The warrior spread his hands in helpless dismay. ‘Then what struck here, Sceptre?’
The rage of gods. ‘Sorcery.’
A sudden flicker in Gafalk’s eyes. ‘Letherii-’
‘Who might well be pleased to see the Akrynnai and Barghast destroy each other.’
‘It is said the Malazans left them few mages, Sceptre. And their new Ceda is an old man who is also the Chancellor-not one to lead an army-’
But Irkullas was already shaking his head at his own suggestions. ‘Even a Letherii Ceda cannot hide an entire army. You are right to be sceptical, Gafalk.’
A conversation doomed to circle round and devour its own tail. Irkullas stepped past the warrior and looked upon the obliterated valley once more. ‘Dig out as many of our warriors as you can. At dusk we cease all such efforts-leaving the rest to the earth. We shall drive back the night with the pyre of our dead. And I shall stand vigil.’
‘Yes, Sceptre.’
The warrior returned to his horse.
Vigil, yes, that will do . A night without sleep-he would let the bright flames drive back the sickness in his soul.
It would be best, he decided, if he did not survive to return home. An uncle or cousin could play the bear to his grandchildren-someone else, in any case. Better, indeed, if he was denied the chance of sleep until the very instant of his death.
One final battle-against the Senan camp? Kill them all, and then fall myself. Bleed out in the red mud. And once dead, I can make my peace… with their ghosts. Hardly worth continuing this damned war on the ash plains of death, this stupid thing.
Dear daughter, you will not wander alone for long. I swear it. I will find your ghost, and I will protect you for ever more. As penance for my failure, and as proof of my love.
He glared about, as if in the day’s fading light he might see her floating spirit, a wraith with a dirt-smeared face and disbelieving eyes. No, eyes with the patience of the eternally freed. Freed from all this. Freed… from everything. In a new place. Where no sickness grows inside, where the body does not clench and writhe, flinching at the siren calls of every twinge, every ache.
Spirits of stone, give me peace!
Maral Eb’s army had doubled in size, as survivors from shattered encampments staggered in from all directions-shame-faced at living when wives, husbands and children had died beneath the iron of the treacherous Akrynnai. Many arrived bearing no weapons, shorn of armour, proof that they had been routed, had fled in waves of wide-eyed cowardice. Cold waters were known to wash upon warriors in the midst of battle, even Barghast warriors, and the tug of currents could lift into a raging flood where all reason drowned, where escape was a need that overwhelmed duty and honour. Cold waters left the faces of the survivors grey and bloated, stinking of guilt.
But Maral Eb had been sobered enough by the news of the defeats to cast no righteous judgement upon these refugees with their skittish eyes. Clearly, he understood he would need every warrior he could muster, although Bakal knew as well as anyone how such warriors, once drowned beneath panic, were now broken inside-worse, in the instant when a battle tottered on the fulcrum’s point, their terror could return. They could doom the battle, as their panic flooded out and infected everyone else.
No word had come from the Senan. It seemed that, thus far at least, the Akrynnai had yet to descend upon Bakal’s own clan. Soon, Maral Eb would grasp hold of the Senan army and claim it for himself. And then he would lead them all against the deceitful Sceptre Irkullas.
A thousand curses rode the breaths of the mass of warriors. It was obvious now that the Akryn had been planning this war for some time, trickling in and out their so-called merchants as spies, working towards the perfect moment for betrayal. How else could the Sceptre assemble such forces so quickly? For every refugee insisted that the enemy numbered in the tens of thousands.
Bakal believed none of it. This was the war Onos Toolan did not want. The wrong war. Maral Eb walked flanked by his two brothers, and surrounding these three was a mob of strutting idiots, each one vying to find the perfect words to please their new Warleader and his two hood-eyed, murderous siblings. Arguments sending the arrow of blame winging away. Onos Toolan was no longer alive and so less useful as a target, although some murky residue remained, like handfuls of shit awaiting any rivals among the Senan. Now it was the Akrynnai-Irkullas and his lying, cheating, spying horsemongers.
By the time this army arrived at the Senan camp, they would be blazing with the righteous fury of innocent victims.
‘ whatever he needs, ’ Strahl had said at the noon break. ‘ Falsehoods cease being false when enough people believe them, Bakal. Instead, they blaze like eternal truths, and woe to the fool who tries pissing a stream on that. They’ll tear you to pieces. ’