‘Tell V'thell, now's the time! Open up!’

‘Yes, yes!’

A flash from the battlefield made him flinch. It was followed by an eruption of dirt and bodies that arced up high above the Gold formation, flying outwards in all directions, armoured bodies pin-wheeling, then spinning down. The thunderous echo of the explosion reached him like a distant roll.

Hood preserve us! A lucky crossbow bolt? Who could know? He almost laughed. His order might well be irrelevant now that the first munitions had been unpacked. V'thell would probably just go ahead now. And he watched sideways, half wincing, for the firestorm to come. His gaze caught the top of the distant outcropping to the south, golden now in the late afternoon sun. And the Guard. What would they do? Should Laseen win would they throw their weight against her now that she was weakened? Yet what could they hope to accomplish? Someone else would merely claim the Throne. And what if Urko and Choss down in the chaos below should prevail? Would the Guard simply leave, the terms of their Vow sufficiently fulfilled?

‘What do you sense of the Guard?’ he asked of Bala.

‘Ahh! You are perhaps no fool after all, little Ullen. They have not deployed – yet. But they watch. And wait. And bide their time.’

Some ally this mage of theirs was proving to be!

A moment later a rider charged up from behind Ullen's position, sawed his reins. ‘Seti approaching from the rear, sir,’ he gasped. ‘A long column/ Ullen's staff and guards repositioned themselves, swords drawn. Shortly afterwards five Seti horsemen galloped up. Ullen raised a hand and kneed his mount to the fore. The lead Seti was a bull of a man in layered ringed armour bearing a score of lances, javelins and two long-handled axes crossed over his back, long-knives sheathed at his hips. Under his blunt bronze helmet his scarred, sun- and wind-darkened features were those of a startlingly old man.

An intuition whispered to Ullen and he inclined his head, ‘You are this Wildman of the Plains?’

‘I am. And I am come to offer a measure of restitution, Malazan, for my countrymen's betrayal.’

‘That is?’

‘We will ride against the Imperial cavalry – just the cavalry and only them! What say you?’

This unlooked-for offer, the answer to his despair, made Ullen's gaze blur. His throat clenched so tightly he was unable to talk. Thank the capricious laughing Gods!

‘Well? Speak, damn you!’

Ullen fought to breathe. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Your arrival is timely.’

‘Damned right – we've been watching.’ The man straightened in his saddle, raised a hand signalling and rode onward. A roar of cheers arose from behind Ullen's position; then came a rumble of hundreds of galloping horses. They came charging past, yipping and chanting, lances raised. Most carried no animal fetishes at all, though some bore wolf, lion and ferret pelts and tufts tied to their lances or worn over their backs.

Thank you, whoever you are. And thank whatever old grudge it is that drives you to lend a hand.

The detonation that followed his boys all tossing their sharpers at the Moranth Gold carrying a munition box exceeded Nait's expectations by a hundredfold. It kicked him and his squad backwards though they were lying down. Dirt, gravel, shattered equipment and other wet pieces of things he didn't want to think about came pelting down in a thick passing rain. After the echoes of the concussion ceased, he sat up, knocked a hand to his ear to try to regain some hearing. All around the battle had paused, and a shiver seemed to pass through every soldier present as each now realized the very terrible turn this engagement had just taken. His squad, recovering, jumped up and down in what to Nait was silent, childlike glee. Around the circle of fallen Gold Moranth, helms, he noted, were turning their way. He frantically motioned for a retreat and started hustling his squad back. A flight of javelins hurried them on.

They pushed their way back while the crowded irregulars babbled at them asking how they did that, and whether they could have one too. Brill, his big chin thrust out, told them all that Corporal Jumpy had just blown up half the Moranth Gold and that there was more of it to come. Nait just slapped his shoulder. ‘Would you shut up!’ He turned to the youths. ‘How many more you got?’

Their grins disappeared. Their eyes darted. ‘I dunno – how many you got?’ one asked another.

‘How many you got?’ he retorted.

Gods, they're saboteurs already. ‘All right! All right. Let's just put everything we got down here on my shield. OK?’

