[Riot]

Spider was so exhausted that she could not sleep, instead her dazed mind seemed to remain awake with bemused doubt. The alienation that she felt was beyond her understanding, but for the first time ever, she was beginning to doubt that they would survive the coming days.
The event of the cards and of the message she thought she saw was distant, an episode that she was now uncertain had truly happened. Perhaps it was her mind creating the illusion, bringing forth the figment as a gesture of reassuring hope. Whatever, she was now unsure if her life was worth continuing, especially if it amounted to the last few hours being in the same place as Faith the moody bastard.
The mess hall was fairly crowded, most of the soldiers had decided to use the hall as living quarters, finding sleep within the confines of the seats. Spider was gathered with her usual associates, most of whom were asleep, faces folded down, their low snores mixing with the other nocturnal sounds which reverberated throughout the hall.
Only a few, like herself, were awake. Eyes filled with lost hope, expressions lacking in any true zeal. Only Faith appeared unlike the others, the creases of his face broken by the usual air of anger which was a permanent fixture to his rugged features.
A sigh escaped from her left, issued from Prime who was as lost as Spider herself. Spider glanced over, but could offer no smile, no act of reassurance to the Corporal. Quickly turning her eyes away, Spider was afraid of what she saw in Prime’s features, recognising the same exact emotions which were brimming within her own self.
Returning her eyes forward, she happened to find her eyes falling onto Faith. The sergeant was as moody as ever, his lips turned down into a grimace. In his hands he was playing with a short length of wood. Hood only knew where he had obtained it, but for the past few days he had been gripping the damn short stake, and twisting and turning the wooden length so to take in every small detail which was encrusted upon its worn surface.
‘Give it a rest!’ Spider warned, her voice cast low so to not disturb those who were managing to fulfil the respite of much needed sleep.
Faith lifted his face, the wooden stake in his hand motionless as he glanced towards Spider.
‘Piss off!’ he hissed.
‘As happy as ever,’ she whispered to herself, beyond the will to harass Faith any longer.
She watched as the Sergeant began to lower his eyes back down to the wooden stake, but with the sound of the main doors opening, she saw as he turned to look at the person who had just interrupted their grouped state of silence.
Spider was positioned with her back facing the way of the doors and so was obstructed to who had just entered. She guessed that it was perhaps someone who had been sleeping in their own quarters and had just awoken, deciding to join the others who were collected together in the mess hall.
She was shocked, however, to witness Faith’s reaction as he suddenly forgot all about the wooden stake in his hands, his mouth opening so to form a perfect O, and for his eyes to widen.
‘What…?’ she began, rising forward so to try and cast her head around to who had just frightened the Sergeant in their arrival.
Fighting aside the ache that bloomed within her neck as she turned, she was granted full appraisal to who had just entered.
Sheep was walking towards their position, his face a sickly white. She soon moved her sight to the person who strode forward beside Sheep, finding that she did not recognise the newcomer.
The man stood just above the average height, his manner in walking informing her that he was confident with ever act of his ability. Looking at his face, she quickly decided that he was fairly handsome, his features particularly solid in their formation. About his mouth he wore a beard which was cut sharply and smooth, the rest of his cheeks bare in their designation. His dark matching hair was fairly long, cut so to wave about his shoulders.
Walking beside Sheep, he was everything that the lowly Private wasn’t, and Spider found herself becoming excited by his closing presence.
From over her shoulder a voice called aloud ‘You!’
The barked word was loud enough so to awake every one within the mess hall, some awakening with slow encumbrance, whilst others jumped up with the cast call, hands reaching for the swords which were hung at their waists.
Sheep paused momentarily in his forward approach, but the newcomer never hesitated, instead he continued forward, only halting when he was a few steps from Spider’s own position.
‘Yes, me!’ the stranger answered Faith’s words with a slight smile decorating his lips.
‘Bastard!’ Faith rose stiffly from his seat, held tightly in his right hand was the wooden stake, and by the manner in which he stood, it appeared as if he was ready and willing to jump forward and attempt to plant the short wooden construct into the newcomers face.
The stranger ignored Faith, instead allowing his eyes to roam over the nearby gathering. Those who had awoken to the shouted word were now milling about uneasily, uncertain what was happening, but ready to act if their confusion amounted to a state beyond their collective understanding.
Spider ignored her fellow soldiers, instead she focused her entire attention upon the newcomer. She watched as his eyes moved from one person to another. She saw as he seemed to acknowledge some by a simple nod of his head, whilst others he roamed over without recognition. His eyes passed over her own, and she felt a flutter within her stomach, a sensation which was at odds with the usual disturbances which had been coming to late from within her malnourished gut.
His eyes held no form of recognition for herself, and she felt disappointment rise steady upwards from within, almost like the sensation of bile rising to purge out the commotion from inside. Disappointed by his lack of acknowledgment, Spider watched on as he finally completed the journey of his sight, eyes falling lastly upon the Corporal.
‘Hello Prime!’ the stranger said, again a half formed smile rising on his lips.
‘Riot!’ Prime returned, nodding to appreciate his remembrance.
Spider offered a glance at Prime, wondering how she knew this newcomer; this man named Riot.
Faith was still standing, his fury apparent.
Sheep finally caught up with Riot and stood beside him. Lightly shaking his head at Prime, his face was the expression of bewilderment.
‘What’s going on?’ Legit who had been sleeping at the furthest corner of the hall, came forward. Making his way past a congestion of guards, he pushed his way to the front.
‘Its Riot!’ Creases stated as Legit manhandled him aside.
Legit offered the dim witted Private a glance before he approached the centre of the activity. Here he stood, opposite from where Sheep and Riot were standing. Only Spider and her small group, as well as a small number of chairs separated the Sergeant from the newcomer.
‘Where in Hood’s name have you come from?’ Legit asked, his voice as blunt as ever.
Sheep cringed at the Sergeant’s words, even groaning aloud at the name of the Gods name, yet everyone seemed to ignore him; everyone except for Prime who looked just as pained as she squinted in equal measures.
‘Are you in command here?’ Riot asked, his tone neutral in its carriage.
Legit shifted, his eyes lingering upon Riot for a great deal of time before answering. Finally, cursing under his breath, he said ‘Hood damn but you smell like a Claw to me!’
This seemed to amuse the newcomer, his eyes glinting with the mirth that the Sergeant’s words had ignited within him.
Legit grinded his teeth together, yet he turned and barked a command at the nearest understudy ‘Go get Candle!’ he issued.
Splinter offered a half arsed salute before turning and fleeing from the mess hall, running full tilt towards the Captain’s quarters.
‘Might have to wait a bit!’ Legit grunted, before him he pulled forward a seat and sat down. Looking around from his squat position he than called aloud with his full Sergeant voice ‘Well no point everyone standing about, is there?’
Those milling about, suddenly found themselves either offering salutes, some mumbling under their breaths, or some gasping with the exchange that they were awaiting to confront. Which ever manner they happened to adopt to acknowledge Legit’s words, they all sat down as instructed.
Only Riot, Sheep, and Faith remained upright.
‘Sit down!’ Legit ordered, kicking out at Faith’s shin.
Faith glared, yet he remained silent and returned back to his previous seat. The look that he denoted towards Legit was nothing compared to the scowl that he resigned towards Riot; a constant frown which was nursed by the vigour of overzealous suspicion.
All other eyes were also fixed wholeheartedly upon the newcomer, but most of these were filled by confusion, some by the depths of uncertainty which had been nurtured by the shallow endeavours of starvation that was beginning to take its toll upon them one and all.
Spider sat with her mind ringing with confusion. The Sergeant had said that Riot had the appearance of a Claw. Spider had never seen a Claw in her life, yet she had heard all of the stories. None of which were hopeful.
Holding firm to her first reaction, she doubted that he was one of the Empress assassins, for some reason he didn’t strike her as looking as that type of figure. Perhaps it was the manner in which he had addressed Prime, and hinted at recognition from other soldiers from within the mess hall. She doubted that a Claw would bother to form such relationship with lowly guards, especially with the arrogance stance that Claw members were suppose to have.
No, for some reason, she was certain that Legit was wrong. This newcomer, this man Riot was not a Claw. He was something else, and for some reason it had terrified Sheep, as well as enraged Faith.
The only conclusion she could fathom, was that he was from Evinor. She could assume that as he already accredited Sheep, Prime, and Faith. Also, the signs of recognition that he had offered to a few of the others with the hall went further to support this. All those from Evinor he had recognised; Splinter, Creases, as well as Molehill.
Was he too a former Evinor guard? If so, it still didn’t explain how he was here, or how he got into the fort. No alarm had been raised, and there appeared to be no-one else with him.
She shook her head, wondering if she would have been so confused if she had been at the height of her ability, rather than the lowered condition for which she was now forced to exist in. The effects of starving were not just restricted to the plight of her body; her mind too was deteriorating with the lack of funds to nourish her mentality.
She wanted to scream out her frustration, but decided that her nerves were worn through, and the tension in the hall was far beyond their normal reserves. What with Faith glaring at the newcomer with open hostility, there was an undercurrent which was dangerously present. Anything could cause it to inflame and result in the stranger being confronted by the entire garrison.
Risking a glance, she lifted her sights back to the newcomer. He appeared settled in his stance, as if unaware of the tension which existed about him. He was even speaking lightly to Sheep, his words not loud enough to hear, but his lips were moving even so.
She wished that she could lip-read, to be able to discern what was passing between the two men. Knowing that it was hopeless, she happened to glimpse at the Kot Ghul soldier, Private Quiet. The tongue less mute was watching the two men with almost intimate regard, her full attention pinned upon Riot in particular. Perched upon her seat, with her hands locked about her legs, the young Private was absorbed.
There was another enigma, one for which attracted Spider’s attention but for which she was unsure why.
The thought was lost as Candle came into the mess hall, everyone’s attention moving from the stranger to the Captain. Behind came Splinter, creeping into the hall with nervous deliberation.
Candle strode directly to the centre of the room, stopping short of Riot and Sheep. The Captain had been sleeping, or at least making the attempt, an act that was needed if he was to continue with the duel which was to commence in the morning. This disturbance only went further to break any form of organisation that he had been preparing.
If there was any tiredness to the Captain, he hid it well, giving away no hint to any turmoil which may have been flowing through him.
Addressing the newcomer with a maintained tenor of command, Candle spoke ‘And you are?’
Riot turned himself directly to the Captain, and from her position, Spider could now see the twin blades that he wore at his side. A sudden rush in her senses suddenly believed that he truly was a Claw, and here he was to cut down the Captain in a bloody account of butchery.
Her breath escaped her with the sudden image, yet she had nothing to fear as the newcomer had merely adjusted his stance so to better look over the leader of the garrison.
‘Riot!’ the newcomer answered, his calm a thing alien to their settings.
‘So I’ve heard!’ with this Candle cast a eye towards Splinter, before returning his gaze back forward ‘But that means nothing to me,’
‘I’m a… friend!’ Riot said.
‘And how did you get here?’ Candle asked.
‘By warren of course!’ came the calm reply.
‘Told you he was a Claw!’ Legit’s voice broke out from where he sat, his face showing his scorn for the agency.
‘No!’ Riot shook his head ‘I didn’t use the Imperial warren to get here,’
‘He’s no Claw!’ Sheep spoke up for the first time since entering with the newcomer.
‘No but he’s killed some in his time!’ Faith added his worth ‘Remember the bloodshed in Evinor, ah Sheep!’
Sheep shrugged, but his face was still the same pasty white.
‘Aye, you remember Sheep!’ Faith continued ‘You was there, weren’t you!’
Spider found her head moving back and forth as the exchange seemed to open up between the different individuals spread across the hall.
‘Enough!’ Candle raised his voice so to gain the conversation back his way.
‘You still haven’t answered my question. Who are you and what are you doing here?’ he continued.
Riot cast a glance towards Sheep, and Sheep answered by shaking his head, his eyes lit up by what he knew. Riot shrugged Sheep’s suggestion aside and responded,
‘My name is Riot, and I’m currently an agent for Hood, but previously I was a…’ he started.
‘Don’t!’ Sheep warned from behind him.
Riot ignored him and went on ‘…and previously I have been a guard in Evinor for a Malazan trader, where I met Sheep amongst others here. Before that I was a soldier!’
‘Hood!’ a gasp of voices broke free throughout the hall.
Only one person seemed to take notice of his previous soldiering, and it was Corporal Lore who asked the question ‘Who did you serve for?’
Riot looked long and hard at the Corporal, neither man allowing their eyes to drop aside as they sized each other up.
‘Don’t!’ again Sheep warned, voice low in its pitch.
‘I served under a commander of overwhelming skill!’ Riot replied.
‘Who?’ again from Lore.
‘Prince K’azz D’Avore,’ Riot answered.
Spider found her breath retreating, her lungs exploding with the words the newcomer so easily stated. He expressed himself in such a demure manner, that half of the mess hall missed what he said. The other half stood dazed, expressions denoting that they were shocked by what he had stated.
‘Crimson Guard?’ Faith again jumped from his seat, but this time he appeared less willing to confront Riot.
A troubled hush worked its way throughout the hall. The announcement by Faith had startled those who had not heard Riot’s original words, while those who had heard appeared more disturbed by Faith’s conformation.
‘Aye, that’s correct!’ Riot nodded. His sights were not directed towards Faith, instead he stared candidly towards Candle.
‘He’s no longer a Crimson Guard!’ Sheep had finally found his full voice, and he pushed his way forward so to separate Riot from the majority of the scornful looking soldiers.
‘But he once was!’ Legit growled, his fingers locked forcefully into the headrest of his seat which was settled before him.
‘Was,’ Sheep explained ‘But he was cast out,’
‘Never heard of no Riot in the Guard,’ Lore stated, appearing as if he was interested rather than being associated with the other looks of hate which were beginning to build upon the remaining soldiers faces ‘What was your true name?’
Riot again focused his attention back onto the oldest soldier in the room. He appeared as to consider the question, perhaps wondering whether to deny such knowledge from being public. Finally he answered,
‘I was once known as Pariah!’ he replied.
There were many a head shake, the name meaning absolutely nothing to them. Only Lore allowed a nod to develop, a brief statement of motion for which Candle happened to witness.
‘Lore?’ he asked, hoping to prompt the old timer into telling what he knew.
The Corporal offered a shrug ‘I’ve heard tell of him,’ he admitted, offering Candle a gruff smile ‘And if you knew what I knew, half of you wouldn’t be thinking about pulling your swords out to harm him,’
‘What are you saying?’ Candle asked. Legit sat straighter in his seat, and everyone else appeared to swing their heads in the direction of the old Corporal.
‘I’m saying that we have one of the original Crimson Guard members before us. Not one of these understudies, but the proper thing. A Avowed!’ Lore explained.
Again all eyes returned to Riot. Riot offered a nod to confirm Lore’s story.
‘Hood’s balls!’ a voice muttered.
Spider bit off a gulp, knowing that to make a sound in the developed silence would only go and draw attention to herself. She shivered as she suddenly realised that she had offered the man Riot, the Avowed Riot, a hearty glance when he had first entered. So much for initial excitement, instead it had been replaced by the worry and fear of what she knew of the Crimson Guard.
The Guard were the first true opponents to the empire to actually repeal the Malazan advance. Since than, they had continually been battling the Malazan’s on near enough every front. They were the original ghosts for whom an experienced soldier was said to be afraid of. To confront a Crimson Guard, to confront especially one of the Avowed, was said to be the last action of a unlucky soldier or marine.
And here she sat before one. Before a man whose previous experience was no doubt formed from the act of besting Malazan’s and their associated allies. There was no less an enemy to confront, and yet he stood with causal regard, his eyes still locked solidly upon the Captain.
Candle held his resolve and stared back. The news for which Lore had just breeched was still a shocking discovery, yet he willed himself not to wilt before this very man. Holding firm to the courage born to him from his Wickan heritage, Candle found the power to speak.
‘That’s all well and good, but what are you doing here now?’ he asked of the newcomer.
Riot spoke with his usual firmness, voice rich in its dialect, but honed by an edge which suggested that he was use to the realms of speaking to men of rough extent ‘I’m here under instructions of my new employer,’
‘That being Hood!’ Candle repeated what he had picked up.
‘Aye!’ Riot agreed.
‘…bloody Hood…’
‘…****…!’
‘…what a combination, Hood and a Crimson Guard…’ the voices picked up from around the hall.
‘Quiet!’ Candle said forcefully, allowing his voice to be strong in its carriage. Turning back to Riot he said ‘And?’
‘And, I’m here to halt the progress of the new contester who threatens the entire world,’ Riot explained.
‘Who?’ Legit coughed out, not understanding what he heard.
‘The offender is the Crippled God, an ascendant aligned to the aspect of Chaos. In Hatra, one of his followers is situated, ready to lead out a force which will help enable this new God to gain provenience within this land,’ Riot went on.
‘Crippled God?’ Legit asked, his tone derisive.
‘Aye,’ Riot nodded ‘The fallen God. A parasite!’
Many headshakes went around the hall, only a few remained non-committing as they watched on with grim expressions etched upon their faces.
Riot explained further ‘The reason why Burn sleeps!’ he looked around at all of the staring faces ‘She sleeps because she is ill, poisoned by the bastard who infests her flesh. The warrens have been poisoned, chaos running almost unrestrained. Only now the other Gods are beginning to fight back,’
Candle held up his hands, expressing that he wanted Riot to halt.
‘I don‘t understand what your talking about, but what does any of that have to do with you being here now?’ he asked.
‘Hood amongst others is taking the fight to the Crippled God, pushing the poison from their realms. To weaken his resolve further, we are killing those who follow this evolving God, hoping to cut short the plans he has for this land,’ Riot explained.
‘And what plans does this Crippled God have for Seven cities?’ the question came from Prime, and unlike many others in the hall, she appeared to be taking the matter seriously and with genuine concern.
‘We’re unsure!’ Riot admitted ‘All we know is that it is central to Raraku,’
‘The Whirlwind Goddess!’ someone commented, voice lacking in emotion.
‘Aye!’ Riot nodded at Sheep in acknowledgement ‘His attempts at Genabackis were repelled, a combination of forces by One arm’s host as well as Caladan Brood, helped to dissolve his foray. We now believe that Seven cities is just his next sortie. Perhaps his dominance will arise fully here!’
‘And you’re here to kill the follower who exists in Hatra?’ Legit asked, eyes squinting as he continued to size up the newcomer.
‘Yes,’ Riot agreed ‘A former Priest who now dabbles in the Crippled Gods own warren; that of chaos,’
‘Sull Decrat!’ Candle spoke, the advisors name the first thing to spring to mind.
Riot shrugged ‘The name I don’t know, but whoever he is will have a leading role in Hatra’s dominion,’
‘Why are you here now?’ Prime asked.
Riot regarded the young Corporal before he answered ‘With Coltraine and the seventh dead, and Dujek’s forces near obliterated, there is no Malazan force to repel the uprising. Only the Whirlwind Goddess and her army remains, and we believe that with the creation of a new House to the Deck of Dragons, the House of Chains, that Seven cities will play a significant role in what the Crippled God does next,’
‘A new House?’ Sheep exclaimed, bewilderment just one expression to flex willingly across his sharp features.
‘Aye!’ Riot nodded.
‘Then why weren’t you here before, before the uprising began?’ again Prime prompted.
‘My attention was elsewhere, as to was my employer,’ Riot grunted.
‘Genabackis?’ Lore asked.
Riot nodded ‘Briefly,’ he agreed ‘I came late to the fighting at Coral. One arm’s host was near but destroyed, the desire lost. They won but at a price perhaps too great,’
Lore licked at his lips before he asked the next question ‘Who was lost?’ he finally managed.
‘Dujek survived, but rumours are that he is lost in spirit. Whiskeyjack betrayed and murdered. Bridgeburners killed to the last man. As I said, the core of One arms host is now lost,’ Riot explained.
With the announcement of those lost, the tension in the hall once more shifted, this time the sense of lose was felt by one and all. The realisation that they were not the only ones to have lost significant allies so close to their position was now all too apparent. Across the world, other ordinary Malazan’s were engulfed in warfare, each appearing as if to be losing the fight, and so to their lives.
‘And now you hope to defeat the Crippled God before he entrenches himself fully in this land?’ Candle asked.
Spider was almost beyond caring for what the newcomer would go on to say. Instead she felt as if a well had opened inside of her. Into this wound, her hopes and personal emotions were disappearing, leaving nothing more than a hollow within the centre of her being. The sheer indulgence of horrors that were occurring of late were taking their toll, leaving her feeling empty, emotionless in her feelings. The legend which revolved about the late Whiskeyjack and the Bridge burners was one of the reasons why she had first joined the army. In hope to actually be part of something as grand as what the regiment had once represented.
The last few years had been sore upon the legendry outfit, yet they still existed, pitted against forces which attempted to force them down, yet managing to survive, continuing on whislt the regime of chance went on about them. Only now they no longer existed. The history books would note that they once were, but they would not account the sense of pride which was associated to them. The respect which all other Malazan forces would decorate upon them would, come time, be lost, the echoes of history losing the personal satisfaction that was so easily associated to them.
The essence of Spider’s being was absorbed by sadness, an emotion which had never been so engulfing in its magnitude; not since the death of her mother all those years ago.
‘No!’ Riot answered Candle’s question before continuing ‘I would have no chance against such a vengeful God. Instead I just help to weaken him from his followers. Slowly killing those who support him, hopefully to weaken him enough so that someone more able, probably an ascendant, can finally wipe him clean from this realm,’
‘And so you’re here as a assassin!’ Legit commented, a smirk appearing upon his lips ‘Not a Claw in name, but perhaps in association?’
Riot regarded Legit silently, and appeared as if he would have continued if not for Creases interruption.
‘Are you here to rescue us as well?’ the Private asked, hope full upon his round face.
Riot again looked about the hopeful faces that were crowded about him ‘I wasn’t even aware that any Malazan’s remained in the fort. Not until I sensed Sheep messing with his warren!’
Sheep offered a frightful grin, the expression certainly not reaching his nervous eyes.
‘But now that you’re here?’ Creases went on.
Riot returned his eyes to Candle ‘I cannot promise anything!’ he stated.
Candle nodded as if he expected as much.
‘What about the duel tomorrow!’ again Creases supplied his voice to the hall.
‘Duel?’ Riot asked.
Candle simply turned his head and gave Creases a cold look. Creases retreated, ducking his head down so to escape from the glare offered his way from his Captain.
Candle returned his attention back towards Riot ‘Sull Decrat has issued terms for a duel. I have decided to take him up on the request,’
Riot narrowed his eyes ‘To fight one of Sull’s own men?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Candle replied.
‘Hatra’s champion!’ Prime added, ignoring the reproachful glance that Candle cast her way.
‘And have you any chance of winning?’ Riot enquired.
Candle gave a single shrug of his shoulders ‘I’m an able swordsmen!’
‘And this Champion?’
‘Fen’dhlea Ob!’ Prime announced ‘Harta’s Champion for the past ten years. Big as they come, and twice as fast,’
‘And no doubt aided by this Sull’s own devices,’ Riot commented.
‘What does that mean?’ Legit asked.
Riot explained ‘If this Sull is truly the man I seek, than he will no doubt invest the Champion with his God’s intent. And unless you are bestowed equally by some higher investment than you will have no chance. No matter how great your sword skills,’
‘Than what would you suggest?’ Prime asked, sensing what Riot was leading onto.
‘I will fight instead,’ he offered ‘To isolate this Sull and the Crippled God even further,’
Candle appeared annoyed, yet he fought down his frustration, possibly sensing that what the newcomer suggested was probably correct in his assumption.
‘You have been invested by Hood?’ Lore asked.
Riot shook his head ‘Far better than that,’ he grinned, his eyes lighting up with amusement ‘I’m an Avowed remember!’

