Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1)

Gardens of the Moon (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #1) Page 122

No guard barred the doorway, which had been left pulled back and tied to a support pole. Crone hopped inside.

With the exception of a small hanging at the far end, behind which squatted an army cot, no other divisions had been made within the tent.

In the centre stood a massive table, its surface etched with the contours of the surrounding land. One man stood alone, leaning over it, his back to the doorway. An enormous iron hammer was slung across his broad back; despite its size and evident weight, it looked almost toy-like against that span of muscle and bone. Power rolled from him in musky waves.

“Delays, delays,” Crone muttered, as she flapped up to land on the tabletop.

Caladan Brood grunted distractedly.

“You sensed the storm of sorcery last night?” she asked.

“Sensed? We could see it. The Rhivi shamans seem somewhat disturbed, but they have no answers. We'll discuss that later, Crone. Now I must think.”

Crone cocked her head at the map. “The west flank falls back in total disarray. Who commands that Barghast mob?”

Brood asked, “When did you fly within sight of them?”

“Two days past. I saw but a third of the original force left alive.”

Brood shook his head. “Jorrick Sharplance, under him five thousand Barghast and seven Blades of the Crimson Guard.”

“Sharplance?” Crone hissed laughter. “Full of himself, is he?”

“He is, but the Barghast so named him. As I was saying, five legions of Gold Moranth dropped into his lap three days ago. Jorrick retreated under cover of night, and bled off two-thirds of his army east and west-his Barghast have a knack of disappearing where no cover seems possible. Yesterday his panicked mob did an about-face and met the Gold. His Barghast moved in as pincers. Two Moranth legions wiped out, the other three retreating to the forest with half their supplies scattered on the plain.”

Crone cocked her head again. “Jorrick's plan?”

Brood inclined his head. “He's Crimson Guard, though the Barghast call him their own. Young, thus fearless.”

The raven studied the map. “And the east? How holds Fox Pass?”

“Well,” Brood said. “Mostly Stannis conscripts on the other side-the Malazans are finding them a reluctant ally. We'll see the Crimson Guard's mettle in twelve months” time, when the next wave of Malazan marines disembark at Nisst.”

“Why not drive northward?” Crone asked. “Prince K'azz could liberate the Free Cities over the winter.”

“The Prince and I agree on this,” Brood said. “He stays where he is.”

“Why?” Crone demanded.

Brood grunted. “Our tactics are our business.”

“Suspicious bastard,” Crone muttered. She hopped along the south edge of the map. “Your underbelly remains for final grim scrutiny. Naught but Rhivi plainsmen between you and Pale. And now forces walk the plain that even the Rhivi know nothing of-yet you show little concern, warrior. Why is that, Crone wonders?”

“I have been in communication with Prince K'azz and his mages, and with the Barghast and Rhivi shamans. What was born on the plain last night belongs to no one. It is alone, and frightened. Even now the Rhivi have begun the search for it. Concerned? No, not by that. Still, there's much more going on in the south.” Brood straightened.

“Anomander is in the midst of it,” Crone purred. “Plotting and counterplotting, scattering broken glass in everyone's path. I've never seen him in a better mood.”

“Enough gossip. You have news for me?”

“Of course, Master.” Crone stretched her wings and sighed. She jabbed her beak at an itch, crunched a flea and gulped it down. “I know who holds the Spinning Coin.”

“Who?”

“A youth whose bliss is ignorance. The Coin spins and turns a face to all those in his company. They've their own game, but it will converge with greater things, and so Oponn's thin threads reverberate in spheres otherwise immune to the jesters” influence.”

“What does Rake know?”

“Of this, little. But you well know his dislike of Oponn. He would cut those threads given the opportunity.”

“Idiot,” Brood muttered. He thought for a time, unmoving, like a shaping of stone and iron, while Crone ambled back and forth across the Rhivi Plain, her long, black talons scattering the wooden regiment and division markers like dominoes.

“Without Oponn, Rake's power is presently unmatched,” Brood said. “He hangs over Darujhistan like a beacon and the Empress is sure to send something against him. Such a battle would-”