The mercenaries had deployed themselves in a broad arc, widely spread, with large phalanxes holding their extreme flanks. Clearly they were inviting a thrust down the middle. The Avowed appeared supremely confident in their capability to blunt and pin down any advance. Ullen was inclined not to doubt them. He cast a glance to the sun — close to noon and the day was humid, fast heating up. Not a good day for any long-drawn-out struggle. To the east rose the enormous eroded butte upon which the ruins of the Great Sanctuary of Burn could just be made out. Idly, he wondered whether the Guard intended it as a retreat and rallying point — but they did not seem the type to set contingencies for defeat.
The Imperial skirmishers, the Untan Militia, call them what you like — the murderous midges, his own heavies named them — had already spread out over the hillsides of tall sun-browned grass. Ground-nesting birds took flight, disturbed by their movement. Stooping down, many of the crossbowmen disappeared entirely from sight and Ullen had to smile: yes, good cover, but it won't last. The Guard's mages will burn it away. He'd seen it before. Unlike most here he'd witnessed full-scale mage clashes where Warren battled Warren and swaths of ground and men were churned under. He'd been there when the Falaran island capitals fell and his stomach clenched in dread of what was to come. Still, he consoled himself with the knowledge that such a full-on field engagement was not to the Guard's style; they never were a stand-alone force. More an attachment to any main army, a special service good for narrow, specific objectives or duties. He hoped this less than ideal position would help even the odds.
Lead elements of Malazan, Talian and Falaran infantry spread themselves out. They had already broken down into units of just one or two or three companies. They pushed their way through the irregulars like ships through a heaving sea. Many of the units had organized themselves with hollow centres — a good strategy when facing battle-mages. Urko was down there somewhere on the west flank with his Talians, V'thell on the east with the Gold. He studied the distant Crimson Guard formations: they too followed such dispersal, mixed with lines. Yet the Guard must know that Laseen was weak in mages. The Claws remain! Don't forget them! Simply because she elected to spare the League officers such culling doesn't mean that her forbearance would extend to the Guard. No, on the contrary, the Avowed will no doubt find themselves swamped. And thinking of that Ullen suddenly knew why not one Claw had assaulted him or any other League officer. She needed them for this! All this time! She'd been planning even for this!
He almost fell from his horse, so great was the anger that clamped his chest. Had they no chance all along then? All useless? For nothing? Stopping, he pulled off his helmet, wiped the sweat starting from his brow. His staff pulled up as well, to cast him curious glances. But no — she could not have known for certain. Just plain prudence. A husbanding of resources. He and Urko and others of the League had been spared. Laseen had intended all the time to win over their men and assassinating beloved leaders such as an Urko or a Dujek was no way to manage that. No such considerations, however, applied to the Guard. All the Claw shall be unleashed upon them.
While he watched, the standard of the Sword reached the centre field, this time dismounted. This new Sword, Korbolo Dom, had elected to fight on foot backed by a legion of heavies. Ullen knew little of the man except what he'd heard before and seen just recently. The man's ferocity and fighting ability were certainly not to be doubted; but he appeared to lack that certain aura or elan that had so bonded the men to Dassem. With the old Sword, the soldiers had known that should they come to a tight spot Dassem would be there to defend them no matter what. Ullen knew this. He'd seen Dassem trailed by his Sword bodyguard repeatedly cut a swath across battlefields to come to the aid of hard-pressed formations and positions. One could not confidently expect the same from this Sword.
‘Sir?’ one of his staff ventured, rousing him from his reverie.
‘Yes?’
‘Should we not be returning?’
Ullen squeezed his eyes. Already he was tired. ‘Yes. No doubt High Fist Anand is wondering where we've got to…’ He gently urged his mount around.
Harbour-Assessor Jenoso Al'Sule of Cawn, newly appointed, gauged with something akin to horror the wallowing, limping progress of this current entrant to their busy docks. God of a Thousand Moods, please do not sink in a berth! His superiors would note the loss of income! Still, if it did sink, it would technically be occupying the berth and its owners would then be legally obliged… Jenoso smoothed his crisp new uniform, Imperial black trimmed with burgundy, and waited while harbour launches towed the vessel in. Once lines were firmly secured to bollards he started forward, fully expecting a gangway to come out to meet him, yet none came. He stopped abruptly at the edge of the dock, scanned the railing. Gods! What a wreck! Had it been in a storm?
‘Hello? Vessel…’ Jenoso scanned for the name — Beru, no! Who would name a vessel that? ‘Ah, Ragstopper?’
A pale-faced, sickly-looking sailing hand appeared at the rail. ‘No one comes aboard!’ he fairly howled, pointing.
‘Very well — that is your business. Mine is registration and inspection. Now, let me aboard.’
‘No! Go away!’
‘Do not be ridiculous. Your cargo must be inspected, fees levied. Come, come. I haven't all day.’
The man yanked at his long, unkempt, mangy hair. ‘Plague!’ he shouted. ‘Yes, that's right! We've plague! Look out! Ooo!’
Jenoso blinked his confusion. ‘Well, in that case you are in contravention of standard procedure. You must anchor in the bay, raise a black flag…’
An old man with a shock of grey-white bristly hair and a seamed, wind-darkened face pushed the sailor aside. ‘Did I hear the words “standard procedure”? What's happened to all the ports these days? Why, times were in Cawn a few silver moons would — Holy Dessembrae forfend!’ the man cried, staring at the town. ‘You must've tried to tax the wrong people!’
Jenoso struggled to ignore the accuracy of that off-the-cuff observation. ‘Never mind — more so, greater funds are now needed for reconstruction — ergo, the matter at hand.’
The old captain, his thin, sun-faded shirt barely hanging on his bony frame, gestured a clawed hand to him. ‘Why the Imperial colours? I thought Cawn was open to the highest bidder. Or has the bidding closed?’
Again Jenoso struggled to keep his features, and tone, even. ‘I'll have you know that not just yesterday a massed army of close to thirty thousand Cawnese provincial forces marched through here on their way west to the support of the Empire.’
The captain rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing. ‘That so. Yesterday or not yesterday? Which?’
‘Ah… pardon?’
‘You said “not yesterday”- so, which was it?’
It seemed to the harbour-assessor that somehow control of the situation was slipping away from him yet he couldn't exactly put his finger on just how and when it happened. ‘Ah, yesterday, or so…’