses convinced him of Point’s brilliance: the man outdid himself, lasting more exchanges than Temper believed possible against a patroned champion. Temper bellowed again for the Malazan regulars; short of friendly forces sweeping over and rescuing them, he knew each would die in turn under Surgen’s blades.

Point fell. Temper roared in rage as Point had fought beautifully; there was no justice in his defeat. He used that searing fury to break into the gap. Of the duel that followed, he never forgot Surgen’s hot eyes fixed at a point past his shoulder . . . on a crippled Dassem just beyond reach.

Sensing the end was near, the Seven City regulars drew back to give Surgen room. He pressed forward confidently, contemptuously even, and that made Temper all the more stubborn. The blows rained down. He simply hunched low like a shack in an avalanche, determined to remain, no matter what was thrown at him.

Surgen punished him for his temerity. Yet, Temper hung on.
Surgen was incredibly skilled, almost as strong as Temper, and far quicker. Facing the champion’s ferocious eyes, his mouth open as if already tasting Dassem’s blood, Temper abandoned any hope of surviving. He gave himself up as dead already and determined to remain standing merely long enough to deny Surgen the satisfaction of victory. He parried the man, using his bull strength to bear Surgen back whenever possible. Thrust through the stomach, Temper merely grunted and swung for Surgen’s head. But such was warrior’s speed that Surgen simply snapped back his head, taking only a cut across the bridge of his nose. Surgen pulled away then for an instant, stunned Temper hoped, for he could no longer see clearly through the pink mist of sweat and blood fogging his eyes.

He waited, gasping in air, still giving ground while Ferrule, bellowing, thrust everywhere, surrendering to blind battle lust. Dassem staggered, parrying like a drunk, yet still able to defend himself against the common soldiery.