Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7)

Reaper's Gale (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #7) Page 277

Let me down.

How pathetic. He knew that. He kept telling himself that, in between the breathed-out beseechings. As if he’d have time to rue the failing of his faith.

So there was Fiddler, closer now, at the second hole, doing it all over again. Imagine, Fid and Hedge, the way they must have been together. Gods, those Bridgeburners must have been holy terrors. But now… just Fiddler, and Cuttle here poorer than a shadow of the famous Hedge. It was all coming to an end. But so long as Fiddler stayed alive, well then, damn them all, it was worth holding on. And this arrow lodged in his left shoulder, well, true he’d seen it coming, but he hadn’t exactly leaned into it, had he? Might have looked that way. Might have at that. As if he’d had time to even think, with everything going on around him. He wasn’t superhuman, was he?

Edging back from the second set mine, Fiddler glanced over at Cuttle. The man’s face was white as death. Well, thinking on it, he didn’t need the man that close any more, did he?

He hand-signalled Leave, rejoin the squads.

Cuttle shook his head.

Shrugging-this was no time to argue and if Cuttle had a death-wish it wasn’t news to Fiddler-he rose and set off to collect the third cusser. Even footfalls were now risky, forcing him to move slowly along the verge of the track. There was plenty of superstition about where to stash munitions when working. Hedge would have insisted the cussers be ahead of the work at all times, but the less Fiddler handled them the better he felt. No matter what, there was back and forth with the damned things, wasn’t there?

He reached the spot and looked down at the two remaining cussers. More superstition. Which one? Heart side or head side? Facing the hole or with the hole behind him as it was now? Hood’s breath, Hedge was clambering around in his skull like a fiend. Enough of the superstition! Fiddler crouched and collected a cusser.

Heart side.

And was random chance really any more than just that? The Moranth were fanatics when it came to precision. Every class of munitions perfect beyond belief. No variation at all. With variation, being a sapper would be nothing more than being a rock-thrower-with explosive rocks, mind, but even so. No real talent involved, no hard-earned skill.

Fiddler remembered, with the appalling clarity of a god-touched revelation, his first encounter with Moranth munitions. Northern Genabackis, a week before the march on the city of Mott followed by the twin nightmares of Mott Wood and Blackdog Swamp. There had been rumours of contact and extensive negotiations with a strange people ruling a place called Cloud Forest, far to the south. An isolated people, said to be terrifying and inhuman in appearance, who rode enormous domesticated four-winged insects-giant dragonflies-and could rain death upon enemies from great heights.

The Malazan negotiators had included Tayschrenn, some nobleborn dignitary named Aragan, and a lone T’lan Imass named Onos T’oolan. The Second and Third Armies had been encamped on Nathii farmland two days from the landing south of Malyntaeas. A crate had been carried-gingerly, by sweating soldiers from the quartermaster’s unit-and set down ten paces from the squad’s hearth fire. Whiskeyj ack had gestured Hedge and Fiddler over.

‘You two do most of the sapping in this miserable squad,’ the sergeant had said, grimacing as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant-which he had, by virtue of legitimizing Fid and Hedge’s destructive anarchy. ‘In yon box there are grenados and nastier stuff, come from the Moranth now that we’re allied with ‘em. Seems to make sense-in an insane way-to hand ‘em over to you two. Now, obviously, you need to do some experimenting with what’s in that box. Just make sure you do it half a league or more from this here camp.’ He hesitated, scratched at his bearded jaw, then added, ‘The big ones are too big to throw far enough, far enough to survive them exploding, I mean. So you’ll need to crack your heads together to work out trying them. As a final order, soldiers, don’t kill yourselves. This squad’s under strength as it is and I’d need to pick out two others to hump these damned things around. And the only two I could use are Kalam and Trotts.’

Aye, Trotts.

Fiddler and Hedge had pried the lid loose, then had stared down, bemused, at the well-packed grenados, nestled in frames and matted straw. Small round ones, long tapered ones, spike-shaped ones of exquisite glass-not a bubble to be seen-and, at the bottom, much larger ones, big enough to ride a catapult cup if one was so inclined (and, it turned out, suicidal, since they tended to detonate as soon as the catapult arm struck the brace. Great for destroying catapults and their hapless crews, though).

Experimentation indeed. Hedge and Fid had set out, the crate between them, on a long, exhausting walk into some out-of-the-way place, where they threw the small ones they decided to call sharpers because when detonated too close they had a tendency to pepper the thrower with slivers of iron and made the ears bleed; where they discovered the incendiary properties of the burners, to the wailing protestations of a farmer who’d witnessed the fiery destruction of a hay wagon (at least until they’d handed over four gold imperial sceptres-Kellanved’s newly minted currency-which was enough money to buy a new farm). Crackers, driven into elongated wedge-shaped holes in hard-packed earth, did sweet mayhem on foundation stones, mortared or otherwise. And, finally, the cussers, the ugliest, nastiest munitions ever created. They were intended to be dropped from high overhead by the Moranth on their Quorls, and Hedge and Fid had used up most of their allotted supply trying to work out an alternative means of practical, non-fatal use. And, in the end, had needed twenty more-two crates’ worth-to finally conclude that a fool would have to be Oponn-kissed by the Lady to try anything but secondary usage; add-ons to crackers and burners and, if the chance presented itself, a well-thrown sharper.