Brys Beddict rode to the head of the column then, to lead his soldiers south, along the very edge of the Glass Desert. It was clear that as soon as they reached its southernmost end, he would swing the army eastward, and the pace would become savage. They were a week or more behind the Perish and the Evertine Legion.
Aranict lit another stick of rustleaf. Her neck ached, as she found it impossible to face forward, to look ahead. The Glass Desert held her.
They’re out there. Do they reel beneath its onslaught? Has its madness infected them? Are they even now killing each other, frenzied with fever? It has been three days. They might already be dead, every one of them. More bones to crush, to push towards the shoreline – the only retreat left to them. She looked again at the bleached splinters. Did you all try to cross the desert?
The very notion chilled her. Shivering beneath her cloak, she forced her gaze away from the horror on her left, only to see its mangled verge stretching ahead, southward alongside the column, until the two seemed to merge in the hazy distance.
Brys, my love, from all of us what will you now forge? We Letherii have known too many defeats of late. And we tasted our own blood yet again, against the Nah’ruk. Not so bitter that time, for we saved the Bonehunters. Still, we pale beside our allies. In their shadow we are diminished.
And yet … they saluted us.
She could not get that moment out of her mind. The faces haunted her and she feared they would do so for the rest of her life.
Whose army are they? These Bonehunters. What is their cause? And the strength within them, where does it come from? Is it held in the soul of the Adjunct? No – at least, I don’t think so. Oh, she is the focus for them all, but they have no love for her. They see her, if at all, as no different from a mountain, a column of storm clouds, a bitter grey sea – they see her as part of the natural world, a thing to be borne, to be weathered.
I saw in their faces the erosion of her will, and they bore it. They bore it as they did all else. These Malazans, they shame the gods themselves.
‘Coming up on us fast, Highness, out of the northwest.’
Brys nodded. ‘Draw in the flying wing, Preda. I will take out our standard-bearer and my Atri-Ceda – when you see us ride out from the column, fall the wing in behind us.’
‘Yes, Highness.’
Brys listened to the Preda dispatching riders, one out to the flanking wing of light cavalry, another to retrieve Aranict from down the column. The standard-bearer rode up beside the prince, his face pale and drawn. ‘No need for alarm, soldier,’ Brys said to the young man. ‘This shall be a meeting of allies.’
‘But … lizards, sir!’
‘K’Chain Che’Malle. Not Short-Tails – I am sure you have heard, the army now approaching us subsequently defeated the Nah’ruk.’
The young man nodded, nervously licking his lips.
Brys studied him. ‘Soldier, our clash with the Nah’ruk – was that your first taste of battle?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You bore this standard?’
‘No, sir. Well, I was the third to take it up that day, and by then we were in full retreat—’
‘Withdrawal,’ Brys corrected. ‘Trust me, a full retreat is a far messier thing than what we managed.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brys glanced up at the standard and fought down a groan, reminded once again of his brother’s perverse humour. Not a legion’s standard. No, the Imperial Standard, no less. Depending from a cross-bridge of iron, the cloth was a tattered rectangle of colourless wool – it was, in fact, a fair copy of Tehol’s blanket, almost to scale. And where one might expect some elegant or proud heraldic crest at centre, there was instead the new royal sigil of King Tehol the Only of Lether: a three-quarter-on rendition of his brother’s roof-top bed, and if one looked carefully one would see cowering beneath that bed a row of six plucked – but living – hens. Eyeing it, Brys recalled his meeting with Tehol upon the unveiling.
‘You would have our armies fight under that?’
‘Well, I did. The bed, I mean. And so did the chickens – can you imagine the extent of their holy dread, knowing that God wanted to cook them? All right, not their god, not precisely. Though we cannot actually be sure of that, can we? Bugg, are you worshipped by hens and cocks?’
‘Not both at the same time, sire.’
‘Thank you. Most enlightening.’
‘My very reason to exist, sire. You are welcome.’
‘Tehol—’
‘Yes, Brys?’
‘I understand your notion that dignity cannot be found in the … er, material – not a throne, not a crown, not even a fine estate or whatnot – but when it comes to the military—’
‘Oh, that’s all I ever hear from you, brother! “It’s not that way in the military, Tehol”, “The enlisted won’t go for that, Tehol”, “They don’t like pink, Tehol”. The pathetic conservatism of that hoary institution is, frankly, embarrassing.’
‘I don’t recall any mention of pink, sire.’
‘There wasn’t, Bugg. I was being illustrative.’
‘What kind of illustration did you have in mind? Shall I summon the court artist again?’
‘Abyss no! After that debacle with my wife and that pretty guard—’
‘Ex-guard, sire.’
‘Really? By whose order? I demand to know!’
‘Your wife, the queen, sire.’
‘That interfering cow … oh, don’t look at me like that, beloved – I was but referring to you in your official capacity. Thus, while I rail at the queen, my love for my beautiful wife remains in its usual beaming manner for ever untarnished—’
‘Too bad the same cannot be said for that poor young woman, husband.’
‘I never tarnished her – not once!’
‘Tehol, have you seen that damned painting?’
‘Only once, dearest, since you went and burned the only copy. And – that’s right, you look well at this wagging finger – that artist has been depressed ever since—’
‘More like running scared,’ suggested Bugg.
‘Tehol, about this Imperial Standard—’
‘Not again, Brys. I thought we were past all that. It’s lovely and most apt—’
‘But who will rally under it?’
‘Brys, if an army must rally, one must presume it is in dire straits, yes? Well then, where better to hide than under the king’s bed?’
‘With all the other chickens,’ added Bugg. ‘Well now, sire, that’s clever.’
‘Hold on,’ said the queen, ‘What did you mean by “the only copy”?’
‘Brys! Rally the troops!’
Sweating under the bright sun, the king’s brother snorted – but how he missed those days now. The chaotic palace of King Tehol seemed very far away. He squinted up at the standard, and smiled.
Aranict arrived, reining in. ‘Prince, it pleases me to see you smiling. What so amuses you?’
‘Nothing, Atri-Ceda. That is, nothing of import. We have been found by the K’Chain Che’Malle – such a motley collection of allies we make, don’t you think? No matter. Ride with me. I would become acquainted with our new commanders.’