[Riot]

The indulgence of light hampered the area situated between the city of Hatra and the Malazan Fort during the rise of the morning. An ocean of calm, this stretch of land was awaiting for the echoes of chaos to arise, for the momentary peace to be shattered by the introduction of a contested duel.
Sull stood beside the mammoth figure of Fen’dhlea Ob, who stood passively in full armour. The cities Champion appeared as a focal point of darkness, the harsh layer of darkened armour that he wore appearing as if to absorb any light being projected onto its serrated surface.
Upon the walls of Hatra, the entire leadership of the city were crammed, Pal designated the loftiest of places so to better his view for the coming contest. About him, his nearest of advisors were littered, cramming closer so to attest to any word for which their master would happen to utter.
From their position before Hatra’s main gates, Sull and Fen’dhlea were standing with their eyes locked upon the opposing gates. Twenty yards to their left, Motak Bevelle was alone, awaiting patiently for what was about to occur. He was to act as adjudicator, a role for which he had successfully requested from Pal Dor’lk. By his rule, the coming duel would start, and by his rule he would see that the contest was a fair one. His loathing for the Advisor Sull was becoming legendry, and he was determined to make sure that the bastard Advisor would not bend the rules to his own design.
Sull could sense the open hostility that was being projected from the Gral leader, but at that moment he was beyond caring. Instead, he was too enticed by the realisation that the day would commence with the progress towards the role that had been made his own by his willing God. Today the full weight of power would be shifted his way, and the progression towards the heart of Seven cities would begin. To Raraku he would lead Hatra’s populace, and towards the sacrifice that he had promised to bring to his commanding God.
Beside him, the giant Fen’dhlea was quiet made flesh, his stance betraying no emotion, his eyes from behind the gross helm again revealing no weakness in his stubborn born will.
‘Soon!’ Sull commented, moving from one foot to the other, his own excitement apparent for all to see.
‘Perhaps they won’t fight!’ Fen’dhlea suddenly spoke, the first time for some hours.
Sull granted the Champion a damning look before answering ‘They will fight, they have no choice but to,’
‘They have a choice,’ Fen again commented.
‘What, to remain inside and starve to death?’ Sull laughed.
‘Yes!’ Fen replied, as if the thought was the most natural thing in the world.
Sull offered the Champion a puzzled glance, as if not truly understanding what he was on about. For the first time, Sull wondered if there was a fundamental weakness that was established within Fen’s mentality. A sense of honour which was misguided if he was to truly follow and dedicate himself to his God’s will.
Ever since the start of the day, when Sull had invested Fen with his God’s abilities, Sull had been suspecting that the Champion was less than impressed with the ideal which was based behind the proposal for the duel. Instead, Sull suspected that Fen was almost dismayed by the idea of fighting someone who would not be at the peak of their fighting condition. As a swordsmen this was a sense of honour that was all well and good, but as a new disciple of the Crippled God, this was a flaw that was beyond that necessary to be part of the Fallen God’s enterprise.
Sull wiped at his hooked nose, wondering if he would have to contemplate the possibility of disposing Fen once his use had been served. Perhaps during the journey to Raraku, Pal would not be the single loss to the sins of Seven cities.
Disguising any expression which may have betrayed what he was thinking, Sull instead looked towards the Malazan fort.
Here was another possibility which was concerning him. There appeared to be absolutely no sign of motion from the fort, as if there was no one in attendance to witness what was occurring outside. Perhaps what Fen had said was true; the Malazan’s had decided to rebuke the duel, instead condemning themselves to the slow downfall of starvation.
Grinding his teeth, frustration brimming within him, he happened to glance off to his left, catching the attention of the Gral leader.
Motak was smiling, his expression amused by the delayed act of any sign of opponent.
Sull cursed under his breath, annoyed that the damn Gral could upset him so. It was at this point, as his excitement was beginning to dumb down, that a sound echoed from the fort. Looking over, his attention as much ensnared as every other, he saw as the gates from the fort were opening, the slow measure of light falling into the breeched opening.
‘Here they come!’ he stated, a snigger escaping his lips as he watched on.
The gates opened with a pace that was slow in its progression, suddenly halting, barely enough space to allow for a single man to escape from.
Two figures emerged, one after the other. The first Sull recognised as the Captain who had seized control after the demise of the original Fist who had commanded the fort. The second figure was near on par in height to the Captain, yet Sull did not recognise him. He was probably the leader of the Kot Ghul regiment, here now, acting as second to the Captain.
Again finding his stomach bubbling with anticipation, Sull signalled for them to lead forward, and to approach the nearing opponents.
As they neared, Fen marching beside him with slow measure, Sull could see as a wave of faces and heads emerged from above the Malazan fortifications, finally emerging so to see the contest that was moments away from starting.
‘To witness your hopes desert you all!’ he whispered, voice barely audible but for which Fen must have heard as he stared down at Sull with apparent distaste.
As they closed the distance, Sull found his eyes studying the approaching Captain. He knew that the man was half Wickan, and the light armour that he wore divulged this with every small fetish which was tired onto the loose edges of his clothing. Looking at his face as the distance between them was suddenly little more than ten feet, Sull could see that the man’s features were more withdrawn, cheeks sunken by the apparent greed of malnourishment.
He suddenly realised that the contest that he was about to witness would be nothing more than a quick and bloody displacement of the tired looking Malazan. Fen’dhlea Ob was at the peak of his fitness, and with the investment made to his standing, there was absolutely no chance that the Captain could protect himself.
Again he found a smirk surfacing, but this time he allowed it to settle, wanting the opposing man to see the satisfaction that was coursing through him.
Finally they halted so that a distance of a mere five feet separated them both from the other pair. Motak Bevelle took this opportunity to settle his way in between the two parties, to represent himself as the adjudicator for the duel.
‘I take it that your being here is confirmation for this duel to commence?’ Motak asked of the Malazan‘s.
‘Yes!’ the Captain nodded, his eyes burning deep into both Sull and Fen.
Motak nodded as if he expected as much ‘Than each designated Champion will ready themselves for combat!’ Motak stated.
Sull again grinned, and he took a step backwards so to allow Fen’dhlea Ob full appraisal. As he did so, he happened to see that the Malazan second was staring solely at himself, and from this figure he sensed a deep lingering hatred. Sull was momentarily unsettled by what he saw in the strangers eyes, yet he ignored it, knowing that the same radiating hate would be cast his way from every Malazan who gazed down to their position.
Fen’dhlea Ob stood in the same exact stance, looking huge and impossibly hostile in his appearance.
Sull watched as the two Malazan’s looked at each other before the Captain nodded in acknowledgement. Sull than witnessed an act which suddenly confused him beyond all reason.
The Malazan Captain stepped aside, removing himself from the contest, instead allowing for the man for whom Sull had guessed to be the second, become the first; to become the challenger for the duel.
The unknown contender stepped forward, and Sull now lent weight towards the appraisal of this newcomer.
As first noted, the newcomer was as tall as the Captain, yet still he was dwarfed by the impressive statue of Fen’dhlea Ob. Of a medium build, Sull could see that he appeared well toned. His face was framed by a loose structure of darkened hair, while around his mouth he wore a smart functioning beard and moustache. What mainly caught Sull’s attention however, was the apparent fact that the man appeared healthy in his vigour, as if he was not affected by any form of starvation.
For a fleeting second, Sull knew doubt, but he knew no reason why to pin it down. Instead he was now forced to watch, beyond now the act to do anything else. The hope of his future was placed upon Fen, and of the skill that rested in the hulking Champion.
Fen brought forth his single sword which was strapped to his back. The long black edged blade was twice the width of any normal weapon, whilst the length was a further span longer than the norm. The weight would have been beyond any normal man, yet Fen lofted the weapon as if it weighed no more than was normal.
The Malazan designated Champion brought forth his own blades into view, the twin swords swiftly issued from their places at his waist.
‘If both parties are content with their preparations, than we shall shortly begin!’ Motak calmly stated.
Sull moved further away, Fen closely following so that a greater distance was opened between the two contestants. The Malazan second, the Captain, to took his flight so that he was away from the centre reservoir of action. The Malazan Champion stood his ground, the swords in his hands bobbing up and down as he awaited the start of the duel.
Motak looked from one opponent to the other, sizing up the two men who were about to initiate the start of the duel.
‘Ready?’ he asked of Hatra’s Champion.
Fen’dhlea Ob nodded, the huge frame of his helm bouncing up in a singular motion.
‘Ready?’ Motak asked of the Malazan Champion.
‘Aye!’ the newcomer agreed, before adding ‘This is for Coral you bastards!’
Sull lost his breath at what the man said, blinded by the realisation that the man knew about the events which had transpired a continent away. His doubt which had first emerged was now startled once more into existence, doubling in misgivings as he realised that the man knew more that he ought to. He was ready to call out and have the contest brought to a quick end, before it had a chance to start, but Motak beat him to words.
‘Than begin!’ the Gral leader shouted out, waving his arms forward in an act of enticing the two men together.
Sull’s words died in his throat as knew that he had been deceived, and all he could do was pray to his malignant God and hope that Fen would obtain the victory that he had originally been so sure of.
He stood motionless as the two men stepped forward, engagement between them both mere seconds away. The excitement in his guts had died away, instead replaced by a fermented tension which sat uneasily within his core.
On edge, he watched on.

[Riot]

Motak retreated from his advance position, daring not to be too far forward, as any loose blade work could very well swing his way.
He felt sorrow for the Malazan fighter, believing that the Hatra Champion was too big a man to defeat; especially with the giant sized sword that he used as a weapon. He had seen Fen’dhlea Ob train, the man was incredible in his speed, swiftly moving with a pace that was almost unreal, especially for a man of his massive size.
The two men edged forward, Fen hoisting his oar sized blade before him with enticing balance. The Malazan held his own blades down by his side, appearing as if he was truly unprepared for what he faced.
The Hatra Champion was engrossed in armour, wedges of thick plate protecting near enough his entire flesh. That which was not covered, was enclosed by ringlets of woven chain mail, meshed together so to give the impression that Fen’dhlea was a man made of steel rather than of flesh.
The Malazan Champion was in comparison lightly armoured. Upon his head he wore a skull cap, the helm containing much of his long hair. The back of the helm held a tail, falling down so to shelter the back of his exposed neck. Instead of thick armour covering his body, he wore a substantial woven shirt which was furnished with a metal breastplate. His arms were clothed in leather, bound together by knotted string, allowing for his hands to be completely gloved and therefore helping to maintain his grip of his swords.
His trousers too matched his shirt, offering only the slightest of protection by the interwoven covering of armour, weaved into the lining of the fabric. By his garb, the Malazan was setting himself to the stall of quick motion, hoping to use his lack in armour as insurance to the speed of his attacks.
In most cases this type of clothing would help aid the attack in his usage of speed, yet Motak had seen Fen’dhlea Ob train in full armour, and the big man moved with such acceleration that there was no hope to anyone who faced him.
Inside Motak voiced a farewell to the brave Malazan, yet he contained his expression to his usual decorum, holding firm to his established features.
Before him, Fen’dhlea Ob launched the first attack.
Motak held his breath.

[Riot]

Sheep was positioned above the gates, his chest leaning into the stern structure of the battlements. Beside him, holding his hand in tight anticipation, stood Prime. All around them, jostling for a better position were the remainder of the Malazan guard. To his immediate right was Legit, and the gruff Sergeant was staring down at the encounter with imposing focus.
‘Believe in him!’ Prime spoke her words close to Sheep’s ear, making sure that only her lover heard her.
Sheep nodded. He was after all the only person here to have witnessed Riot fighting before. He believed wholeheartedly in Riot’s ability, his only fear was of what would occur after he had won. What act would the High Advisor take, what manner would his revenge materialise in.
‘I can’t watch!’ the voice came from over his shoulder. Ignoring the possibility of turning, Sheep already recognised who had spoken.
‘Just you watch!’ he stated, making sure that his words were loud enough so that the entire garrison could hear ‘Just you watch and witness!’
His tone reverberated with each and everyone there, and a settled hush fell amongst them all.
He felt as Prime squeezed his hand, and he lightly squeezed back, offering what reassurance he could.
‘Best hurry up and get on with it!’ Legit commented from beside him.
With the Sergeant’s words, the Hatra Champion propelled himself forward.
As one the garrison inhaled.

