Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #9)

Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #9) Page 407

Blistig wanted to be one of the lads. But he was a Fist by rank, and that meant standing apart from his soldiers. Staying watchful, aye, but ever ready to command and expecting that command to be followed. He was supposed to lead , damn him. At the morning briefing sessions Blistig sat scowling, hungover, thick-tongued and bored. He ventured no ideas and looked upon every suggestion with something between disbelief and outright derision.

We need better than that. I need better than that.

The Adjunct had the right to expect that her Fists could manage the army on this march. She had other issues to chew on, whatever they were-and Keneb was nowhere near close enough to even imagine what they might be; in fact, no one was, not even Lostara Yil.

There were two sub-Fists, each commanding regulars-foot, skirmishers, scouts and archers-and Keneb found he was growing far too dependent on them with the logistical demands. They had enough of their own concerns to deal with, after all. But both were veteran officers, seasoned campaigners, and Keneb drew heavily on their experience-though he often felt as he once had when he’d been a young captain under the stubbled wing of a sergeant. Neither Hobble nor Kellant likely had much good to say about him behind his back.

Aye, that’s the truth of it. I just managed as a captain. I’m far past my level of competence here, and it’s showing.

The Wastelands looked forbidding. Perhaps even more lifeless than the worst stretches of Seven Cities-between Aren and Raraku, or that northwest push to the walls of Y’Ghatan. He’d managed to acquire an honest list of warlocks and witches among the ranks, those possessing magics that could conjure forth edible plants, small mammals, insects and such from even the most miserable of lands. And water, as well. To stretch out the supplies they carried, he had them hard at work supplementing daily rations allotted each squad.

But the complaints had already begun. ‘These Wastelands, Fist, are well named. Damn near sucked lifeless underfoot. Finding stuff is starting to hurt.’

Do what you can. It’s all I can ask.

A more useless response from an officer was beyond his imagining, and what soured the most were his own recollections of receiving such inane replies from his commanders all those years ago. At last he understood the helplessness they often suffered, when attempting to deal with something that couldn’t be dealt with; with things and forces beyond any hope of control. Just say what you can, and look confident and reassuring when saying it. Nobody buys it, and both sides know that fact, so what’s really being acknowledged is the motions we both go through.

Indeed, he was beginning to truly understand the burdens of command, a phrase he used to scoff at and mock derisively. Burden, sir? Try carrying this kit pack on your shoulders all day, up and down hills and worse. What do you know about burdens? Shut that whining, sir, before I slide my knife across your scrawny throat.

What did Blistig know about the Whirlwind? He’d been cosy behind the walls of Aren, commanding a bored garrison. But I was in the middle of it. Half-dead of wounds before Kalam Mekhar showed up. Sister, where are you now? Was turning your back on him worth it? Keneb shook his head. His thoughts were wandering, exhaustion pulling loose the tethers. What haunts me now? Yes, now I remember. The army.

Without hate, what army could function? Unquestionably, other things were needed: respect, duty, the slippery notions of honour and courage, and above all of those, the comradeship between soldiers and all the responsibilities that created. But hate had a role, didn’t it? Useless officers, unreasonable orders, the pervasive conviction that the ones in overall command were all incompetent idiots. But then, all of that means we’re all in this together-we’re all trapped in this insane bloated family where every rule of behaviour strains near to snapping.

And we’re a family bred to answer everything with violence. Is it any wonder we’re all so badly messed up?

He heard the pounding of horse hoofs and twisted round in his saddle to see a soldier from his staff quickly approaching.

Now what?

But then, he didn’t really want to know. Any more desertions, real or otherwise, and he’d start to hear the spine cracking, and he dreaded that sound more than anything else, because it would mean that he had truly failed. The Adjunct set this one task upon him, and he’d proved unequal to it, and as a consequence the entire Bonehunters army was falling apart.

Blistig needed to be pushed aside. He could think of a number of officers sharp enough to take on the role of Fist. Faradan Sort, Raband, Ruthan Gudd. Kindly. Kindly, now there’s an idea. Has seniority. Instils a healthy dose of terror in his soldiers. Brilliantly unreasonable. Aye, Kindly. Now, all I need to do is convince the Adjunct-