Eyeing one another sullenly, the youths knelt. Nait unslung his shield. Reluctantly, they dug hands into pockets and pouches and one by one, piece by piece, the extent of their haul was revealed. Nait was thrilled and horrified at the same time. Lad turn away! Eight sharpers, two melters and a collection of smokers! And… Lady's Grace! He ran a hand over the dark gold ovoid. A cussor. They're carrying cussors into battle! So that's what happened.

A band of skirmishers came jogging up, bent over, crossbows held high. Nait's lads threw themselves on top of their treasure. ‘Hey!’ one called, ‘Was that you? We got some too. Show us how you did that!’

Nait waved them in. ‘That was a one-off. We ain't gonna see anything like that again.’

‘You Jumpy?’

Nait raised his fists as if about to grasp a handful of the fellow's shirt. Then he let them fall, his shoulders slumping. ‘Yeah. That's me.’

‘OK! We want some of this.’

‘All right-’ Beyond the lad, from the Gold shieldwall, Nait glimpsed a wave of dark objects flying high out over the crowded ranks of skirmishers. His heart clenched. ‘Down!’ He threw himself on top of the lads and the assembled munitions.

A staccato of punching eruptions burst all up and down the field. Skirmishers shrieked as the jagged slivers packed into Moranth sharpers lanced through their crowded ranks. ‘Retreat!’ Nait hollered with all his strength. ‘Retreat!’

He and the lads picked up the shield and ran. But they could not get far. They quickly bunched up against irregulars firing at the advancing League skirmish-line. Behind them the punishment of Gold munitions continued. Staggered explosions split the air. Smoke wafted over the field in white and black clouds. It seemed from where Nait stood that the skirmishers were being slaughtered between the two lines, and that unless someone did something he'd join them soon enough.

He motioned to the lads to pick up their munitions, then hefted his shield and faced his squad. ‘We're gonna break the skirmish-line here, or die!’ He pointed to the youths. ‘You lot. You're gonna throw when I shout! Then keep throwing at any damned Talians who come running to reinforce. Understood?’ Sweaty pale faces nodded, terror-strained. ‘Good! OK.’ He drew his longsword. ‘Follow me!’

Nait ran for the skirmish-line. As soon as he judged the distance right he yelled, ‘Throw!’ Then, ‘Down!’ and he knelt behind his shield. Moments later sharper bursts buffeted him. Slivers sliced into his shield with high-pitched trills. He straightened in the dense smoke, bellowed, ‘Charge!’ and ran forward. He hoped to Trake that enough stupid and crazy brave men and women were within earshot to follow.

Pushing through the smoke, he suddenly faced a Talian infantryman holding a shattered arm. Nait shield-bashed that arm, raising a shriek of pain, then ran his sword through the man as he lay writhing. Another Talian heavy nearby still held a shredded shield and Nait tried to knock him backwards and though he was obviously stunned by the explosions the broad fellow didn't yield a hair's breadth. He chopped at Nait and the two exchanged blows. Three more Talian heavies straightened from where they'd lain to take cover and Nait knew he was in deep trouble. Over his shoulders and past his elbows crossbow bolts snapped through the air, plucking at his surcoat. One nicked his arm, another his leg. The heavies grunted, raising their shields. Brill and others crashed into them at a full run, overbearing them backwards, long-knives flashing. Nait passed that writhing mob to clash shields with yet another Talian heavy running to close the gap. A thrusting shortsword gouged Nait's side, caught in his hauberk and punched the breath from him. He bowed double, stepping back, and a blade crashed from his helmet. Another fusillade of crossbow bolts whipped around him singing in his ears; something smacked into the back of his mailed hand knocking the sword flying from his grip. The Talian shield-bashed him, sending him staggering backwards. Then a horde of skirmishers trampled both of them. The Talian went down beneath a storm of thrusting blades and the flood continued on. Nait halted, gasped in great lungfuls of the choking, smoky air. They were through. He leaned on his shield, his legs suddenly weak. He sat heavily in the crushed, smouldering grass. This wasn't what he'd signed up for. No, not at all.