[Riot]

Riot was self contained, his will repressed so that he worked on pure instinct. With swords held at his side, he waited for the Hatra Champion to make the first move, so to judge what he was truly up against.
The large blade which was waved before him was of a impressive size, perhaps as big as a T’lan Imass flint blade. It was held level, showing to Riot that his opponent was of a formidable strength.
Drawing in a slow breath, Riot balanced himself upon the ball of his feet, ready to react.
The Hatra Champion drew the sword back by a mere inch, yet it was a signal enough for Riot to know that he was about to strike.
Fen’dhlea Ob was stationary one moment, and the next he was launching his entire bulk forward, the stem of his blade thrusting forward, aiming at the centre of Riot’s body.
Riot reacted, using his blades to slide the mammoth sword aside, pushing himself off to his right so to allow for the giant to slide pass him. The rushing expanse of his opponent was a blur of motion, the large man moving with such a speed that the simple act of an initial thrust would have defeated any normal opponent.
Riot held back from striking out as he moved aside, knowing that there was no easy target for his blades to strike against. The decision was a good one, as Fen managed to bring his sword around in the same instance as he completed his movement forward.
Ducking below the swinging edge of the massive sword, Riot struck out against an area which was not covered by the ledged plates of armour. The verge of his own sword scrapped off the chain mail that was gathered there, causing little harm to the flesh beneath.
Retreating as he finished his movement, the Hatra Champion surged forward once more, swinging his sword with blazing intent. Riot again used the larger man’s own momentum to slide the blade aside, knowing that he could not parry the sword with his own as the sheer strength behind the launched blade would surely shatter one of his own weapons.
Fen’dhlea Ob charged forward with the purpose of a bull, using his overwhelming strength and steep speed to hack at the smaller man. Riot continued to side step, appearing as if the next attack would surely slice him into two, but seemingly managing to duck, or avoid the sword by the smallest of margins.
Riot refused to strike back, instead he rarely used either of his own weapons, instead occasionally sliding Fen’s sword aside when it happened to get too close. Instead, he used his own speed to dodge aside from Fen’s unrelenting offensive.
Fen used his oversized sword much like an axe, using its sheer weight and girth to swing back and forth, trying desperately to catch a blow against the lightly armoured opponent.
Riot maintained his pace, allowing for the larger man to use far greater reserves of strength. As he moved, finding that the big man was truly a fast paced fighter, he looked for any weakness in the man’s defences.
Fen’dhlea Ob was focused totally upon attack, the manner in which he propelled himself forward was evidence enough. The armour which he wore allowed for this to be a functioning manner of fighting, as the levels of chain mail and engrossing metal pallets that covered him was enough to repel any weapon.
Riot could also sense the waves of investments that were layered upon him. The sense of chaos rolling off him as an insulting aroma. The physical reaction of the investment was to leave Riots flesh feel on edge. A tension which felt like a deep embellishment of uncomfortable anxiety. He ignored it however, as it was only an affect of being so close to an evil which was aligned to the Crippled God, and was associated with all those who worked under his malevolent hand.
Riot was sure that he could piece the investment, he just wasn’t sure about the armour that the giant was dressed in.
Jumping back as the sword came too close to his chest, Riot again had to elude as the sword was quickly thrust towards him. The giant was gathering in his ability, shifting in his stance, increasing in his prowess.
Riot knew that he could not allow the contest go on any longer, not with him on the back foot.
Evading Fen’s backhand swing, Riot threw himself forward, bringing both of his swords into action. His blades moved as a blur, and suddenly it was Fen’dhlea Ob who was on the back foot.
Riot attacked the larger man’s throat, each sword moving with a purpose that was unaligned with the other. His left hand sought below the throat, trying to find access through the mesh that lined the area between the top of the chest guard and the throat. His right directed the associated sword upwards, seeking underneath the chin guard, rooting towards any weakness that may have been forged into the dominating helmet.
Fen shifted backwards, his momentum lost, back peddling, trying to distance himself from the smaller man.
Riot remained on the offensive, again his eyes searching for further evidence of weakness. Fen now used his large sword to batter aside Riots thrusts and stabs. The overwhelming sword clearly a disadvantage when used for defence as he struggled to bring it up to repel Riot’s attack.
Riot found his blades striking clear off of the armour, even when he attempted to pry the tip of one sword into the verge that separated one layer of armoured plate from another. The strength of the armour was too strong, forged by a master armourer.
Riot continued with his free flowing assault, lingering not at all, forever moving so to push the man giant ever backwards.
Fen’dhlea Ob persisted with his forced defence, yet Riot could sense that frustration was beginning to build within the other man. Riot could see in it the giant’s eyes, the twin orbs staring out with anger boiling within their gleaming depths.
The massive helmet that the Hatra Champion wore was of an impressive structure, appearing much like a awe-inspiring image of a defaced and angry beast. The entire structure fitted over his head, only nose holes as well as eye sockets were evidence enough of the man behind the ugly design.
Fen tried again to batter aside Riots swords yet the smaller man dodged and than sought forward once more. Yelling in frustration, Fen broke forward with his entire body, forcing Riot to back off so to avoid the devastating mass of the Hatra Champion.
Riot could clearly see the anger which now consumed the big man, and so decided that it was time to end it.
Fen’dhlea Ob seemed to rage again in frustration and than reared forward. The sword held high, ready to come crashing down in a brutal assault that would cleave Riot in two.
Riot lowered his stance, again swords held facing down beside him. Ready and willing, he allowed for Fen to launch his attack, watching as the colossal blade swung down from high on Fen’s right, slicing down in an arch that would finish in the left-hand position that Riot occupied.
He waited for the last possible second, seeing the look of triumph appear within Fen’s eyes, before moving with a speed that he had yet to demonstrate. He angled his body so that the sword rushed pass his face, the passage of air which was shifted aside by the blade rolling across his features. As the sword swung passed him, he slanted his own weapons so that they were facing upwards. In the same motion as he moved, he brought both swords up, angling them so that they seized up towards Fen’s face.
Again Riot saw Fen’s eyes, saw the terror and realisation pouring forth from the orbs, before both tips of his swords plunged into the visor of the helmet and into the eyes behind. The veil of investment made by the conjugation of Chaos suddenly faded, Riot’s own investment searing through with easy acceleration.
Fen’dhlea Ob’s own momentum as well as Riot’s own force drove the swords deeply into the Champion’s head, the edge of the blades screeching as they pressed their way tightly into the helmets visor.
Releasing his hold of the swords, Riot rolled out from the avalanche of the Champion, back rolling across the sand crossed surface of the ground before completing the act and returning back to his feet and to his full standing.
Breathing deeply, drawing in air so to replenish his craving lungs, he watched as the city Champion fell to his knees, the large sword still to hand, now used as a prop so to help maintain his lurched position. Riot’s own weapons were still encased in the Champion’s eyes, a quarter of the length of the swords stuck inside the man’s head.
With a strange eerie cry, the Champion seemed to spasm momentarily before the struggle of death reinserted its prominence and forced the spirit from the body. Fen’dhlea Ob, Champion and General of Hatra, fell forward, the loud impact of the solid mass of his body striking the soft sand with an impressive reverberation of sound.
Silence engulfed the world, only the nominal resonance of the breeze echoed about him.
Loosely cuffing at the sand which now covered his arms, Riot strode calmly forward and retrieved his swords, finding that he had to use his foot as well as his full strength to force the deep blades from the Champions skull.
Grunting as he brought the second sword free, he serenely brought the weapon up to his face, staring intently at the rim of the blade. The fine edge had been blunted some, the effect of it grinding against the metal of the helmet. Ignoring the blood and small particles of tissue which now decorated the blade, he returned the swords to the restraints by his waist.
He would have time to clean them later, but for now, he displayed an almost nonchalant image of his victory, knowing that it would only go further to drive the High Advisor’s fury towards maddening levels.
Glancing towards the Gral who acted as adjudicator, he disregarded the startled expression that was beached upon the man’s features. Instead he offered a nod of his head, indicating that the contest was now over and that his presence was no longer needed.
Walking over towards the silent Candle, he spoke with a low tone ‘Turn around and make no further signals. It is up to them what they do next!’
So saying he walked on pass Candle, heading slowly back towards the fort.
Candle offered another look towards the dead Hatra Champion, seeing as well from the distance of the cities gates as the first gathering of witnesses began to gather at its opening. Looking briefly towards the High Advisor, he was more than delighted with the expression of absorbing fear which was sketched upon the man’s face.
Waiting no longer, suddenly realising that he was now the foremost advanced Malazan, he turned and made his way after the formidable Riot. Walking with a speed that displayed no way near the same calm for which Riot so easily expressed.
Behind him, the silence stretched on for a eternity.

[Riot]

Sull stood stupefied, his brain a thing dead, his thoughts lost as he stared with utter incomprehension at the corpse of the former Champion; at his own personal Champion.
Sull could only stand, the fingers of his right hand twitching, as he watched the victorious Malazan Champion walk evenly back towards the fort. The Captain of the Malazan’s trailing after him, before he too disappeared back into the safety of the offered fort.
He still could not move, even as the gates to the fort closed with a finality which echoed out with a booming expanse of sound. His mind was locked, his mentality starved of any rational thought, instead leaving him as a statue of immobile design.
A shadow crossed before him, the dark shimming silhouette pausing so that is stood beside his own cast shadow, yet still he was unable to turn his eyes away from Fen’dhlea’s corpse. He was locked upon the crumpled figure, hardly believing what he had witnessed.
Fen’dhlea Ob was dead, his life torn free by the sudden and impossible act of the Malazan Champion. He still couldn’t believe what had happened.
In his daze he shook his head, not accepting that Fen’dhlea Ob had been bested. It was simply impossible, especially with the last act of grace that the Malazan had demonstrated before the swords had pieced through Fen’s face. That killer blow, with its rapid succession of prowess was beyond anything that Sull had ever seen before. The motion displayed had been beyond his recognition, his mind struggling to comprehend how the Malazan had avoided Fen’s last strike. The speed verified by the Malazan was that of supreme confidence, established with the evidential truth that he could not have been under the influence of starvation.
‘I believe that means the Malazan’s have won!’ Motak commented from beside him. He too was staring at Fen’s now lifeless body, the gathering of sand already building about his bulk. The land of Seven Cities craving yet another corpse to its already over bloated hunger. A hunger that was apparently not yet satisfied.
Sull continued to shake his head numbly, Motak’s words hardly piercing the fog that had settled over his thoughts.
‘He was good,’ Motak added ‘I’d give him that!’
Sull remained non-committing in his muted silence.
As he stared solely upon Fen’s corpse, Sull found his mind beginning to roam; to attempt to justify how his plans had been so easily shattered.
The Malazan fighter had been too good a swordsmen, especially with the apparent fact that they had all been contained within the Fort for so long without any outside support.
Suddenly the fog evaporated, his mind pulsating with the realisation that he had been deceived, had in fact been mislead not only by the Malazan’s but also by his own self. Last night he had been awoken, the initial recognition of an open warren dissolving as his sleepy mind sought for the comfort of further sleep. Betrayed by his disobedient will, he had instead ignored the initial recognition and therefore he had abandoned the attempt to discover who had created the warren.
The Malazan Champion, the man who’s vigour and stance was untouched from the plight of starvation. He was the one who had formed the warren, had in fact entered the fort from its projected creation, entering the contest as a Champion who’s ability were not hampered by the institution of malnourishment.
Cheated!
‘Bastards!’ Sull cursed, his voice a curt bark, his face a increasing shade of crimson.
‘No doubt!’ Motak agreed ‘But you can’t help but be impressed by the bastards ability,’
Sull broke his scrutiny of Fen’s body, turning his head slowly as he drew his attention to the Gral leader beside him.
‘They cheated!’ he announced, trying to contain his focus.
Motak shrugged, his face empty of expression but his eyes betraying that he was not associated to the same fury which evoked Sull’s mentality. If anything, the Gral leader appeared almost amused by what had happened.
‘That man was not from the fort!’ Sull pointed towards the Malazan battlements ‘He came by warren,’
‘So?’ Motak retorted.
‘So?’ Sull could hardly credit what he was hearing. The Gral was a madman ‘He was a Claw, there’s no other explanation for it!’
‘What difference does it make?’ Motak asked before going on to answer it ‘He still managed to defeat your Champion. An act I thought impossible, even for a average Claw,’
‘But a Claw here!’ Sull sought for breath.
Motak again shrugged ‘It doesn’t make sense, I admit. Why would a Claw bother with Hatra of all places to show up, especially for a regiment that is as decimated as the one here,’
Sull remained silent. His thoughts were on the reasoning for why the Claw was here. What was here that wasn’t anywhere else.
He dreaded to think, yet he remembered back to before the fight had commenced. The Malazan Champion had stared with such hatred that Sull had easily dismissed it as associated anger towards Sull as a advisor for a city which was out to kill him. Yet now, Sull could look back with the foreknowledge of events already past.
The Malazan had also spoken before he had fought. His words cast low, but loud enough so that all present could hear what he uttered. Something along the lines of ‘This is for Coral!’
Again this pointed towards the supporting truth that the man had come from outside. To be aware of the events that had occurred around the city of Coral on the continent of Genabackis was knowledge of events beyond that of those contained alone within the fort.
The remark had been made his way, and so Sull could easily estimate that the Claw were here because of him. If so, than they knew of his alliance towards the Crippled God.
‘I don’t think he was a Claw anyway!’ Motak stated.
‘What!?’ Sull asked in bewilderment
Motak appeared to chew upon his thoughts before he replied ‘Claw are good, don’t get me wrong. But what I just witnessed bares to something far greater. A skill beyond that of any Claw that I’ve happened to seen before,’
If not a Claw than who?
The thought sent a chill down through Sull’s spine, a shudder attempting to break free throughout his body.
If not a Claw than someone else. Someone who was aggrieved enough so to travel to Hatra via a warren, establish contact with the Malazan’s trapped within the fort, and than allow themselves to confront Hatra’s greatest warrior in a contest which would allow him full appraisal of the man who was leading the way for the Crippled God’s attempted upsurge within the damn sub-continent.
The warren he had sensed during the night had been too far away for him to discern which alignment it was associated towards. Be it the Imperial Warren, or that of something else.
Whatever its alliance, the warren had been opened, and stepping through was a man of such ability that he had managed to not only kill an imposing fighter such as Fen’dhlea Ob, but had also managed to penetrate the wards of Chaos for which Sull had weaved about the former Hatra Champion.
This thought alone was disturbing enough, as Sull was under the impression that the other warrens had been poisoned, another act of malignant vices perpetrated by his master. By the act of arrival alone, the newcomer had brought forth to Sull’s senses that the poison that seeped through the warrens were not as strong as he believed. Instead, it appeared as if his God’s will was being pushed back, the reek of Chaos being battled back so to lose the nature of its disorder from corrupting the established warrens and their associated realms.
But who was fighting back. Which Ascendant was powerful enough to even hope to attempt such a task.
Perhaps Ascendants were joining in forces, forming a unified stance, forced to act together, or be forced to die alone.
Sull shivered with the thought, knowing that the image was a scary one but was realistically possible, as the nature of his master was to bleed into every form of life, debasing the scales of life, ruining that which was governed by the usual rules of existence.
The backlash from the opposing enemies was calculated, and Sull had been aware that it would happen. He had never expected it to be directed his way, especially when he was so far away from where his master was suppose to expose his true unveiling in the heart of this land; Raraku.
Motak spoke from beside him, interrupting his thoughts,
‘Here comes your master!’ the Gral commander commented.
Sull twisted with the words which left the Gral’s mouth, believing that Motak was speaking of his true master.
Looking towards Hatra, he could see that Motak meant Pal Dor’lk was approaching, rather than the true master of his governed beliefs. Hiding down the groan which wanted to escape his lips, he instead remained silent, as Pal and his small entourage quickly crept forward from their sheltered abode.
Pal was marching ahead of the train, his followers desperately trying to catch up to him, some tangling their feet in the long pursuit of cloth which hung down from their fancy clothing.
In any usual time, Sull would have found amusement for what he was witnessing, but now, with the death of his closest associate and of the significance of the newcomer who was now contained within the Malazan fort, he felt as if nothing would ever again allow a smile to decorate his worn lips.
Pal came forward with purpose, his arms waving before him, his features dressed in the mask of anger, his body betraying angst fear with its striding tenacity. The two sets of emotions were at odds with the other, yet the Hatra’s leader contained both sentiments with a display that was purposively exhibited of his usual nature.
‘Fen is dead!’ Pal passed Sull, flinging himself forward towards the dead Champion. Reaching the corpse, he fell to his knees, his arms arched upwards to the sky, his cry breaking from his throat in a wailing drone of sound.
Sull remained in his place, not wanting to gain closer to the howling leader, finding that the display was not only an embarrassment, but also against the whim of his own established disposition. To try and comfort Pal, would be going against his own set principles.
Instead it was Motak who went forward, nearing the crying leader of the city.
‘He died as he would wish!’ Gral stated as he stood over the cities leader.
Pal continued to sob, his hands gathered to his face, the wrecking motion of his body issuing with a stuttering exhibition which displayed his weakness.
‘Rise up Lord of Hatra!’ Motak said, anger beginning to thread his words ‘Rise up or by Hood you will be the next corpse to fall here today,’
Pal instantly dropped his hands, his grief suddenly forgotten as he stared up towards Motak. The menace which filled the Gral’s voice was of such a magnitude that it pieced through Pal’s grief stricken emotions.
Staring at Motak with mouth open, a wet trail of snot hanging from his nose, he hiccupped with the exertion which fleeted through him.
‘How dare you talk to our master like that!’ one of the lowly advisors had gathered close, and towards Motak he objected his cause.
Motak backhanded the youth, feeling the man’s nose crumble beneath the blow. The young advisor was swept from his feet, turning and falling to the ground. His small cry a thing full of fear and startled abruptness.
Motak turned back towards Pal as if the incident had never happened.
‘Rise up my Lord or you shall never regain the respect of your men. Already they have lost their General and Champion, must they lose their leader so quickly too?’
Pal Dor’lk shivered from his downed position, appearing as if to consider Motak’s words. Motak was beginning to wonder if he was going to be forced to draw his sword and end the wretched man’s life before the entire city, before Pal slowly attempted to draw himself upwards.
Motak reached forward and aided Pal up to his full height. Leaning close, Motak spoke, his voice a low measured tone so that only Pal could hear his words,
‘I apologise for my rough manners,’ he said ‘But the grief you shed for your former Champion must be a deed hidden from the populace. Show your strength in public, show no weakness otherwise you shall lose them all,’
Pal nodded in agreement, and rubbing at his face with a coiled span of cloth which hung from the folds of his arms, he cleared away the muck from his face.
Gaining his former composure, Pal stood alertly. His sight turned away from Fen’dhlea Ob’s body.
Realising that he was the only figure here to be largely unaffected by the Champion’s defeat, Motak decided to organise the coming events, knowing that to wait would only lead Sull back to his former state of arrogance and self fulfilling greed.
‘We head back to the city!’ he stated, nodding towards the yawning gates that awaited their joint presence.
‘What about the Malazan’s?’ another young advisor asked, fear suddenly gracing his features as he wondered if he had over stepped the mark.
‘They won and so we will fulfil the terms of engagement!’ Motak answered.
‘NO!’ Sull called out in alarm ‘They cheated!’
‘We must fulfil the agreement, to do otherwise would bring shame upon Hatra,’ Motak argued back.
‘My lord…!’ Sull turned his attention back to Pal ‘…they cheated. The man who fought was not of the garrison, he came by Warren,’
Pal’s features were of an off white, and he appeared ailing with the events which had just transpired. His voice, even though little more than a dry exhalation, was loud enough for all present to hear
‘I concur with Motak!’ he answered ‘We made a pact and so we shall uphold our part of the agreement,’
‘I will gather the food as promised and deliver it myself!’ Motak added, his face displaying to Sull that there was no further contesting of the ideal.
Sull buried his objections down, knowing that he was in a situation that was at this very moment beyond his control. So be it, he agreed to himself, let Motak take the food to the Malazan’s. It was not what was truly agreed upon, yet Sull realised that he could not allow those inside the fort to remain alive.
Especially if his fears were true of who their new Champion was, and from where he had come from.
Nodded his head in an act of subjugation, he promised that he would gain control of Hatra’s forces and make sure that their entire strength was thrown against the Malazan battlements.
Let them have the food, all the good it would do them once the siege was started and the onset of fighting began. The newcomer who had defeated Fen, would find himself cornered within the fort with the remainder of the garrison. Their joint fate sketched in the form of certain death. See how well he fights when more than twenty times their number come crashing in through the gates.
Sull allowed the small burning sensation that this image ignited in his soul to prosper, knowing that with Motak taking the food to the Malazan’s he would have time to convince Pal to avenge his former Champion.
Walking steadily back towards Hatra, Sull ignored the presence of Fen’s corpse, instead he focused his thoughts forward once more. Towards the eventual victory he would help lead against those who opposed not only himself, but also the magnificent will of his true one master.

