The Dal Honese shaman waddled over. ‘Just what we figured! Only the small stuff. That bastard don’t trust us.’
Stern grunted. ‘You idiot. I don’t trust us. But listen, if we—’
Manx held up a hand in front of Stern’s face. ‘Got it covered. See?’
The corporal tilted his head back, studied the tattoo blazoned across the hand’s palm. A blood-red jagged slash. ‘That’s it? That’s all you need?’
‘Should do. We made sure the toad described it in detail.’
‘Right. Has he recovered?’
‘Well, we roasted him a bit crispy here and there, but he’ll survive. It all kind of went wrong for a bit – I mean, we had ’em both trussed up, and we figured just threatening the toad would be enough to make the artist break down and talk. We was wrong. In fact, it was Ormulogun who suggested the roasting bit – never seen the old lunatic happier. We thought they was friends—’
‘Be quiet, will you? You’re babbling. I don’t care what happened, so long as you didn’t kill either of them.’
‘They’re alive, I told you. Trussed up and gagged for now. We’ll let ’em go later.’
Stern looked round, raised his voice, ‘Sappers! Leave room for a cusser or two!’
‘Ain’t no cussers, Stern.’
‘Never mind that. It’s taken care of. Now let’s get this done – and carefully. We make a mistake here and we don’t take none of the bad guys with us on the way out, and that’ll send our souls to the fiends of the Sapper’s Torment for ever – and nobody wants that, do they?’
A sudden hush, a renewed attention to caution, and here and there, a few subtle gestures warding against the curse of the Sapper’s Torment.
Satisfied, Stern nodded. ‘Manx, stay close to me from now on.’
‘We ain’t never used one of those redbolts, Stern.’
The man grunted. ‘Show me a munition I can’t figure out and I’ll show you the inside of the Cobra God’s nose.’
Manx shot him a look. ‘Figured you had north Dal Hon blood in you.’
‘What’s in my blood don’t matter. I just know that when a sapper steps on to the field of battle, they’d be wise to call on every god they ever heard of.’
‘Amen and a spit in the eye t’that.’
Stern hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Amen and a spit in the eye back. Now, you ready? Good. Let’s go find our squad. The sarge is gonna love this.’
‘No he ain’t!’
‘Sarge loves what I tell him to love, Manx. Credo of the Sapper’s Knuckle.’
‘“Who’s holding the sharper?” Aye, Sapper’s Knuckle. Hey, Stern.’
‘What?’
The shaman was grinning. ‘See what this means? Us sappers. We’re back to what we never were but could’ve been, and don’t that taste sweet?’
‘It’s only sweet if we don’t mess this up. Now pay attention where you’re stepping. I seen gopher holes.’
‘Ain’t gophers, Stern. These are prairie dogs.’
‘Whatever. Stick a foot in one of those and we all go up.’
Commander Erekala could feel the wind freshening, down from the north, funnelling up the narrow approach to the pass. Carried on that breeze was the smell of iron, leather, sweat and horses. Sister Staylock stood at his side, with a half-dozen messengers stationed behind them should commands need to be sent down to the flag stations positioned along the wall.
The enemy forces were shaking out, seething motion all along the front lines. The medium and heavy infantry that had been positioned there in solid ranks since dawn were now splitting up to permit new troops to move forward in ragged formation. These newcomers bore no standards, and most of them had their shields still strapped to their backs. From what Erekala could make out, they were armed with crossbows and short swords.
‘Skirmishers?’ asked Staylock. ‘They don’t look light on their feet, Commander – some of them are wearing chain. Nor are they forming a line. Who are these soldiers?’
‘Marines.’
‘They appear … undisciplined, sir.’
‘It is my understanding, Sister Staylock, that against the Malazan marines the armies of the Seven Holy Cities had no counter. They are, in fact, unlike any other soldier on the field of battle.’
She turned to eye him quizzically. ‘Sir, may I ask, what else have you heard about these marines?’