What was happening just two soldiers away came to be completely irrelevant to him. His world shrank to just the enemy facing him and his shieldman and — woman flanking. For fleeting moments when the line of locked shields moved smoothly as one he had the feeling of being part of something far greater than himself. Something far stronger, almost omnipotent. It was the most intoxicating sensation of his life. Something he'd never even suspected could exist in the world. And almost immediately he felt addicted to the power of it.
How much time passed he'd no idea. All he knew was exhaustion such as he'd never imagined. Everything was wrung from him in the panicked heart-hammering effort to live. Yet he drew the strength from somewhere within to raise his shield one more time, to thrust and block. For to do otherwise would mean his death. Eventually, in a haze of pink, he sensed the pressure against him lessening. Falaran soldiery were breaking off, turning and running. Crossbow bolts took them in a withering gale like dark wings passing overhead. Nait flinched, rocked, as a number of bolts punched his shield. He opened his mouth to complain but no sound came.
Before him the men and women of the Untan Volunteer Citizen Militia now scrambled over an open field of fallen. ‘Right! Right face!’ came a roaring order. The phalanx turned, armour clashing. ‘March?
Through the screen of the shifting, darting irregulars, Nait could see only the tall shields and helms of Moranth Gold closing in their slow deliberate pace. Then, Imperial infantry appeared, jogging from the front. A troop of Imperial cavalry came roaring back and in their midst bobbed the tall banner marking the Sword.
The leading Imperial phalanx had broken.
And now, Braven Tooth's command, with him jammed inside, was moving across to seal the gap. Nait felt his own flesh cringing from the coming confrontation. ‘Halt!’ The phalanx froze, feet stamping as one. ‘Left face!’ They turned. ‘Relief!’ The ranks shifted, edging past one another. Nait found himself three ranks back from the front. An extraordinary weight left his shoulders and suddenly he could breathe. But the feeling was short-lived for he knew that if things went badly it would be his turn again too soon.
‘Corporal! Corporal Nait!’
The woman next to Nait nudged him. ‘Someone wants you, Jumpy.’
Movement behind through the ranks and a hand cuffed Nait's shoulder. He turned, fist rising. Captain Tinsmith caught the hand. ‘Still with us, I see,’ Tinsmith said, impressed.
Nait tried to speak, had to struggle to wet his mouth. ‘Ah, yes, sir.’
The captain's brows rose. ‘Sir, now, is it? Well, collect your saboteurs. There's fallen Moranth out there and those fool irregulars are collecting munitions. Confiscate it all. Saboteurs only! Quickly!’
‘Yes, sir!’
Nait edged down the ranks picking men and women from the lines as he went. Reaching a flank, he pushed outside the phalanx, slung the heavy broad shield on to his back. Suddenly he felt completely exposed, naked. He cuffed the lads nearest him. ‘Let's go! Collect munitions — search the Hood-baiting skirmishers for it!’ The men and women saluted him and he jerked, startled. Oh yeah — and don't that feel good too!
The open plain of battle was a seething mass of running skirmishers jockeying for position. Troops of Talian and Falaran cavalry would suddenly appear without warning, scything through, running down irregulars, swords flashing, only to circle away before concerted fire could be brought to bear. Yet the League cavalry were too few. For the instant the horsemen passed, the skirmishers straightened and once more fire returned to punish the shield walls of the Gold and Malazan League formations.
Nait ran, directing his squad of ten to the trail of the Gold advance. In the middle distance a great shout went up from the north League phalanx. Swords thumped shields like a roll of thunder. Nait stopped, straightening; through the charging surging mass of skirmishers he glimpsed Imperial infantry fleeing the north — Fist D'Ebbin's phalanx had broken. Now, only Braven Tooth's command faced the remaining League elements. Part of him longed to return to the newfound security of that formation — part of him was damned glad he wasn't. He curtly gestured his squad on.
A troop of Falaran cavalry came charging past running down skirmishers. Sabres flashed, red and silver. A fat bearded fellow on a huge dappled warhorse led it. He sported crossbow bolts stuck to his scaled armour like decorations. Nait's squad hunched low until they thundered past, then headed on. They reached the trail of fallen Gold Moranth and Nait crouched down next to one body thatched in crossbow bolts. Everything not attached to the corpse was gone. The irregulars had thoroughly looted the trail. Someone had even tried prising the Gold's chitinous armour from his arms, but the plates appeared sutured on. One of his squad, May, called, waving, and Nait ran to the woman. She was kneeling holding a leather satchel containing a wooden box divided into compartments. It was empty. Nait tossed it away — Hood-damned fools! They're gonna blow themselves up! ‘Let's go before we get chopped to pieces.’
‘Aye.’
Nait led them back around, heading for the flank of Braven Tooth's command. One of his squad, Brill — was that his name? — called to him, pointing in a panic to the west. There, past a screen of intervening irregulars, Nait saw a moving line of blue and green soldiery, shields raised, marching forward. It extended far to the north and south. Shit! League reserves advancing in a skirmish-line! They're going to try to sweep back the Imperial lights.
‘What're we gonna do?’ Brill asked, wiping his running nose.
‘How in the Abyss-’ Nait caught himself, cursed under his breath. ‘Let's find someone in charge out here in this mess. C'mon!’
They hunched low, jogging, and passed a natural depression in the rolling plain where a knot of irregulars had gathered, all clustered around something, crossbows loose at their sides. Nait ran over.
‘Do you crack ‘em?’ someone was asking within the crowd.
‘Naw. I think you scratch ‘em.’
‘You try’
‘No — you try.’
Nait's bowels tightened in sudden gelid terror. He surged forward. ‘Who's in charge here!’
Sullen, sneering faces turned on him. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘I do!’
‘Who're you?’
‘Corporal Jumpy, that's who!’ Brill bellowed, pointing a warning finger.
Silence, then gales of raucous laughter all around. ‘Corporal Jumpy! That's a good one!’
Nait hung his head. Gods, Brill… ‘Yeah, yeah. Listen, you're gonna blow yourselves up — worse than that, you're gonna blow me up. I know how to use those so hand them over…’
‘Piss off!’
The crowd melted. Men and women legging it in all directions. ‘Wait, dammit!’ None halted. In seconds all that remained were four skirmishers; the youngest of the lot. They wore plain leather caps and soft leather hauberks set with rings and studs. The faces of three were ravaged by pimples and pox scars. They peered up at him suspiciously.
‘You a real sapper?’
‘Yeah, kid.’
‘You'll show us how to use ‘em?’
‘Yeah.’
They exchanged narrowed glances. ‘Well, OK — but we get to throw ‘em!’
In a heroic effort, Nait squelched the urge to grab them by their ankles and shake them until they dropped the munitions. ‘Sure, kid. You'll get to throw them.’ He motioned everyone to the lip of the depression. There, they knelt for a peek. The lads cocked their crossbows. The smallest lay on his back, pushing both feet on the goat's foot lever, straining, until it caught. Nait was amazed, and appalled. He did that just as fast as any soldier could. Crazy brave kids. Just what he needed.