[Riot]

Sheep stood passively, as quiet and immobile as the other soldiers who stood upon the battlement. The woops of joy which had surfaced with the death of the Hatra Champion seemed long ago, rather than the minutes that had truthfully passed. Instead, an uneasy silence was cloaked upon them all, as if they realised that the former Crimson Guard had won a victory for their benefit and that he was now returning back to their position.
The wonderment at his victory was still fresh, yet they were all consumed by the realisation that Riot was returning. The most dangerous figure that any of them had ever encountered was once more returning to their fold. And for most of them, they were unsure what to expect, and how to respond to the obvious intensity that Riot now displayed to them.
Sheep could easily digest this fact, as he remembered the events that had occurred in Evinor, witnessing that last time that Riot had unleashed his skill and ability. He had watched in this instance with the others as Riot had dispatched the opposing fighter, expecting Riot’s obvious skills to win through. But he was still as shocked as his surrounding colleagues as to how Riot had defeated the Hatra Champion.
Before, when Riot had killed the Claw master and his lowly cohorts in the centre of Evinor, Sheep had witnessed Riot during a time in his life in which he had been out of service, his abilities idle in their use, instead repressed by the measures of years in which his reclusive manner had been under used.
Now however, Riot was back to his former glory. His strength and speed toned towards the state in which Sheep could easily believe was his best whilst in the Crimson Guard.
The manner in which Riot had dodged aside the Hatra Champion’s blows before launching himself forward with delicate motion and controlled intent, was a sight which Sheep knew he would never forget. Riot had moved with a speed that was beyond anything that he had ever seen, and most likely he would never witness such speed again.
Riot was at the peak of his ability, and Sheep could guess that it was due to the new role that he had accepted. Renewed into a new association, Riot was again integrated into a regime for which he was more easily associated with. The acceptance of his task had reformulated his life, refreshing his aptitude and concentrating his extraordinary talent into a focal point which truly equalled the requirements of his prowess.
Under the command of Hood, Riot was able to display his talents and put them to use which would continue to serve not only his former master, that of Prince K’azz D’Avore, but also the plight of every other race under threat by the enemy for whom he had mentioned.
Crippled God?
Sheep shivered with the thought of such a creature that could cause a flood of poison to leak into every realm. The evidence shown by Hood to employ someone such as Riot only went further to demonstrate just how big a threat this new player was to the world at large. Sheep only hoped that Riot and his new employer were up to the task of defeating such a dangerous foe.
‘Are you alright?’ beside him, Prime spoke, her face expressing concern.
He offered a smile as he answered ‘Aye!’
‘Well that was a fine display!’ the comment came from Corporal Lore who stood with a wide grin plastered across his engraved features. He was the only one smiling, the other soldiers were all guarded with their faces; not sure exactly what emotion to be feeling.
Sergeant Legit glanced briefly at his Corporal, but ignored the older man’s smirk as he turned back to face the other soldiers.
‘Well best go down and greet them!’ he stated, making the first move towards the steps.
Sheep expected a flood to follow, but only Lore and Quiet made a move to follow the Sergeant. The remaining guards looked as if they were not only reluctant to move, but were afraid of approaching the steps which led down to the parade ground, as well as towards the Captain and to Riot.
‘Toil, Griffin, you two remain on guard. The rest of you get down to the parade ground!’ Prime addressed herself to two of the Privates, whilst the others she commanded with a voice full of true zeal. Ignoring the groans which rippled throughout the group, Prime followed after the others.
Sheep raised his eyebrows but quickly found himself trailing after his lover. Behind him, the remaining soldiers followed, setting a pace that was as slow as possible.
Sheep took the steps two at a time, finding that his stomach was once more buzzing. He could see the silhouette of Prime before him, her small frame taking the steps with delicate ease, and he quickly caught up once more with her.
Coming out from the overhang which covered the exit of the steps, they entered the parade ground. The sudden wealth of sunlight again striking them with its overzealous nature. Sheep squeezed his eyes until they were little more than slits. Ahead he could make out Legit, Lore and Quiet, all standing motionless before Candle and Riot.
Matching Prime step for step, they both made their way over to the small group.
Riot stood with casual regard, his stance indicating that even though he had just finished fighting, that he was more than just refreshed, he was largely unaffected by what he had just been involved within.
Even as the gathered to the group, increasing its small size before the main bulk of the regiment arrived, Sheep was unsurprised to find that they were silent in their gathering.
It was only as Prime and himself halted beside Corporal Lore did the silence break.
‘Sheep!’ Riot nodded in acknowledgment, a slight smile tilting at the corner of his mouth.
‘Riot!’ Sheep returned, his memory suddenly flashing back to the old days in which they use to be associated by the joint employee under Earn Paltroll.
‘Good fight!’ Lore grinned with an expression that was more than just appraisal, it was almost evil in its representation.
Riot shrugged the praise aside ‘He was fairly skilled!’ he admitted.
It was the Captain who scoffed, his tired looking face suddenly filled with amusement.
‘More than that!’ Candle offered ‘I would have had no chance against such a Champion!’
‘Its what I was trained for!’ Riot stated, as if to suggest that there was nothing else to it.
‘So what happens next?’ Sheep found himself asking, just as the first leading stragglers made their way into the parade ground from the stairwell of the battlements.
Candle shrugged as he replied ‘If they fulfil the contract of the duel, than we shall be leaving here soon,’
‘If they honour the deal!’ Riot stated.
‘Why wouldn’t they?’ the words were carried forth from Creases as he made his way over with the remaining guard.
‘Why should they uphold it?’ Riot asked before continuing ‘What do they gain, if they allow us to leave?’
‘Everything that they’ve ever dreamed of,’ Faith replied ‘Us Malazan’s out of their damn country!’
Riot nodded as if Faith’s response was a reasonable argument ‘Yes, in any other circumstance I would believe this. But there is more than just a rebellion under way here. There is a under current which stems from the Crippled God and from those who worship him. You have such an enemy in that city,’ with this Riot pointed in the general direction of Hatra ‘And he is the same person who encourage the duel in the first place. To trust to such a man’s word would be foolish,’
‘Then why did you fight?’ Molehill called aloud.
‘So to weaken this individual even further. To weaken his resolve and to force him to commit to his own demise!’ Riot answered.
‘So what happens now?’ Sheep found himself asking once more.
‘Now we wait!’ Riot admitted, looking towards Candle in the hope that he would support him.
Candle held Riot’s gaze, and from where he was standing, Sheep honestly believed that the Captain would refute Riot’s claims. Instead, Candle nodded; a sharp single act which everyone was witness to.
‘So we wait!’ Sheep muttered under his breath.
‘Yes,’ beside him only Prime had heard his soft words, and she grinned at him with tired resignation ‘We wait once again,’

[Riot]

Zetan was watching on as the last of the food stock was placed upon the back of the carriage, the braced wheels lurching somewhat at the levels of supplies that were baring down upon the carriages structure mounted.
He stood away from his commander, sensing that Motak wanted to be alone. Standing from his position at the main gates which led into Hatra, Zetan leant his weight against an upright plinth which was constructed from a gazebo. Here he watched as the last of the Hatra soldiers completed their task of preparing the carriage for the supplies that were to be taken to the Malazan’s.
Zetan was just as surprised as everyone else as to the Malazan’s victory in the duel, yet unlike the fearful locals, he hid his surprise beneath his usual craggy exterior; displaying nothing of his inner beliefs.
The locals persisted with their under whelming fears, believing that a great shed of hope had been lost with the downfall of their General and Champion. He, like the other Gral’s who rode under Motak’s command, were suddenly viewed with even further suspicion, more so because of their lack of empathy towards their newly required position of doubt.
Zetan snorted, before hawking a large glob of phlegm out away from his person. A young local guard happened to walk by at the exact same moment and the launched spittle only just fell short of his advancing progress. The guard stopped and gave Zetan such a angry glare, that Zetan smirked back with amusement.
His delight disappeared as the guard continued on with his march, instead an expression of overcast dejection replacing it. He hated the damn city, especially the manner in which the snobbish Hatra populace went about their business with the superiority complex that addressed them one and all.
They looked down upon Zetan and his fellow Gral with such stares of discontent, that Zetan all but seethed with their lofty stance of arrogance that they projected towards Zetan and his comrades.
The lose of their Champion was not only shocking, but Zetan was glad to find that it was also amusing. A fact which he guessed Motak shared with him.
It was probably for this reason why Motak was so willing to support the Malazan’s victory and offer himself as the prefect for the supplies that were to be handed to the Malazan’s.
Zetan also guessed that Motak was so willing as he doubted that Sull would uphold his bargain. Already the snivelling High Advisor was attempting to persuade Pal to commence an attack upon the Malazan garrison. The High Advisor would surely win through, once Pal’s initial weakness due to Fen’dhlea Ob’s sudden demise was pushed away from his present mind.
Once his will was won, Sull would undoubtedly release the entire horde upon the fort, hoping to destroy every last root of those who were imprisoned within.
Zetan understood Sull’s paranoid viewpoint not one bit, yet he could grasp the ideal that Sull wished to kill the Malazan’s to the last man. The idea of viewing the Malazan’s in this instance as not the overwhelming enemy was a weird stance to be taking, yet Zetan believed whole honestly in his commander, and so continued to follow whatever decision Motak decided to take.
Motak had in passing stated that fighting would soon commence, yet they the Gral would not involve themselves in the local judgement. Instead they would simply watch on, allowing Hatra to throw their own men against the walls which were so heavily constructed.
Zetan knew that the Malazan’s within would not be able to hold out, not even with the Champion that was now hidden within, the sheer number of soldiers that Hatra could throw against them was too overwhelming. No, the Malazan’s would fall, and Zetan could sense a sadness radiating from Motak when he had mentioned the fact.
This truth would have usually confused Zetan, but with the knowledge of having followed Motak for the past twenty years, he could easily gauge Motak’s associations. Motak was an honourable man, one of the reasons why Zetan followed him so, and it was with this positive that Zetan came to understand Motak’s viewpoint upon those trapped within the fort.
The Malazan’s that they had followed from Kot Ghul had shown abilities which had impressed Motak no ends. Especially when they had disappeared when Motak had believed he was right upon them. The skill displayed to not only avoid the Gral, but to disappear altogether was of such an impressive feat that Motak was guarded to the belief that for those soldiers to die under such restraints as the effects of starvation as well as the confines of imprisonment of a siege, was disrespectful to the skill that they had continuously displayed.
By leading the small party that was to fulfil the terms of the duel by handing over food, Motak was allowing himself the opportunity to come face to face with the Malazan’s and express the fact that he himself, and none of his men were to engage with the siege that would surely commence.
Zetan respected the Malazan’s also, yet he was ill at ease with the ideal of Motak going forth to offer them the supplies that they had so assuredly won. He was to join Motak, but as of yet, he had not told his commander, believing that Motak would attempt to turn his companionship aside.
Before him, Zetan watched as the leader of the Hatra soldiers went towards Motak and informed him that the carriage and supplies were ready. Motak nodded, yet his face displayed no emotion, instead a grave impression of reflection was bathed upon his hard features.
The Hatra soldier answered in turn with a wave towards the horses that were bound to the carriage, the rope hanging loose from their broad flanks as they awaited the influence of moving forward.
Motak needed no direction in the manner of what was to come, and so walked easily towards the twin horses which watched him with demure conscious. Knowing that this was the time arrived, and that if he didn’t move now than he would never be able to join his master, Zetan peeled himself away from his concealed point.
Zetan marched with a authority which was based wholly in the regards of arrogance, a display that was expected of a Gral. Angling his route so that he would meet with Motak before the Commader reached the head of the nearest horse, Zetan strode forward.
Motak glanced over at his advancing second, and instead of showing surprise or anger for Zetan’s appearance, he offered a worn smile, and nodded his head in approval.
‘Well!’ Zetan said as he completed his short trek, patting his right hand upon the flank of the nearest horse.
‘Well indeed!’ Motak returned, eyes narrowed as he attempted to hide away from the over powering sun.
‘Will we need these?’ Zetan indicated the curved sword that he wore at his waist, as well as nodding his head toward the weapon that Motak too wore.
‘No!’ Motak replied ‘But we wear them nevertheless,’
Zetan nodded. As it should be. A true Gral would never advanced into a enemies camp without a blade, even if the terms were for a momentary peace.
Motak went about the horses, making sure that the straps and restraints were not tied too tightly, knowing that the well being of the horses was of paramount regard. The horses were beasts but they were creatures of such majestic and beauty, that any Gral would rather be dead than see a horse of his honour being used whilst in offence.
Content that the mounts were of good health and well being, Motak nodded and indicated that it was time for them to move out.
‘The men are worried!’ Zetan stated, as he drew level to the head of the horse prepared on the right.
‘No need to be!’ Motak replied, positioning himself to the side of the left mounted horse.
Zetan shrugged ‘They have trouble believing in the Malazan honour,’
‘And what do you think?’ Motak asked of him.
Again Zetan shrugged, his lined features displaying little in the way of anything ‘I believe in your honour. That’s all that matters!’
‘Well, lets hope that your faith is well placed!’ Motak commented, before tugging briefly at the construct restraint that was lined about the mare’s face. With the small tug of influence, the mare and her fellow mate began their advanced forward. Both Motak and Zetan striding forward with purpose, eager to leave behind the city of Hatra and to enter the grounds of the local Malazan occupiers.
Behind them, the citizens of Hatra watched on with apprehension. An induced state which had been lost as of late, yet was once more beginning to breed willingly within their weak willed beings.

[Riot]

