Midnight Tides (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #5)

Midnight Tides (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #5) Page 208

Trull looked back at the rest of the squad. He singled one warrior out and beckoned him closer. ‘Badar, go back to the third squad. They are to choose a warrior to head upslope a hundred and twenty paces, then cut in to the main path. He is then to make his way down, as if on point. Once you have delivered the message, return to us.’

Badar nodded and slipped away.

‘What of us?’ Canarth asked.

‘We wait, then join the squad to our west. Make our way down below the scout’s position, and lay our own trap.’

‘What of the squads to the east of the trail?’

A good question. He had split his forces with no way of communicating with half his company. A mistake. ‘We had best hope they too have seen the scout. And will have rightly judged that a Faraed is virtually impossible to sneak up on.’

The sergeant simply nodded. He did not need to point out Trull’s error. Nor, it was evident, his own.

We even out. Fair enough .

A short time later Badar returned and gave them a perfunctory nod. Trull gestured the squad to follow and struck out westward to join the outlying warriors.

Once there, he quickly related his plan and the fifteen warriors set off downslope.

They descended sixty paces before Trull waved them towards the main path. The position they reached was directly below a crook in the trail. He had his warriors draw and ready weapons.

Canarth gestured. ‘Across from us, Leader. Rethal’s squad. They have anticipated you.’

Trull nodded. ‘Into position. We’ll take him when he comes opposite us.’

Heartbeats. The sun’s heat bouncing from the gravel and dust of the trail. Insects buzzing past.

Then, light thumping, the sound swiftly growing. Suddenly upon them.

The Faraed was a blur, plunging round the bend in the trail then flashing past.

Spears darted out shin-high to trip him up.

The scout leapt them.

A curse, then a shaft raced past Trull, the iron head crunching into the Faraed’s back, between the shoulder blades. Snapping through the spine. The scout sprawled, then tumbled, limbs flopping, and came to a rest ten paces down the path.

Settling dust. Silence.

Trull made his way down to where the body lay in a twisted heap. The scout, he saw, was a boy. Fourteen, fifteen years of age. His smeared face held an expression of surprise, filling the eyes. The mouth was a grimace of terror. ‘We killed a child.’

‘An enemy,’ Canarth said beside him. ‘It is the Letherii you must look to, Leader. They throw children into this war.’ He turned to face uptrail. ‘Well thrown, Badar. You are now blooded.’

Badar scrambled down and retrieved his spear.

The third squad appeared at the crook. One of them spoke. ‘I never even saw him.’

‘Our first kill, Leader,’ Ahlrada Ahn said.

Trull felt sick. ‘Drag the body from the trail, Sergeant Canarth. Cover this blood with dust. We must move on.’

The bridge was not a bridge at all. Trull had visited it once before, and left with naught but questions. Constructed, it seemed, from a single massive disc, notched in rows across its rim, which was broad enough to permit eight warriors to stride across it without shoulders touching. The disc was on end, filling the gap of the deep gorge below which roared the Katter River. The base of the wheel was lost in the chute’s darkness and the mist rising ceaselessly from the rushing water. To cross to the other side, one had to walk that curved, slick rim. The hub of the enormous wheel was visible, at least three man-lengths down. Thigh-thick rods of polished stone, spear-shaft straight, angled out from a projection on the hub on both sides, appearing to plunge into the rock wall of the gorge’s south side.

The squads gathered on the north edge, scanning the treeline opposite. Two of the Edur had already crossed, one returning to report back. No signs of scouts, no evidence of recent camps. The lone Faraed they had killed seemed to have been sent far in advance of the main forces, or had taken upon himself the task of a deep mission. His courage and his intelligence had cost him his life.

Trull approached the very edge of the wheel, where the angle of the stone first emerged from the surrounding rock. As before, he saw a thin, milky film between that carved perfection and the rough rock of the precipice. As he had done once before, long ago, he wiped that foam away with a finger, to reveal the straight line, too narrow to slip a dagger blade into, that separated the construct from the raw stone. A disc in truth, somehow set into the notch of the gorge.

And, even stranger, the disc moved. Incrementally turning in place. At the moment, it was midway along one of the shallow grooves carved in parallel rows across the rim. He knew he could set his feet on that first notch, and halt. And, had he the patience, he would eventually – days, maybe a week, maybe more – find himself stepping off onto the south side of the gorge.