Sheep paced back and forth, his feet echoing throughout the mess hall. With this clatter of steps, so to followed his whispered voice, cursing low and constantly as he walked from one wall to the other.
‘Sit down Sheep!’ Faith shouted out towards him with evidential annoyance.
With the Sergeants raised voice, those who were littered within all stared up towards Sheep. Some like Molehill only raised his eyes briefly, as if the distraction was only a minor annoyance to his consumed game of cards. Others like Private Quiet stared openly with true purpose; her wide eyes following him as he made his way back and forth.
Ignoring them all, Sheep continued with his pacing.
‘Give it a rest!’ Faith again stated, but this time there was no power behind his words.
‘Shut up Faith!’ Spider warned, not bothering to raise herself from her seat; instead she barked at him as she was slumped in her seat.
Sheep continued to curse under his breath. His mind was consumed with the thought that Prime was at this very moment in the same room as Candle, Legit, Riot, and the representatives from Hatra. Surprisingly these men were Gral, the same men to have followed Legit and his fellow Kot Ghul colleagues.
Upon witnessing their approach, Candle had decided that the majority of the garrison would remain hidden from the Gral who led in the horses and the carriage worth of food. Instead, only the bare minimum would be granted to parley with these individuals. In that role, Prime was accounted for. And with this prominent thought to mind, Sheep was forced aside with his fellow soldiers; obligated to remain unaware of what was passing between the two parties.
He worried for Prime, believing that it should be Faith in Candle’s apartment rather than his lover. Faith was of a higher rank, but his lacklustre approach to leadership was the main reason why he was dissolved from the rules of engagement. Instead, Prime, a mere Corporal was placed in a room where anything could happen. Just about anything.
‘What do you think their discussing?’ Splinter asked. He sat opposite to Molehill, raised before his perched face was his collection of disjointed cards.
‘Don’t know!’ Molehill stated. His voice lost to what was being said. Instead his sole focus upon his cards.
‘Probably our immediate surrender!’ Creases admitted, whislt he strained his face looking at his mixed hand.
‘Don’t know!’ Molehill again stated with no enthusiasm.
‘The Sergeant won’t allow that!’ Corporal Lore answered. His own hand was facing flat down upon the table, his wide hand covering much of the designed that sketched the back of the cards.
‘Neither would Riot!’ Splinter added.
‘Don’t know!’ Molehill again.
‘Well, if not surrender, than what?’ Creases asked.
‘Probably threatening us all with immediate death,’ Lore supplied.
‘Than why bring us food?’ Creases asked.
‘Don’t know!’ Molehill supplied.
Lore reached forward and slapped out at Molehill’s head.
‘Ow! What was that for!’ Molehill asked startled.
‘For not knowing!’ Lore stated.
Sheep shook his head. He was trying not to listen to his fellow soldiers, but he found the strain too much to bare.
‘Hood to this!’ he muttered. Coming to a halt, he found himself standing a foot from the nearest wall.
Staring at the wall, almost entranced by the mortar that ringed the blocks that made up its structure, he came to a quick decision.
Taking a look about him, content that no one was really facing his way, he returned his sight back forward. Taking a long slow breath, he drew forth his warren as he sighed outwards.
D’riss was easily obtained, seeming to coax at him with easy regard. Grasping hold of its creation, he allowed it to draw about him. Feeling the slight tremors of a vibrating chill, he took a step forward and walked unrestrained into the wall.
The wall here was much like the battlements that he had experimented on before. Only this time, the wall was designed so that it passed from the mess hall and out into the long stretch of wall which encircled the parade ground. Following this path which encircled, and therefore guarded them all, he made his way towards the barracks that was settled on the other side of the fort.
He moved onwards with delicate pace, finding that to rush gave off too great a sensation of his flesh being ripped from him. The effect was not true of course, yet if he attempted to run, it felt as if the surrounding particles of wall were clawing at his flesh. Only by moving at a regular and even pace did the sensation become minimal in its effect.
Eventually he came to the adjoining wall which crept into the barracks. The walls here was of a slimmer design, and so he had to squeeze through sideways, finding that the restraint of D’riss was all to real in such a weird environment as this. Following one wall to another, he finally came to the area that he craved for.
He entered the wall which was perched into the south facing wall of Candle’s apartment, finding that it was slightly wider than the other walls in this part of the fort’s construction. Here he was able to stand uninhibited, and so it was here that he stood passively, staring into the room and towards the people that were gathered within.
Prime stood off to one side, her back resting against the furthest wall. In the centre of the room, dictating the pace of the meeting stood the main players; Candle, Riot and the two Gral. Legit sat off to the right of the main gathering, yet he sat forward so to hear the entirety of what was passing between them all.
Sheep too listened carefully, finding that their words easily reached him, yet they seemed to sound weird, distilled by the effects of D’riss and by the rock that surrounded him. Ignoring the illusion of streamed words, he listened.
‘The terms were for food only!’ The silver headed Gral spoke towards both Candle, and Riot. Beside him, the younger but more unruly Gral stood unmoving, his eyes passing back and forth from the elder towards the men standing opposite them both.
‘No!’ Candle shook his head, his temper building but his restraint holding down his anger from cascading fully from his voice ‘We were promised freedom!’
‘The High Advisor informed us of your demands for food rather than the agreement for liberation,’ The Gral continued to speak in the Malazan tongue, the hint of a accent fuelling the edging of his words.
‘Than he lied!’ Candle spat out, his eyes brimming with rage, whilst his hands were locked hard into fists.
‘Hood damn lying bastard!’ Legit muttered, before kicking out at a spare chair that happened to be seated before him.
Riot scoffed at Legit’s words ‘Not Hood,’ he stated aloud ‘Trust me, definitely not Hood!’
The Gral stared at Riot with eyes squeezed near shut, his confusion briefly apparent, but instead of speaking he allowed Riot’s comments to go unquestioned.
Sheep adjusted his poisiton, closing forward so that he was barely in the wall at all, his nose touching the void which existed outside of D’riss.
‘This High Advisor!’ Riot began, addressing the Gral ‘He is the power behind Hatra’s throne?’
The Gral continued to stare at Riot with an underlining hint of uncertainty, his face expression little in the way of association.
‘Yes!’ he finally answered.
‘Than he will not let this lie!’ Riot stated.
‘No!’
Candle shook his head in frustration, whilst Legit again kicked out at the same chair, this time sending it toppling over, the sudden sound bringing short the words which had been flowing quite evenly. Prime remained in the same position, yet Sheep could see that her eyes were darting back and forth; fully aware, yet her presence almost undetected.
‘Than you best expect for a siege, and soon!’ this time Riot spoke to Candle.
‘The High Advisor will be taking this opportunity to plead his case for taking this fort,’ the Gral commander informed them ‘He will continue to harass Pal Dor’lk until he relents. To save face he has no choice but to take this fort, and to crush all inside,’
‘Aye, crush us!’ Legit grunted.
‘And you?’ Riot asked of the Gral Commander.
‘This is not out fight!’ the silver headed man said ‘We will offer no assistance whatsoever,’
‘Than you distrust this High Advisor!’ Riot stated.
‘Yes!’ the Gral replied ’The man is a snake!’
‘A scarred one at that!’ Riot whispered, yet Sheep was able to hear his words even from the distance that separated them both.
‘If you have access to a warren I would suggest that you leave. There is nothing more here for you,’ the Gral recommended.
‘Warren?’ Riot asked.
‘Yes, the same means that you arrived. Sull stated that you arrived by warren,’
‘So he knows who I am?’ Riot asked.
The Gral nodded ‘Yes, a Claw!’
Riot made no reply, making no offer of rectifying the Gral’s unfortunate conclusion. Instead he simply stared, his face hinting towards nothingness.
‘We cannot leave!’ Candle explained.
‘Not via a warren. Especially through that warren!’ Legit added.
‘Than you shall all perish!’ the Gral concluded.
‘The only escape made open to us!’ Legit chuckled to himself.
The Gral Commander offered Legit a bemused glance, before turning back towards Candle and Riot.
‘I wish you all the best, especially towards your Sergeant who once led me a enjoyable chase,’ with this he returned his sight to Legit and offered a nod.
‘Prime!’ Candle called to the young Corporal ‘Would you lead our guests to the gates,’
Prime pealed herself away from the wall, moving towards the closed door and indicating that the two Gral were to follow her out.
Both Candle and Riot nodded as the Gral followed Prime out, the door closing behind them with a echoing finality. The three men remained silent for a few minutes before Legit interrupted the silence.
‘Damn but that Gral almost had me believing that he has a heart!’ he grunted, leaning back into the structure of his seat.
‘Well?’ Candle asked, moving so that he leant his weight upon the desk which lined the eastern wall.
‘Well what?’ Legit asked.
‘What do we do now?’ Candle enquired.
‘Why don’t we ask out guest?’ Riot answered.
‘What?’ Legit asked.
‘Sheep!’ Riot announced, turning so that he now stared directly towards the wall for which Sheep was situated.
‘Oh hood…!’ Sheep cursed, before opening the path of D’riss and stepping forward and out of the wall, and into Candle’s apartment.
‘Bastard!’ Legit was now standing, his hand reaching for a sword which was not stored at his waist. His fingers searching desperately for something that was just not there.
‘Now just calm down!’ Sheep attempted to explain, hands raised before him.
‘Bloody mages, can’t trust them for anything!’ Legit started to move forward, his entire carriage directed towards the point of causing harm to Sheep.
‘Sergeant!’ Candle commanded, causing Legit to reluctantly pause.
‘Sorry!’ Sheep shrugged, issuing the apology towards the Captain.
Candle shook his head, his frustration evident enough for them all to see.
‘Why were you listening in?’ he asked of his lowly colleague.
Sheep took an involuntary step backwards, his right foot striking the wall before his back followed in the motion. Looking back briefly, hardly believing that only moments ago he had been within the hard structure of the wall, he once more faced forward.
‘Well…’ he began, not knowing where to start but knowing that he had to at least make an attempt at his appearance, he answered ‘…I was looking for Prime!’
‘Bollocks!’ Legit spat out, his hard face displaying his anger and doubt.
Sheep felt his own anger building, a violent measure of tone which reverberated within him with as much sensation as when he had opened D’riss to its full blossoming. Directing this frustration and anger towards those who were before him, he answered back with as much passion as he could conjure.
‘Bollocks to you!’ he swore back at Legit, secretly delighted by Legit’s sudden decorating of surprise. Infused by this secret zeal, he allowed it to fuel himself further.
‘How dare you force Prime to take on such a responsibility when she is only a Corporal. Why isn’t Faith here? The last time I checked he was still a Sergeant!’ he breathed deeply, finding that his heart was beating with such vigour that his vision momentarily swarm with negligence.
It was Riot who answered, Riot who chuckled before he responded ‘Faith’s maybe a Sergeant, but he might as well be a youngling for all the good he does. You should know Sheep, you use to drink regularly with him in Tombs bar!’
‘Aye maybe, but it still doesn’t excuse the fact that Prime shouldn’t be forced to take on all these responsibilities,’ Sheep explained.
‘So you think her unable to fulfil such tasks?’ Riot asked.
‘No!’ Riot went on ‘But its harming her, she’s struggling under the burden of it all!’
‘Aren’t we all!’ Candle commented, his voice dry in its participation.
Riot took a step forward, and as a fledging beam of light strode in through the window and stuck his person, Sheep was reminded of the time when Riot had stood at the edge of the fissure, moments before he had jumped down to confront the creature which had been awoken by the munitions which had shattered the wards which had held it for so long. At that time, Sheep had feared for his own life, refusing to believe in the possibility of thinking of the safety of anyone else; so consumed had he been by his plight of fear.
Now, like that time which seemed so long ago in Evinor, Sheep found himself consumed by the same wrath of fear. This time however, his dread was linked to the women he loved, rather than for his own safety.
And so Riot stepped forward, bathed in a rich assortment of light, and like before he embraced the possibility of tragedy and plunged once more into a conflict which he was truly unaware of what possible threat stood hidden in the basking shadows.
‘Listen to me!’ Riot began, his features enlighten by the focal beam of illumination ‘Prime is not the only one out of her depth. Everyone here is just as scared and overwhelmed as she,’
‘Everyone except maybe you!’ Legit grinned.
‘Aye,’ Riot smirked, grinning back to Legit with a menacing expression ‘But I’ve lived through a siege before, and I have a better idea of what is to come!’
‘So what should we expect!’ Legit asked.
‘They will want to win the fort as quickly as possible. Especially this High Advisor Sull. The true focal point of this rebellion is at Raraku, and every moment he wastes here, the shorter the time he has of joining whatever his true masters had planned for this damn continent,’ Riot explained.
‘So we do what?’ Legit asked ‘Just wait here and let them come?’
‘Can’t Hood help us?’ Candle enquired ‘He won’t allow you to fall, surely?’
‘I am sent here to kill this Sull. Nothing more, nothing less. Hood doesn’t care for your well-being’s,’ Riot stated.
‘But you can’t kill Sull if your trapped here with us!’ Legit said.
‘That’s correct!’ Riot nodded. Here he turned his sight back towards Sheep ‘But with your help I can certainly make the attempt,’
Sheep stared back at Riot, wondering what was being addressed here. He certainly wasn’t prepared for any of this.
‘What me?’ he asked of Riot.
Riot answered with a smile. Sheep cringed in response, his stomach fluttering with the evil expression that seemed to arise upon Riot’s face.
‘Oh Hood!’ he murmered, voice almost lost.
‘Aye, blame that bastard if that makes you feel any better!’ Riot continued to grin with his menacing appearance.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Sheep conjured enough strength to ask the question which most terrorised him.
Instead of answering straight away, Riot allowed himself to turn and look from Legit, to Candle, and finally back to Sheep. When he did answer, again a slight smile was recognisable upon his lips,
‘We’re going to pay this Sull a visit!’ he explained.

[Riot]

Midday was fast approaching, the world shimmering under the relentless heat. Distilled by the everlasting blaze of warmth, Sull still felt a rush of chill flow through him as Motak and his second in command made their way into Pal’s consultation room.
The room was impressively decorated, wall hangings falling down so that they emblazed the room with spectacular embodiment, adding a richness and vigour which was lost by the now entering figures of the two Gral.
Shifting from upon his cushion, finding that the coiled pillow beneath him was disturbed by clotted lumps, Sull kept his face passive, giving off no enlightenment to what he was truly feeling.
Beside him, as richly coloured as the room itself, sat Pal Dor’lk, sitting with ankles drawn up beneath him, perched wonderfully upon his own array of cushions. Unlike Sull, Pal wore his emotions more easily. His darkened features arranged into that of a deep scowl, his mouth drawn into thin slits, edged by a down turned grimace.
Sull gave Hatra’s leader a brief look, before returning his sights forward to the two Gral who drew up before both himself and Pal.
The younger of the two Gral halted a yard before the white haired elder brought himself to a close. Standing with a straightness born of command, Motak offered Sull such an ugly expression that Sull had to contain himself from giggling. Instead, he focused his emotions into that of a light smile, finding further delight as Motak gave him a final glare before turning his sights to Pal.
‘The Malazan’s took the food in good stead?’ Pal asked.
‘Aye, but it was not what was promised to them!’ Motak angrily answered.
‘Yes, Sull has already explained to me the terms that he had offered, and the reasons behind such actions. I trust greatly in his judgement and again he has shown knowledge far beyond our own wealth!’ said Pal, nodding evenly towards where Sull sat silently.
‘Knowledge maybe, but certainly not honour!’ Motak returned.
‘Enough!’ Pal brought his fist down onto his knee, the grimace which had been settled upon his face now dissolved, instead replaced by that of irritation ‘Sull reacted to terms which were for the best of Hatra. To help aid our people, and to best defeat those enemies who sit so near to our gates,’
‘No doubt!’ Motak stated, his voice low in its statement.
‘The death of Fen’dhlea Ob only goes to support Sull’s good intent, as it shows us that the Malazan’s cannot be trusted!’ Pal went on.
Motak remained silent.
Pal continued ‘The appearance of a Claw shows to us all that these Malazan dogs are not of a honourable race. So why should we be honourable if they certainly cannot?’
‘Betrayal breeds betrayal!’ Motak glanced at Sull as he spoke.
Pal either missed Motak’s words, of he simply chose to ignore them, instead he went on ‘We cannot remain lodged here any longer! The whirlwind has awoken and it is our duty to join the army that now resides within Raraku!’
‘I fear that this uprising is born upon the whim of betrayal!’ Motak stated ‘First the betrayal of Aren, and the death of Coltraine. Now the betrayal of our own honour. What next for this uprising, betrayal to our own selves?’
Sull was impressed by how close the Gral truly was to the true intent of what was behind the intention of the uprising. The surface was easy for the masses to see; the rebellion an answer to the invaders who had conquer and ruled for the past few decades. Only beneath the surface, lingering with a presence that was of yet unaligned to any apparent purpose, was the hand of his master. A slight of hand which would sweep aside all those who were unaware even of his existence.
‘Enough!’ again Pal brought his fist down upon his knee, his face now turned ugly in its response to Motak’s damning assessment.
‘We shall lay siege to the Malazan fort. We shall crush and kill all those who oppose us. Only than shall we have what is due to us all!’ Pal responded, an edge to his voice which was usually not there.
‘Those without honour are due everything that they receive!’ Motak answered, neither backing down, nor showing any aggravation in his stance.
Pal ignored Motak as he continued ‘Tomorrow we sweep the Malazan’s from our lands. Tomorrow we shall lead ourselves to the freedom that we so richly deserve!’
‘Than you shall do so without he aid of my Gral!’ Motak stated, voice flat in its pitch.
‘No matter!’ Pal gestured offhand at Motak ‘We need not thirty men to help us, we have enough men to fulfil our plans!’
‘Enough men but not one to lead them!’ said Motak.
‘Fen may be dead…’ Pal began ‘…but a General acts only as an extension of will of a leader. Therefore, I shall command!’
‘I have no doubt that you will be victorious,’ Motak added ‘You have enough men to tackle ten times the Malazan’s number. I just hope that your victory will be worth the effort of killing starved soldiers!’
‘You seek to dishonour us?’ Pal angrily accused him.
‘No!’ Motak took a step forward, glad when Pal shirked back in fear. Here he spoke in a low measured tone, his eyes firmly locked upon Pal’s own ‘Your honour is already lost, all that remains is the **** stain that sits before me!’
With his words finished, Motak turned and departed through the door that he had only just recently entered. His second in command, the burly Zetan, offered Pal a wink, before quickly disappearing himself.
Sull remained silent, not even looking towards Pal, knowing that the cities leader would be grafter in shame. Instead he stared straight ahead, eyes lingering upon the open stance of the doors.
‘He will regret those words!’ Pal finally managed to say, words breaking free with a issued cough.
‘That he will!’ Sull answered, speaking for the first instance for some time.
‘How dare he!’ Pal went on, his anger resurfacing, attempting to push aside the shame that burned though him.
‘He is Gral!’ Sull explained ‘What more did you expect?’
‘Gratitude for what we are to do, at least!’ Pal answered ‘We are all affected by the Malazan strangle hold after all!’
‘Some of us more than others!’ Sull offered.
‘Yes, well, no more,’ replacing his anger, Pal was again allowing for confidence to reinstate itself ‘Tomorrow we shall write a new history for Hatra. Tomorrow we shall end the rule of the Malazan’s and shape our own destiny!’
‘To Raraku,’ said Sull.
‘To Raraku!’ Pal echoed in return.
Sull smiled. Things were falling into place nicely. The disturbance that the duel had brought was now past, instead the Malazan’s and the newcomer who was sheltered within would conclude their lives with the new day. The siege would be easily accomplished; of that he had no doubt.

[Riot]

Zetan almost had to skip so to catch up with Motak, finding that his Commander was heading directly towards the stables which marked the edge of the city. Finally reaching his master’s side, he still found that he had to keep his pace above the norm, so aggressively was Motak marching.
‘Nicely put across!’ Zetan spoke, his amusement apparent.
Ignoring Zetan’s remark, Motak instead grunted. When he did speak, it was as he approached the stables, the headed offering of light being blocked by the overhang which branched out from the stables structure.
‘Gather the men, and make ready for departure!’ he ordered, stopping at the stables entrance ‘Leave as soon as possible, and meet me south of here. At the basin,’
‘Where are you going?’ Zetan asked, concern fletched upon his grave features.
‘To make my final farewells!’ Motak stated ‘I’ve had enough of this damn rebellion, it stinks of corruption!’
With this he turned and entered the stables.
Zetan found himself alone, standing passively with anxiety bubbling within him. His Commander had made an order, but Zetan was unsure whether to obey it or not. He knew that they had to leave this city; Motak’s offence made towards Pal was obvious for that, but he was unsure of what Motak meant by making his farewells.
Sensing that he was needed at Motak’s side, he was finally swayed by the notion that he had never refused to obey his Commander’s orders, and so he turned and fled towards where the rest of the men were gathered. He offered one last look back before he sped off.


Motak ignored the stable boy who had been awoken from his place, instead striding over to his mare with eager acceleration. He shook his head only the once when the youth made as if to join him, expressing with his grim appearance that no help was needed in this task.
Motak had been brought up with horses, and the last thing he needed was some small young city boy making suggestions of how to make ready his horse. The idea only went further to anger him.
Reaching his mare’s side, he lightly ran a hand down the beasts flank, finding that the strength and firmness that rest beneath the beasts flesh was of bound potential. Just by touching the beats magnificence flank, he could feel as he anger began to subside. The worries which had been forced upon him seemed light in comparison to the simplistic need which the horse registered to his frustrated mind.
Only by unleashing the beast’s stored ability would he be able to remove all source of anger which still burrowed beneath the surface of his mind. To ride with a passion, to flee the corruption that was sought within the damn city. Only with this could he hope to free the restraint which had been placed upon him ever since the initial phase of this blasted rebellion. Sha’ik could go to Hood with intent to be his wife for all he cared.
But first he had other plans to fulfil, just as he had told Zetan. He had the obligation to say his farewells. To bid his depature and with the opportunity to pass on some information which may be useful to those who were sheltered within the fort.
‘Come now!’ he whispered softly. The mare responded and he led her out from her stall.
If Zetan was as quick as he expected him to be, than the rest of Motak’s men would soon be here, gathering their own horses so to make ready their own exodus. Content that he had everything to make ready his departure, he led the horse out of the stable and back out into the outside world.
As the light again struck him with its fierce embers of appraisal, he squinted and looked over to where a hub of activity was brewing. The cities garrison was a hub of motion, men moving and brisling with a purpose that could only be born from the news of what was to come with the morrow.
Motak stood watching them for a time, wondering what thoughts were running through the majority of the young soldiers who were milling about under the relentless orchestration of the commanding officers.
So Pal’s orders were being fulfilled, and the lives of these young men were to be thrown against the wall of the Malazan battlements. Motak had no doubt that their numbers would win through, but he wondered just how many men it would take, and how many casualties there would be at the end of the needless siege.
Seeing enough, he spat off to one side before mounting his horse in one fluid and much practised motion. Happy with his raised view, a stance that was far greater than that of his own height, he ushered his horse forward with a quick kick of his heels.
Bypassing a few of the guards who stood watching the gathering of the soldiers, he quickly and quietly left the city. Behind him, as the gates loomed to either side of him, he heard as a horn was sounded. The blast of noise signalling that the cities leader was to make an address that would confirm the rumours which had been swirling about the mess halls.
Motak was simply glad to find that he had made his departure before Pal had the opportunity to address his forces. To witness the cities leader speak about the need to cleanse the Malazan’s from their lands would be an occasion too great for his stomach to contain. Especially with the guarantee that the High Advisor who had orchestrated the entire proceedings would be standing in Pal’s shadows.
Gritting his teeth, he lowered himself in his saddle and whipped at the reins, signalling that his mare could open herself to her full capability. It was here, contained within this moment of holding tight and surrounded by the aggressive tendencies of the wind whipping past, that he felt more alive than any other time.
Already he could feel the weight of the world falling aside, the burden which came with the association of staying in a city was already being waylaid, and he allowed for a smile to ripen upon his worn lips.
He quickly approached the Malazan fort, the high walls seeming to jostle up from the land with an edge that was hostile in its appearance. The walls were a brash homage to Malazan efficiency, and he knew that if the fort had been fully manned, that the possibility of taking it would be beyond the reserves of Hatra’s soldiers. Unfortunately it was undermanned, well below the standard that was required for the inhabitants to hold off the force that would attempt to break through in the morning.
Tomorrow blood would be shed, from either side; a fact that was far from satisfactory, especially as he knew that those who deserved to lose their lives would be far from the action. Both Pal and the High Advisor would be well away from where the fighting would be taking place; instead sitting back from the aggression, watching on as lives were flung towards Hood’s realm.
The only one to be pleased with what was to come was that ascended bastard, waiting with greed as men from either side were cast towards his yawning gates. The gates of Hood widening to allow entrance for those unlucky enough to be situated within this land at this particular time of upheaval.
Shaking away his grim thoughts, he eased back upon his reins, forcing his speeding mare to decelerate, slowing so that he approached the last few yards at a steady trot. Halting, pausing so that he was twenty yards from base of the wall, he stared upwards, rising a hand so to block the assault of the sun.
High above, he could make out a few heads staring from above the raised battlements. Drawing in his breath, he was all prepared to call aloud and make a final request, when he was interrupted by the sound of the gates being opened.
Pausing in attempt, he was surprised to find as the gates were eased open, and from the basking shadows that lined the entranceway came the man who had fought in the duel.
Using just his knees, he adjusted the stance of his horse, allowing for him to be turned so that he now rested side on to the approaching newcomer.
‘Hail!’ he acknowledged.
‘Aye!’ Riot nodded, coming forward so that he finally halted just before Motak.
‘Tomorrow,’ Motak simply stated.
Riot nodded ‘Aye, I thought as much!’ he agreed.
‘You still have time to make your departure,’ Motak suggested ‘Enough time to open a path into the Imperial warren and lead out all of your men!’
A sad expression seemed to decorate Riot’s features, and Motak could sense from that look that there was nothing greater than to do such a thing.
‘Wish I could!’ Riot confirmed his thoughts ‘Unfortunately I don’t have access to that warren,’
‘But you’re a Claw, surely your Empress would not begrudge you from saving some soldiers?’ Motak asked in surprise.
‘You misheard,’ Riot stated ‘I never said that I was a Claw,’
Motak shook his head, wondering if he had heard correctly ‘What!?’
‘I’m not a Claw!’ Riot repeated ‘The Imperial warren is beyond by means,’
Motak continued to shake his head ‘Than who are you?’ he asked.
Riot shrugged, a slight smile touching his lips ‘Just someone passing through!’
‘Passing through?’ Motak uttered in further confusion.
‘Aye!’ Riot agreed ‘Once I’ve completed my task, my time here will be past,’
‘And you’re task?’
‘You’ve already met him. Are in fact leaving him behind you right now if my guess is correct,’ Riot explained.
‘Pal?’ Motak guessed, but shook his head even as he spoke ‘No. Sull, the High Advisor!’
Riot nodded with a slow gliding motion.
‘To kill him!’ Motak said, knowing already that was the only possibility.
‘Aye, the bastards time has come about and my employer wants his due,’ Riot admitted.
‘Nothing would make me happier!’ Motak replied, grinning as he did so.
‘Just about the consensus, from what I’ve gathered,’ Riot said.
‘But how?’ Motak asked ‘Tonight he will spend with Pal, and with him his full guard. Tomorrow they plan to attack, and unless your willing to go through the entire Hatra fighting force to get to him, than you better have other ideas,’
‘Not through them, no!’ Riot answered with low words. He grinned further and muttered something else, but the words were too low even for Motak to make out. Motak decided from pursuing, but he thought he made out a single word, something along the lines of ‘…feet…’ but he wasn’t sure by what he heard.
The sound of hooves striking the hard compact sand from behind him caused him to turn in his saddle. From the city came his guard, led by Zetan.
‘Quicker than I expected!’ he muttered to himself. Swinging back forward he offered Riot a Malazan salute.
‘Be whatever God you serve for, look over you!’ he recommended.
‘I hope not!’ Riot replied, again a smile touching his lips.
Motak shrugged aside Riot’s amusement, not understanding it and certainly not interested in learning. Just before he turned aside, and disappeared from Riot’s life forever, he offered one last peace of advice.
‘Sull, the High Advisor!’ he started.
‘Aye,’ Riot waited.
‘His apartments are located just east of the palace. The walls are painted a rich green. It is here where he hides when he wishes to not be disturbed. I would judge that if he is not with Pal tomorrow when the siege begins, that he will be hiding there. Consulting which ever God he has betrayed himself to,’ Motak suggested.
Riot nodded in acknowledge ‘Thank you!’
Motak locked his gaze with Riot for one last time.
‘Farewell Gral!’ Riot called aloud.
‘Farewell Malazan!’ Motak roared back, before issuing the reins and speeding off. A cloud of mottled dust rising as he led his way back towards his horsemen and finally away from Hatra and from the surrounding lands.
Riot watched as the Gral Commander and the horsemen disappeared from sight.
Before he turned, he spoke aloud ‘Malazan?’ he said before chuckling ‘God’s forbid, but I’m closer to these soldiers more than I am to my old calling,’
He continued to laugh quietly to himself as he made his way back into the fort. The gates closing behind him with a finality that was echoing in its demand.

[Riot]

The new day awoke with the tendril spirit of misconception, birthed by the appraisal of yet another beautiful, but stifling, exposed sky. Such days should be appreciated, rather than dreaded, yet the moral fibre of all those who were gathered was at a low, ebbing even further away as they awaited what was to come.
Spider stood silently, flanked either side by Molehill and by Quiet. Herded into ten rows, the entire garrison was gathered in the parade ground, standing anxiously as Captain Candle stood before them all.
As of yet, he had not addressed them. Instead he stood with Riot, their voices low so that nothing was carried to the ranks.
Spider shifted from one foot to another, wincing as she felt a trickle of sweat bead and draw down her back. Trying not to make a sound, she silently sighed, wishing that she could be anywhere except for this exposed area.
Taking the opportunity to look about her, she drifted her sight over her surrounding soldiers. The two Sergeants, Faith and Legit, stood off to the far right, positioned ahead of the main column but away from where Candle and Riot stood centre stage. Legit appeared as if he was carved from stone, his face hinting towards nothingness, his stance stolid.
If Legit was the perfect image of a career Sergeant, than Faith was the opposed representation, an icon of leadership lost due to his disheartened features and willingness to look about him with obvious fear.
Spider wanted to hate him for his apparent cowardliness, yet she was unable to. She was afraid that her own inner core was absorbed by the same infliction that so obviously consumed her Sergeant.
Shivering with the thought, she again moved her eyes about her.
In the front row, two ahead of her own position, Spider could see both Prime and Sheep. The two lovers, standing closely together, each bathing in the warmth of love that they shared amongst themselves. Jealous by the truth that these two had each other during the time of crisis, Spider again moved her sights on.
She found her eyes moving across the backs of those who stood before her. Drifting across the stances that each adopted, she tilted her head so that she gazed upon Molehill beside her.
Molehill’s face was a deep red, his cheeks bulging as he puffed out his breath, lips rasping as he followed up with an inhalation. Spider smiled at his expression, content that he was not aware of her studying him. Her smile turned to surprise, as she lowered her sight. Molehill was dressed in full Malazan dress, but for a few minor changes.
In the joins that marred Molehill’s armour, the young Private had pushed in a single card from his discoloured and distorted deck. The faded, and washed backings facing forward, exposed to the world. For each fault in his armour a card was located, held in by the pressure which existed from one edge of armour to another. Decorated such, his arms, legs and body was adorned by playing cards, and Spider was surprised that he appeared almost normal with their added gathering.
The sound of her stomach rumbling snared Molehill’s attention and he turned slightly, surprised to find Spider studying him.
Spider had the good grace to redden, even though she was probably a glowing crimson already, and she offered Molehill a grin in response.
Looking down at himself, Molehill than offered a shrug.
‘My lucky cards!’ he whispered, as if to explain that his disguise was responsible apparel. He lightly touched at his groin ‘The luckiest of all is hidden here!’ he remarked.
Spider shook her head, again facing forward. The fool was probably telling the truth. Hood, if he was mad enough to decorate himself in such a manner, than anything was possible with the crazy bastard.
Thinking of Hood, she allowed her sight to settle once more upon Riot. The former Crimson Guard was nodding at something that Candle said, hardly answering, simply nodding, and occasionally shaking his head. His face was stern, and he appeared to be looking down towards the ground as Candle spoke to him.
‘Hurry up!’ the words were low, and Spider was unsure who had spoken, yet she could relate to the person’s remark.
The waiting was getting to them all, and here, with the full weight of the sun blanching them, they were all gathered within the thrones of their own distorted thoughts.
Finally, Candle pealed himself away from Riot and took a step forward. With his sudden movement, the rows of soldiers all responded, each man and women suddenly standing that bit straighter as the Captain made ready to address them.
Spider drew in her breath, finding that her heart was beating that bit faster. A normal reaction, she was still afraid for what the Captain had to say. As silent as those who surrounded her, Spider listened.
‘We are to be attacked today!’ Candle called aloud, his voice circling about them all. Taking the opportunity during his pause to look down the lines at the faces that stared back at him, Candle than continued ‘Across the way, the Hatra leader is preparing his men, making them ready to storm this garrison. We either die here today, or we bloody their noses so badly that they decide that the worth of killing us is too much to pay.
‘This Hood damn rebellion has killed too many Malazan’s for my taste, and today we make sure that no one else falls to this damn uprising. Today, we make sure that they pay tenfold for what they have rewarded us,’
‘Aye!’ the voice came from somewhere to Spider’s right, but instead of turning to look, she simply nodded. Allowing her eyes to remain locked upon Candle.
‘None of us want to be here!’ Candle went on, his voice steel engraved with a cold thrust of strength, forged by his will and by the pitfalls which had persisted to encounter him since his rule in charge ‘None of us want to die, and we certainly don’t want to die in the name of the Empress; the damn bitch!
‘So instead, we fight for our own survivals, and we fight for those who have needlessly fallen,’ Candle stated, his eyes powerful in their regard, absorbing all those who watched him.
‘We will stand, we will repel anything that they throw at us, and we will damn well survive!’ Candle held his hands into fists, his face expressing the desire that was needed for them all.
As one, the entire garrison answered back in kind, roaring with assertion, beckoning with their grouped call that they were to survive and that those Hatra soldiers who were going to attack them, had better prepare themselves for the trip that they were to take to greet Hood.
Spider found her own voice calling aloud with her fellow soldiers, and at that moment she truly knew that what the Captain said was truth. They would survive, they would convey such damage to Hatra that they would never recover from the wound that they would deal out to them.
In doing so, the horrors which they had lived through would be vented out, the frustrations which had become second nature to them would thrust out in a form of vengeance that was not only their own.
They fought not only for their own survival, but also for the memories of those who had fallen to the vicious nature of this uprising. By repelling the Hatra forces, they would be the hand of retribution which was so assuredly needed so to cleanse the filth which had spawned within this ugly sub-continent.
Never had Spider felt so assured of her place in the world, and she suddenly realised that she was suddenly excited by the possibility of fighting.
The consensus was equally shared, as Spider could sense the same spark of life spilling out from her surrounding soldiers. She only had to look at the grin which was plastered upon Molehill’s face to know that this was truth.
‘Lore!’ Candle walked down the first row, heading towards the aging Corporal ‘How many munitions have you left?’
A sneaky grin, the grin of a sapper, awoke upon his lips, almost hidden by the growth of unwieldy hair which was created about his mouth.
‘Just seven cracker’s and a couple of cusser’s!’ Lore remarked, his eyes lighting up as he answered.
‘Where in Hood’s name have you been hiding them?’ Candle asked, before holding up a hand to halt Lore from replying ‘Never mind!
Walking further down the line, he closed before Splinter and Creases ‘You two,’ he pointed ‘Your to help aid Lore with the munitions. Do as he says and only what he says!’ he warned them both.
A look of horror fell upon most of the garrison, Creases included, yet Splinter’s face suddenly lit up with a goofy expression. Sheer delight, he leant forward and stared down the line to where Lore was standing.
‘Be a sapper you mean?’ he asked of the Captain, returning his eyes forward once more.
‘Yes!’ Candle replied ‘For a time,’
‘Oh Hood!’ Creases whispered, his face losing all colour.
‘Hood indeed!’ Riot remarked from where he stood. With his words, a soft undercurrent of amusement fell across the yard, each person giving off an indication of mirth. Short lived, but enough to help steady the nerves once more.
Candle made his way back over towards the centre of the parade ground. Here he again faced squarely at the ranks.
‘We all know what is needed to be done today. Trust in your abilities as well as the man or woman beside you. Stand fast and these seven city natives will once more bare witness to the military might of our training. Master Sergeant Braven Tooth didn’t grind you down and spit you back out just for you to die to some ill trained rebel!’ Candle explained.
Deciding that enough had been said, Candle glanced off towards Legit and nodded ‘Sergeant!’ he stated, before turning and joining Riot once more.
Legit opened his mouth and shouted out with his Sergeant tone of command. Spider all but ignored what he said, instead simply following the motions. Her attention was upon Candle and Riot, who were once more having words, discussing no doubt the siege that was soon to take place.
‘Move you bastards, or you have me to worry about rather than any damn local!’ Legit roared.
‘Oh calm down!’ Spider thought to herself, disengaging her wandering sight and quickly asserting to the formulated task that was required of her.

[Riot]

A nervous tide washed through the men, flowing with such intensity and vigour that Sull could taste its influence. Standing silently, hands crossed before him, he waited and watched as Pal moved anxiously, his stance never settled in one position.
The army of Hatra was converged before the gates, line after line of soldiers, all awaiting with nervous deliberation for the forth coming command that would result in their advance towards the Malazan fort.
As the head of the army, now that Fen’dhlea Ob was an occupant of Hood’s realm, Pal was the focal point of Hatra’s forces, and by his word, their entire force would be unleashed upon the opposing garrison. As of yet, Pal had yet to show any form of prowess in his standing, instead his nervy apparel only went further to alarm the droves of waiting and watching soldiers.
Aware that there was nothing he could do but wait, Sull silently willed for Pal to do something; anything.
Finally, perhaps too aware of his own failings, Pal nodded towards the new captains that he had appointed, expressing that the time had come.
The captains made their commands, and as the army slowly began to move, a release of tension was physically felt.
‘About time!’ Sull murmered lightly to himself. Shifting his feet so to release his own pent up frustration.
Pal halted in his own edgy motions, coming to a stationary point so to watch as the waves of men began to move forward. The clumsy appearance of mass men appearing as if to creep forward with slow consideration.
‘I have done the right thing, yes?’ Pal spoke, his eyes never leaving the moving men, yet his voice carrying easily to Sull.
‘The only choice left open to you!’ Sull admitted, moving closer towards Hatra’s leader.
‘The God’s won’t judge me harshly?’ Pal asked.
‘They will praise your name,’ Sull answered, thinking as he did that only one God would be happy with this development. Well, make that two if Hood was considered with the bloodshed that was about to commence.
Pal remained silent, again simply watching as the head of the forces gained closer to the Malazan fort.
Sull could see as the men at the front began to raise their ladders, the long prepared steps slowly beginning to lift as they gained ever nearer to the battlements.
‘Soon!’ Sull voiced, finding that he wished for this moment to happen. Initially, the only victory he wanted was for the command of leading Hatra’s soldiers to Raraku, and to the promise that awaited him there. Yet he now felt as if this moment, this splendid sideshow, was somehow almost as important as what was to come later. This bloodying of the troops would only go further to show his ability to his God. To express the aptitude that was of his own making.
Perhaps the original dream of being a part of the Crippled God’s new house, the house of Chain’s, wasn’t as far fetched as he had first thoughts. Perhaps, with this show of ability, he would convince his God of his prowess. Enough so to propel him further through the ranks.
The excitement coursed through his body, and he couldn’t help but shudder as he saw the battering ram being moved through the centre of the throng of soldiers, heading towards the gates.
‘They may be able to hold the walls…’ he stated ‘…but they will never hold once the gates come down!’
‘Yes!’ Pal agreed.
Ahead of them, playing out like a scene from some strange and distant stage play, the convoy of soldiers reached the base of the walls. Here the ladders were quickly raised and extended, landing against the walls with an audible approach of sound. The first soldiers began to make their advance up the parallel frames.
‘And so it begins!’ Pal commented.
‘And so it ends!’ Sull answered with delight shinning brilliantly with his eyes.
With the raising of the scaling ladders, and with the start of the siege, the extremity of the Malazan’s occupation of the fort was nearing its close. The beginning of the end was born, and with the approach of midday, the coming of the days finale would be secured with the blood of those within shed. The craving lust of Seven Cities, once more gaining its unrelenting thirst.

[Riot]

The sound which crept from beyond the wall was unnerving. Unsighted as it was, Sheep was consumed by the fear of not knowing what was truly happening. From his position, located at the south wall which ringed the parade ground, he was away from where the fighting was commencing. Or where it was about to commence.
Shivering, he tried to focus his thoughts else where, but the ability was beyond him. Alone, but for Riot who stood calmly beside him, Sheep’s thoughts were singularly upon Prime who was commanding a small segment of soldiers who were located at the western edge of the main battlement.
He should be up there, awaiting for the first head to appear above the parapet, ready to swing his sword against the unlucky individual. But no, Riot had other plans, and surprisingly the Captain had agreed with the former Crimson Guard. So here he stood, here he waited, his nerves blown to pieces.
‘I shouldn’t be here!’ he muttered to himself, shaking his head to express his self pity.
‘Aye, the same words that every soldier, in every part of the world has said just before fighting!’ Riot acknowledged.
‘Did you use to think like that?’ Sheep asked.
‘Still do!’ Riot grunted.
‘I mean, back when you was a Crimson Guard?’ Sheep prompted.
‘Back when I fought Malazan’s, you mean?’
Sheep gulped before answering ‘Aye, I suppose,’
Riot snorted ‘Show me a soldier who isn’t truly afraid and I’ll show you a liar,’
‘But what about Skinner, he’s suppose to be the one of the greatest swordsmen in the Guard!’ Sheep went on.
‘Skinner!’ Riot said the name with distaste ‘He’s one bastard who deserves to be afraid; afraid of what’s due to him,’
Sheep could sense the anger which resonated from Riot, and so decided to remain quiet, finding that he couldn’t look towards the former Crimson Guard.
Gathered in the reservoir of silence, trying once more not to think about what the other soldiers were witnessing, Sheep again broke the silence.
‘How are we to find this High Advisor anyway?’ he asked.
Riot appeared as if he wasn’t going to answer, and for a brief moment, Sheep wondered if he had heard him. He was just about to repeat himself when Riot answered.
‘Chaos!’ he replied ‘The taste of it will draw us,’
‘And what does Chaos taste like?’
‘Like filth. An offence to the warrens themselves!’ Riot retorted.
‘And this Crippled God is aligned to Chaos?’ Sheep enquired.
‘Aye, and he draws the lame and the broken to his cause. Do not be fooled by what happens here today,’ Riot explained, turning to Sheep so that the mage could see just how serious he was ‘This what we do, will not prevent a war. It only goes to weaken his place, to allow for those with greater powers to assault him on even ground,’
‘And who is to fight him?’ Sheep asked, wondering if he really wanted to know.
‘The Gods themselves, of course!’ Riot answered ‘Us mortals are here to die by their hand,’
‘And you fight for Hood?’
Riot grunted in amusement ‘No,’ he stated ‘I fight for myself, Hood just happens to be one of the more direct of Gods to be participating just now!’
‘And once you have finished here?’ Sheep started ‘What then. Do you leave us to our fate?’
Riot appeared as if he was uncertain how to answer, and he was saved from attempting, by the sound of shouts which echoed from the battlements.
Sheep’s attention swiftly turned towards the wall, and he made as if to move closer, before Riot stepped in front of him and blocked his way.
‘Its started!’ Riot stated. Behind him, the first cries swept through the air. Sounds of pain and anguish, screams of those who were dying.
‘Oh Burn!’ Sheep whispered, voice almost lost.
‘Come on!’ Riot gripped hold of Sheep’s shoulder and pulled him towards the centre of the parade ground.
‘We should help them!’ Sheep cried aloud, his face peering towards the battlement.
‘No time!’ Riot explained, halting only when they stood central of the yard.
‘But…’ Sheep attempted.
‘Listen to me…’ Riot snarled, pulling Sheep closer to him ‘…the only way we can help them is to kill the head of this army. To severe the bastard who has poisoned Hatra’s leadership. If we fight on those walls, we will eventually be killed,’
Sheep was so close to Riot that he could see the intent which was within the other man’s gaze. By looking into the grey orbs of Riot’s eyes, Sheep was suddenly confronted with the truth that here was a man who had not only fought for much of his extended life, but had fought with a passion that few men could equal.
Riot had once been a Crimson Guard, a notion that Sheep knew, but right at this moment, he realised that he didn’t truly understand what it meant. Here was a man who had once stood in row with others of his kind to repel the Malazan expansion. A man who had vowed to exist so to see his Prince once more gain his throne, a vow which continued to this day, even though he had been cast out from the family that he had once belonged to.
Exiled to this day, Sheep could see the fierce gaze which stared back at him, and he knew that what Riot said was true, and so he reluctantly nodded his head.
‘Open the warren Sheep!’ Riot ordered, his old influence gaining strength from within him.
‘Alright!’ Sheep nodded, finding that he felt exhausted by the guilt which plagued him.
Stepping back a yard so to give Sheep space, Riot watched and waited.
Sheep closed his eyes, trying to focus his will, throwing the entirety of his resolve into the capture of D’riss. Breathing out slowly, he could feel the first tremors of D’riss shaking upon his skin. Collection the effect, he imagined the warren opening, a tear which would be created before him.
‘That’s it!’ Riot exhaled.
Opening his eye, Sheep was glad to find that the entrance to his warren had appeared just as his minds eye had drawn it. The warren was gathered before him, opened so that it was gathered upon the ground, perched and created within the hard packed surface of the parade ground.
‘Ready?’ Riot asked, coming forward to stand beside him.
Sheep turned and looked towards the older man, sensing that there was an emotion of excitement caged within the former Crimson Guard.
Finding that he could only nod in agreement, he continued to stare down into the open wound.
‘Fine, than shall we?’ Riot stated.
Sheep opened his mouth so as if to object, but Riot never gave him the opportunity. Instead, Riot grasped hold of Sheep’s arm and leapt forward into the warren, dragging the astonished mage with him.
The portal closed behind them, the spillage of dust scattering with its closure.

[Riot]

Spider was gathered with Molehill, Quiet, and a few of the other soldiers, all under the leadership of Seargeant Legit. Positioned on the eastern range of the wall which faced outwards towards Hatra, she watched as the range of Hatra soldiers began their charge forward.
Mute in fear, she found that her sword in her hand felt slick in her grasp; almost as if she was sweating buckets of sweat.
‘Remember!’ Legit began, turning to look at them all with his eyes unrelenting in their regard ‘We hold them here and they will soon break off,’
‘Yes Sarge!’ Molehill answered.
The horde which charged towards their heightened positioned was scary in its perspective, and Spider was unsure if Legit was correct in his assumption.
Looking off to her right, she saw the other measure of soldiers gathered together under a single group leader.
In the centre, Captain Candle was located. Grouped about him was the largest contingence of forces, of these were Corporal Lore and his newly recruited sappers; Splinter and Creases. These three men were separate from Candles group by a few yards, giving them the necessary distance to work their charms with the munitions.
Further away, on the western edge of the wall was Prime, and she too was in charge of a small force. Down and below, in the area which was staged for combat practice, was gathered the reserves. This small assembly of soldiers was led by Sergeant Faith, and it was his responsibility to send forward men if any weaknesses developed in the line of defence.
‘Here they come!’ Molehill announced, as the first wave of Hatra soldiers rushed forward.
From this mass of men, the first ladders were raised, striking against the battlements with a collision of sound, reverberating through Spider and her fellow soldiers with the declaration of what was to come.
‘Wait for it!’ Legit commanded as Molehill made as if to wade forward.
Suddenly the air about them was stung by the appearance of arrows.
‘DOWN!’ Candle roared, and with his words everyone dropped down.
‘Bastards!’ Spider cursed, finding that it was the first word that she had spoken for some time.
‘So you are awake then!’ Legit commented, and Spider was more than shocked to find that the Sergeant was smiling.
‘Never going to survive this!’ a young Private whined, his head curled down into his arms.
Legit reached forward and cuffed the youth, gaining a look of searing anger as a response.
‘Not at me you fool!’ Legit stated ‘Be angry at them,’ he pointed towards the battlement, and to the enemy who were at that moment hidden from view.
‘They can’t continue with the arrows, can they?’ Molehill asked.
‘No, they’ll stop soon enough, and when it does, it means that their soldiers will be ready to storm us,’ Legit explained.
Spider stared upwards at the brimming sky. The skies were a radiating blue, broken only by the piecing image of arrows streaming through the air. Ducked down as she was, she was aware of the cramps beginning to brew within her neck. Knowing that she could live with it for the time being, she suddenly saw as the cluster of arrows which flew over her suddenly slackened, before disappearing entirely.
‘All up, and ready for it!’ Legit snarled as he himself launched himself upwards.
Finding her reactions following suit, Spider rose swiftly to her feet. Gaining her height, she found herself presented with a head climbing above the vertical stretch of the parapet.
‘Shit!’ she cursed before stabbing forward with her sword. The Hatra soldier saw the blow coming, and threw himself backwards, releasing his grip on the ladder. Realising his mistake at the last moment, he attempted to gain hold once more. His arms flailing, hands searching for the safety of the ladder, he was beyond his extended limit, and the nature of gravity took hold.
Spider was more than bemused to find that the soldier suddenly disappeared from view, taking down the next two climbing men with him.
‘Hah!’ she cried in surprise, ignoring the man’s screams as he plummeted.
More ladders began to slam against the outer brickwork, and the sight of heads again followed. With her fellow soldiers, Spider sought out exposed areas of flesh, fingers, and other such quarters which were easily targeted.
Thrusting her arm forward, she felt as the swords tip broke in through the next face that elevated before her. Pushing aside her revulsion at the way in which the man’s face suddenly caved in upon itself, she sought for the essence of her being, knowing that now was not the time to find her role as soldier beyond her means.
Pulling back, ignoring the gore which followed the blade, she sliced sideways in the same movement, catching a glancing blow off of a enemies helmet. The clang sent shockwaves through her arms, and she gritted her teeth, forcing aside the groan that wanted to gain volume from her parched throat.
Again pulling backwards, she found herself jostling against the Sergeant. Bouncing from his solid frame, Spider used the gained momentum to arch out with her sword, striking and slicing through a hand which was trying to gain purchase upon the battlement. Blood sparkled from the lost digits with relish, propelled through the air as the wounded man hoisted his maimed hand upwards.
Paying no attention to the blood which spouted and rain down upon her, Spider reacted with a grunt, thrusting forward once more and sending the offender downwards to his death.
‘Nice!’ Legit shouted, before he too launched himself forward, hacking down two men who were unlucky enough to hamper his direction.
Realising that her face was washed in blood, Spider wiped at her features with the back of her arm. Dislodging the worst of the blood which clung to her face.
Before her, another man appeared. This one was almost free of the ladder, his right foot already settled upon the fortification. Darting forward, Spider hacked at his approaching head, yet he managed to bring about his own blade, and repel her initial assault.
‘Bastard!’ Spider cried, before attacking once more. The man managed to repel twice more her assailment, yet he misjudged her next assault as he attempted to bring his entire body up to the battlement. Not allowing him the opportunity to join her on the level surface, Spider purposefully chopped at his sword, knocking it aside by only the slightest of margins, before seeking the exposed area that he left free.
The man toppled backwards, the wound created from his throat dribbling freely with blood.
Finding her lungs straining for air, Spider drew in great gasps of breath, finding that the edges of her perception was being to grey out.
The sword in her hand was beginning to feel too heavy in its baring, and her fingers were twitching with uneasy promise. Panicking, she struggled for breath, knowing that with each second in which she was bound within fatigue, the greater her chances were of becoming an easy target.
From the edge of her darkening sight, she happened to see as yet another adversary made their way up the ladder opposing her. Trying to lift her weapon, she found that her limp limbs were unable to fulfil the command.
Her breath now flecked by terror, she began to weaken even further. Before her, the Hatra soldier reached the battlement and climbed over. In his hand he held a curved blade, the edge clean from any blood.
Spider suddenly realised that her time had come, and with her last edge of strength attempted to raise her sword so to deflect the blow that the man opposing her was about to deliver. Her arm refused her will, and her weapon remained lowered.
The Hatra soldier wore a wide grin as he raised his sword, his amusement etched so vigorously within Spider’s eye.
The sword reached the zenith of its swing, moments before it would start its descent when motion from the right caught the attackers awareness. Molehill was fighting another opponent, unaware of who was behind him, and as he danced backwards to avoid his attackers strike, he impacted into Spider’s own deliverer of death.
Spider’s assailant was unprepared for Molehill’s sudden impact, and over extended as he was, he was pushed further from the centre of his balance. Feet catching beneath him, he tripped backwards. Hitting the battlement with his back, he lost his balance entirely and fell over the edge.
Molehill used the sudden impact behind him to drive himself forward, and he quickly managed to dispatch his opponent. Finding that he was left unopposed, Molehill turned and looked down to find Spider crouching down upon her knees.
Spider was still struggling for breath, yet the reason was now due to a boiling abundance of laughter which wanted to spring forth from her throat.
The fool had saved her, managing to kill the man who had been only seconds from killing herself. And yet, the lucky bastard was unaware of what he had done. Instead he had saved her by the sheer endeavour of his shared luck.
Finding her sight once more retuning to normal, she attempted to draw herself upwards. Still to hand she had her sword, and she use the slick surface of the grip to help aid her by pushing up from the levelled floor.
‘Get back and gather your strength!’ Legit commanded, nodding his head to indicate where she could find a moments peace.
Knowing that she had not enough strength to oppose his command, Spider simply wheeled herself away from the front line, drawing herself over to the opposing wall. Leaning against the solid structure, she watched as her fellow soldiers repelled the steady trickle of enemies who appeared above the ramparts.
Counting those who fought, she noticed that they had lost a couple of colleagues, a number which haunted her with its efficiency. Of her group, she could see that Legit, Molehill, and the eerily silent Quiet were fighting with a purpose that was steady in its effectiveness. These three were the focus of the eastern fighting, and were resisting the attackers with deliberate assurance.
Watching them, she realised that she could never hope to gain such ability in fighting. Even the fool Molehill was assaulting the enemy with majestic efficiency.
Taking this moment to steady herself, she looked further down the line, seeing that the same act that was occurring here was taking place along the entire battlement. Proud by what she saw, she also felt a deep ache hitting her chest. Here she was catching her breath whilst the rest of her fellow soldiers were defending with the utmost of their lives.
Finding that her shame was suddenly engulfed by pure white-hot anger, a raging heat which put the blazing sun to shame, Spider raged. Tightening her grip on the blood furbished sword, she trusted herself away from the wall upon which she rested, and threw herself onward once more into the grinding mix.
As she met her next adversary, her rage erupted in the potential of a roar of challenge.
Engaging once more, the fighting continued.

[Riot]

Prime thought briefly of Sheep, yet she quickly pushed his face away from her minds eye, too consumed was she by the sudden engagement which confronted her.
With her fellow soldiers, she allowed for a head to wander above the reserves of the wall before striking out. The act was an easy one, especially with the lack of skill for which the attackers were demonstrating.
So far, no one had yet to take any real injuries of note. Only the mere slash of a blade against an exposed limb, slicing the garment and breaking lightly through the flesh beneath, was the worst that any of her soldiers had taken.
Worst would come however, as the opposing army appeared as if they were willing to commit their entire forces forward. With time, the slight injuries would intensify, their own tiredness beginning to develop, threatening to hamper them with its induced menace.
With any luck they could continue in the same vein for sometime before any serious injury was cast upon them.
Returning backwards, feet retreating from the frontline, allowing herself the opportunity to gain her breath, she happened to catch movement from the corner of her eye.
‘DOWN!’ she warned, dropping as she said it.
Most of her small squad followed her alarm, throwing themselves down as the arrows once more began their ascension through the air.
Private Glare, the largest member of her squad, was pushing the nearest ladder sideways across the battlement, trying to topple it breadth, when her warning was projected. Turning his head in her direction, he remained standing.
The barb head of the arrow took him in the throat, managing to hit just below his chin. For a short moment he stood motionless, his eyes still locked upon Prime. Confusion seemed to dance across his eyes, bewilderment a honest expression which denoted his slack features.
Prime stared unwittingly upwards from her withdrawn position. She watched as Glare reached up to his throat, hands lightly running across the feathered end of the arrow which stood straight out from his oesophagus. Gurgling, with blood beginning to bubble from around the shaft, he continued to look dazed, eyes now wandering, beginning to look totally lost.
Halted into a paralysing fear, Prime could do nothing but watch.
Attempting to move, Glare managed to turn, before his feet tangled, and he fell to his knee’s. Now but a yard from Prime’s position, the Corporal could hear the wet murmur of inhalation for which Glare attempted to make. The sound was thick in its making; the harsh sound building steadily, becoming more forceful as he attempted to draw a breath.
Finally, with blood now boiling out from the corner of his lips, Glare took his last effort of breath before he toppled forward. Falling face first into the floor, the arrow was pushed further through with the impact; the blood-spattered head spearing out through the back of his neck. Rested in place, his life was the first to fall for the Malazan’s and Prime wept deeply within.
Knowing that his was the first of many, she glanced about her, seeing the same lost expressions floating across the faces which surrounded her. Forcing aside the anguish which craved to consume her, she instead buckled down to the realisation that she was in command of this section of wall. It was her duty to uphold the confidence of those who she led. It would do no good if she was lost to the cause, no good if she was expected to deliver them from this damn continent.
Overhead the arrows furbished the sky with deliberate hostility, flowing thickly in their hundreds.
Their presence was evidence enough that those below were allowing themselves the opportunity of a moments reprieve.
‘They must be hurting!’ she thought. Focusing on this thought, she grinned, showing to her fellow soldiers that even though one of them had fallen, that their resolve was yet to slacken. Instead, the injustice which had struck Glare with abrupt appearance would not go unanswered. The challenge would be retorted, and in doing so they would harm the Hatra military force, so much so that she silently promised to herself that they would never regain their strength, even if they did happen to take the fort.
Staring intently to the rivers of arrows which swept overhead, she waited patiently for the numbers to decrease. With their decline, the signal for the next push forward would be taken by the Seven cities bastards.
Gripping her sword with great purpose, she willed the bastards to appear, if only to hack and slash aside the frustration and anger which coursed through her.

[Riot]

‘That’s Glare dead!’ Splinter stated, his stance huddled down, face staring up along the wall so to see the first person to have fallen from their side.
‘Who?’ Creases asked, his voice breaking free from the folds of his arms which covered his head. Laying prone to the floor, he was attempting to hide entirely from sight.
‘Glare!’ Splinter announced ‘From Kot Ghul regiment,’
‘Oh!’ Creases answered, beginning to retract his arms, allowing himself the brief opportunity to see what had happened.
‘Arrow through the throat!’ Splinter commented.
‘Nasty,’ Creases replied.
‘Heard of worse!’ Corporal Lore stated from his position off to their left.
‘Worst then being dead?’ Creases asked.
‘Aye,’ Lore nodded ‘Worse places to be hit by an arrow, especially if you don’t die with it lodged in you…’
‘Enough!’ Candle was further down the line, his back hard up against the battlement, his head was turned in their direction and he didn’t appear best pleased.
Lore shrugged ‘Oh well!’
Creases stared hard and long at the old sapper, wondering why he appeared as if the death of one of his fellow soldiers didn’t seem to concern him.
‘Who’s the best thrower out of you two?’ Lore suddenly asked, as he reached off to his left and brought a dark stained pack closer to himself.
Creases looked off towards Splinter and found the daft sod staring right back him. Splinter’s eyes were big and wide, as stupid looking as an owl, and Creases damned him for his idiotic expression.
‘Don’t know!’ he answered, turning back to his Corporal ‘Why?’
Reaching into his pack, Lore seemed to rummage inside before bringing out what he sought for. To hand he brought forth a cracker, and with an evil smirk beginning to build upon his winkled lined features, he began to toss the cracker in his hand.
‘Time to find out I think!’ he grinned.
All eyes were upon the cracker which bounced within his hand, the small round munitions appearing as if the lightest of impacts would crack its clay casing.
‘Oh…’ Creases whimpered, before folding his hands and arms once more over his head.
Splinter watched as the cracker was tossed lightly upwards, his expression filled with awe, head bobbing in rhythm to the tossed object.
‘You’re a sapper at heart!’ Lore commented, laughing at the worshipping expression which was apparent upon Splinter’s face.
‘Don’t go wasting them!’ Candle’s voice eased over to their position.
Lore turned towards the Captain, as he answered ‘Don’t worry sir, I’ll hold out for one last one for us all, so I will!’
‘That’s a comfort!’ Candle remarked, and a few of his gathered soldiers laughed at the sarcasm which was bound within Candle’s words.
‘Good Captain that one,’ Lore observed, his voice low so that only Creases and Splinter would hear him.
Creases wanted nothing more than to huddle down for the foreseeable future, to hide away from the fighting and from the lunacy for which Lore wanted them to participate in.
‘Come here!’ Lore indicated by nodding with his head.
Splinter came forward with eager glee, head still low so to avoid the launched projectiles. Creases winced, but found that he crept unwillingly forward to the old bastard.
‘Now we’re going to use these here crackers when these damn arrows stop peppering the air,’ Lore explained, looking from Splinter to Creases. Going on he clarified what he wanted them to do ‘I’ll set the crackers by adding the right amount of acid to the seals. I will than pass them to you two. You than throw them as far into that crowd down below as possible, and if they start bringing forward a battering ram, than you make that your main target,’
Splinter nodded. Creases simply scowled.
‘Got it?’ Lore looked hard and long at Creases.
‘Aye!’ Creases grunted, wanted more than anything to have been assigned any other role than that of a aid to the mad sapper.
‘Good!’ Lore nodded ‘If we do this right, than we’re going to hurt them. Hurt them bad,’
Splinter continued to stare at the sapper with magical regard.
‘Have either of you two used munitions before?’ he asked of them.
Splinter shook his head.
‘No,’ Creases admitted.
‘Bloody amateurs!’ Lore rumbled ‘If only Ash could see me now!’ he whispered under his breath before adding ‘If the bastard wasn’t dead…’ he shook his head as if to clear his mind.
‘Get ready!’ Candle’s voice was cold as it called along the wall.
Lore looked briefly up towards the hail of arrows which was suddenly diminished in their collective flight.
‘Get yourselves ready!’ he ordered. In his hand he allowed the cracker to lay holstered within the grip of his fingers. In his other hand he now held a small bottle of acid, the vessel bloated with the pale fluid swishing within.
Overhead, the arrows once more disappeared from sight.
‘Rise!’ this again from Candle, and once more the defenders found their feet, ready to repel the coming assault.
‘That means you two as well!’ Lore kicked out at Creases as he rose.
Creases gave Lore a look of supreme displeasure, yet he followed orders.
‘Good boy!’ Lore grinned, knowing that to inflame the bastards weak willed state would only go to aid what was to come.
From below, the Hatra soldiers once more began to climb, and Lore could hear as the cries of pain rippled through the air. Ignoring the screams, he instead dribbled a small drop of acid onto the first clay casing.
The touch of acid touched the casing with hunger, already devouring the outer layer with accelerated purpose.
‘This ones all yours!’ he offered, handing the sizzling munitions to Creases.
‘Hood!’ Creases almost shirked back, nearly loosing his grip on the cracker. With comical reaction, he managed to juggle the ball in his hand, before gaining his courage and throwing the clay ball out and away from their position.
‘At least you threw it in the right direction!’ Lore commented. All three of them watched as the ball flew out from their gathered position, before suddenly dipping and falling towards the far right of the Hatra presence.
‘MUNITIONS!’ Lore roared, moments before the clay casing struck the surface of the sand packed ground.
CRUMP.
The explosion detonated as the inner core of the munitions was exposed to the air. Releasing its deadly potential, the explosion ripped through the Hatra ranks with devastating results. All those who were within a twenty yards radius were pulverised. There one moment, gone the next.
Through the air, tattered remnants of clothing, armour, and even chunks of flesh were cast high. A red pattern of gore rained down upon those soldiers who happened to be close enough so to avoid the blast, but were still close enough to so send them tumbling to the ground.
From their elevated position, they could all feel the tremors which rumbled through the ground.
Creases watched on with horror, his mind a thing made up of nothing. He could not believe what he had just witnessed. The sudden disappearance of a hundred men was of such disturbing viewing, that he was not lost to the fact that they had been decimated by his own hand.
All across the siege, men had come to a halt, looking towards the bloody sunder which had ripped across their current positions. Men on ladders stared back, paused as they were in mid flow from taking the next rung.
‘Quick, before they gather their wits!’ Lore punched Creases shoulder.
‘My turn next!’ Splinter pulled the muted Creases aside, and presented himself for the next round.
Repeating his act, Lore touched the tip of acid to the next cracker. Handing the burning munitions to Splinter, he pointed towards the left ‘Down there!’ he instructed.
Splinter wore a goofy grin, his eyes lit ablaze as he launched the next cracker.
‘MUNITIONS!’ Lore again shouted out.
With his words, the pause which had settled across the skirmishes was broken. Every Hatra soldier looked up in dismay, seeking for the ball of death which had just been thrown.
The ball spun as it flew, again landing within the midst of a large contingence of gathered Hatra soldiers.
CRUMP.
The explosion followed the first with abrupt acknowledgement. As before, it created bloody havoc, cart wheeling one unfortunate corpse through the air for a full thirty yards, crushing the poor soul who happened to be standing in its flung path.
From Splinter laughter poured forth with a frenzy. Creases stared at his friend with bemused understanding, seeing a side of his fellow Private that he had never seen before.
‘There!’ Lore pointed towards where the battering ram was being dragged and pushed forward by a small group of men. The entire Hatra army seemed to surge forward at a far greater pace; as if they all wanted to get forward as soon as possible before the death from above was once more cast their way.
Creases was shaking his head, trying to force aside the burning issue that was tearing at his soul. He couldn’t understand how humanity could come to such a thing, when men could do such terrible things to each other.
He was still shaking his head when Lore passed him the next munitions.
‘The battering ram!’ Lore was indicating the nearing ram with urgent pointing and frantic gesturing.
Creases thoughts of horror and the mistreatment that men could do to each other was quickly forgotten. Instead he drew back and threw the clay ball with insistent urgency.
‘MUNITIONS!’ Lore roared.

[Riot]

Sull was paused into interaction, his breath lost as he watched as the denotations erupted within the advancing soldiers. Beside him, Pal was being held up by two of his guards, his face broken by what was confronting him.
‘My God!’ Pal hoarsely managed, his eyes wide and beaming with tears.
Sull continued to watch in a daze. His eyes were drawn to the battering ram that was nearing the gates.
Beneath his breath he whispered a plea to his God, wishing, praying that the ram would reach the Malazan fort and delivery its weight to the gates. If it was destroyed, than there was very little hope to overthrow the Malazan barricaded position. Without siege towers, and with the few ladders that they had managed to construct through the night, there was little hope to throw enough men upon the walls. The resistance for which the Malazan’s were betraying was enough to demonstrate that if the gates remained, than the Hatra forces would fail in their attempt to overwhelm the Malazan presence.
Especially if they continued to uphold their defence with the terrible assault of the Monrath munitions and the resultant devastating that was brought forth from the sappers reserves.
The battering ram was gaining ever closer, and Sull was beginning to believe that it was going to make it. It was almost in the shadows that was projected from the wall itself.
He was grinding his teeth together as he watched, and he was ready to throw his hands up in exclamation, when the explosion took place.
The same sound as before followed.
CRUMP.
And blinking with the impact of noise, he had missed much of the damage that was created. In the instance in which he gained back his sight, he was aware of a red mist, marking the area for which the battering ram, and its pushers had occupied before the explosion had revealed itself to the world.
The wooden construct of the ram was gone, so to the surrounding figures who had happened to be in the local vicinity.
Either side of where the blast had gone off, the ranks of surviving soldiers were peeling away, moving sideways away from where the detonation had marked the land. As if to distance themselves from where the mighty explosion had ripped away the one hope that had led this army and its attempted siege.
‘So much lost!’ Pal whimpered, his lips blubbering, tears streaming unrestrained down his face.
Sull felt a tightening embrace seize about his heart, and with it came the realisation that all was lost.
The hope to gain revenge against the Malazan’s had fallen through. Instead of marking his rise with magnificent splendour within the ranks of the House of Chains, he had instead granted a blow against the stability of his own rise in power.
He could already feel as his God began to retract his influence. The wash of supremacy was draining away, and he heard, as if from a great distance, the hiss of frustration, granted his way from the annoyance of his God.
Mind reeling, stomach fluttering with angst forewarning, Sull knew that his beneficial obligations were no more. The will approved upon him from the Cripple God was no longer available; instead he had been cut clean from his association.
In a single moment, he went from being a worshipping wonder within the glint of his God’s eye, to next being the latest failure in a growing list of disappointment for his God’s frustrated will.
‘All is lost!’ he whispered.
With his words, he knew what to do. Instead of waiting, knowing that his life was now forfeit, he turned and fled, ignoring the whimpers which whined from Pal.
Pushing through the halted lines of guards that were crowded about them all, he managed to break through, running as best as he could towards his apartment.
He had very little time to collect his personal belongings. And as of yet he had no idea where he was to go. He would worry about that later. For now, he had to ready himself.
He had no doubt that he could easily escape form the city, steal a horse and ride his way out. He just had to make sure that Pal would not announce for his arrest in the mean time.
Sull grunted as he pushed through a group of women, ignoring their cries and insults that followed after him.
Perhaps he could go back to being a Priest, find some small cult to meld himself into. To distance himself and find a safe haven for which he could hide away from the rest of the world.
Pushing aside these thoughts for the moment, he instead concentrated on his flight forward. The Malazan’s and the Hatra soldiers could all go and join Hood, hand in hand for all he cared. All he wanted was to get away from this blasted land.
Through the doors of the building which led to his apartment he disappeared into, the sound of warfare continuing behind him.

[Riot]

Sheep came to a stop as the rumbles fed their way through them both. Above them, in the normal aspect of the world, the fighting was continuing, and introduced to this pursuit was now the devastating capability of munitions.
Ahead of him Riot also halted, looking backwards towards Sheep’s position.
‘Hurry up!’ he called.
Sheep stared ahead towards Riot. The former Crimson Guard was easily recognisable, yet the world which existed about him within the warren was oddly opposing in its nature.
They were both making their way through D’riss with ease, yet Sheep was still troubled by the nature of what was about him. They appeared to be running along a parallel surface, yet Sheep was all to aware of the chasm which existed beneath them both. The world yawned beneath them, and it was difficult for him to concentrate on the thought of running along a smooth surface, when it appeared as if there was nothing there at all.
Following a fault line which existed between the Malazan fort and Hatra itself, they found that the presence of what lay beneath them was a distraction not worth thinking about; or at least that was what Riot said about the matter, and Sheep was too afraid to disagree with him.
Raising a hand to acknowledge Riot’s call, Sheep wished again for the pursuit of nothingness, to bathe within the pleasant settings of an established peaceful surroundings.
Unfortunately the turmoil which rumbled through to their position from the world above was distracting him from such thoughts. Added to the apparent stress that was going on between the two opposing forces, was now the blasted and negative expanse of Monrath Munitions. Exploding with their sheer titanic potential of destruction, the munitions were a threat for which Sheep wished he could lock away from his aware mind.
Another tremor rocked through his static position, and he felt as if the entire world was reacting to the munitions threatening ways.
‘Come on!’ Riot again demanded. His stance was aggressive in its appearance and Sheep knew that he could not waste any more time.
Jogging towards the former Crimson Guard, Sheep whispered praise to the fact that the supplies given to them after the duel had gone some way to help aid his own equilibrium. Without the nourishment which he and the others had managed to devour the day and night before, there was very little chance of any of them having the strength to repel the siege, but also for himself to go on and attempt this pursuit with Riot.
Making his way to Riot’s side, he felt as if his lungs would explode, and he struggled for breath. Ignoring the fact that he was beneath the world, he drew in his breaths with eager ability.
‘We getting close,’ Riot stated, paying no heed to Sheep’s exhaustion.
‘Oh good!’ Sheep managed between breathes.
‘Can you sense him?’ Riot asked, his attention focused upwards.
Sheep drew himself up, looking towards where Riot was studying. Answering he said ‘All I can sense is the bloody munitions!’
‘Ignore that!’ Riot suggested ‘Can’t you feel the poison,’
Finally finding as the burning which had gripped his lungs was slacking, Sheep focused his will upwards. He almost flinched back by what he felt. As sure as Riot had said, there was a reek of chaos which seemed to originate from the world above them both.
Feeling nauseous by its pulsating effect, Sheep had to control his will from overthrowing the rational part of his mind. Every sense of his being was rejecting that which emanated from above; as if its simple creation was an affront to the makeup of his being. His control of D’riss was offended by its presence, yet he managed to hold firmly to its construction, and so continued to remain focused upon his and Riot’s own survival beneath the world.
‘The presence of the Crippled God!’ Riot simply stated.
‘And its that which has poisoned the warrens?’ Sheep asked.
‘Aye,’ Riot acknowledged, continuing to look upwards.
‘No wonder Burn sleeps!’ Sheep remarked.
‘Your right there,’ Riot nodded.
Sheep was so engrossed by the sensation of watching and feeling the sickness which radiated from above, that he did not flinch when the next explosion rang through their position.
‘That was a big one!’ Riot commented.
‘Aye!’ Sheep answered, yet he was only half listening to his comrade, instead he found that something was happening to the seeping illness which so affronted him and his own seized warren.
The flaying realisation of chaos was ebbing, he noticed. The concentration of its power weakening, diminishing and receding with quickening response.
‘Can you feel that?’ Sheep asked, as the last of the chaos suddenly disappeared.
Riot’s entire posture changed, and with it, Sheep could feel his own heart picking up in its pace.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
‘Gone,’ Riot answered ‘Its gone!’
Sheep didn’t know how to respond, and so he instead lunged out his senses, propelling his will across the gulf of D’riss so to gain a better impression of what was occurring.
The evil intent of what had existed barely moments ago was lost, instead a void seemed to exist in its place. He was ready to draw back his will, content that the evil snare of chaos had disappeared forever, when he suddenly sensed the smallest trails of lingering corruption.
Snagged by the track left by its flight, Sheep realised that it led back towards the centre of Hatra.
‘Disappeared through his warren!’ Riot cursed.
‘No!’ Sheep stated before continuing when Riot turned towards him.
‘He hasn’t fled from the city. Not yet anyway. He’s just lost his powers, probably stolen back from his God. There’s just the embers of his powers that remain,’ Sheep explained.
‘Where does it lead?’ Riot asked.
‘Into Hatra itself!’
Riot nodded, the return of his confidence back without a second thought ‘Then lets pursue him!’ he ordered.
‘Aye, why not!’ Sheep agreed, knowing full well that he was numb with fear, but realising that something as corruptive as the power that he had just felt, could not continue to exist within the same world as himself. The vast expanse of decay may have been lost, but there were remnants that remained, which if left to survive, could very well materialise further if the High Advisor was left to his own schemes and devices.
Joining Riot as he ran forward, Sheep could sense the ribbon of chaos which fled back into the city, yet he was still all too aware of the stretch of love which he had tied off too Prime back at the fort behind him.
Gritting his teeth, he continued on with Riot, all to aware that there was nothing he could do to help aid his lover.

[Riot]

Jehu the 13th was amidst the heaviest of crowded men, running forward whislt the screams and roars of conflict happened about him. With his free hand, he held tightly to his helm, holding the metal rim close to his head so to stop it from falling free. Too large for his head, the helm had been issued by the armoury within Hatra, and his echoes of complaint were dismissed as the next youngling was pushed forward.
Jostling against the nearest of men, he continued with the run of things, moving constantly forward whilst ruin was cast amongst them all.
The first explosion of munitions had sent a splinter of fear through his core, yet instead of turning and running, the range of men seemed to concentrate closer together, seizing forward in the hope of gaining closer to the Malazan fort.
Jehu was too consumed by fear to contemplate much on his emanate future, instead he was all too aware of the cries and grunts of his surrounding soldiers. The possibility of being within the next blaze of fire was a thought that he was too afraid to think of, and so he was swept forward in the pursuit of warring against the damn Malazan’s and their damn fighting ways.
Increasing the strength which he denoted to his helmet, planting its firm structure to his head, he could see just above the men before him the looming walls of the fort. Soon he and the following men would reach the nadir of those walls, ready to climb the ladders which leant so uninvitingly to their frightened senses.
Again trying not to think too much for what was to confront him, he, like he fellow soldiers, sent his cries of frustration towards other things. Unlike his colleagues, he however was shouting aloud his anger towards his father, and to the damn legacy that had been designated to him.
Jehu the 13th was not his real name, instead it was a shortened forename for the true expanse of his full name. His true full name was Jehu Epen Dana Johl Hutal Tanaka Geb Jhul Fhent Kall Lolka Abdul Menato, or simply Jehu the 13th as everyone else called him.
The legacy for which he cursed loudly for, was due to his father and his father’s before him. His father was Jehu the 12th, or as he addressed himself as Jehu Epen Dana Johl Hutal Tanaka Geb Jhul Fhent Kall Lolka Menato. With each eldest son born to the family, the father’s entire title was adopted, adding another name to the span so to separate and expand the long lasting legacy.
As the eldest, Jehu was granted the full title, with the name Abdul added to the list so to grant him his own guaranteed place in the families history. Therefore, he became Jehu the 13th, and if he had it his way, there would be no Jehu the 14th.
He hated his name, and he hated the manner in which his mother continued to grumble with the persistent tones of expanding the families namesake.
His wife was pregnant and already Jehu had pledged to shatter the cycle of passing on the same names. Making his wife vow that if a son was born, to not adopt the sonorous name to the youngest son. By his will, his son would have a normal name, unhindered by the inheritance which was a curse rather than a blessing.
So in his vein of frustration and anger he screamed aloud his fury to what was passed on to himself, defying the inheritance that had burdened him for so long.
It was with this roar erupting from his mouth, joining and binding with the other raging bellows of anger from his surrounding soldiers that they charged forward, the shadow cast from the intimidating wall sliding across them with purposeful exposure.
So engrossed by his cries was he engaged in, that he was unaware of the sudden pause that happened before him. Only when he ran into the man before him, halting his progress with abrupt standing, and as the man behind him clattered into himself, did he realise that the front lines of the ranks had reached the base of the wall.
Now paused into inactivity, Jehu looked upwards at the ladders which scaled the side of the battlements. Soon he would take his place following those who attempted to gain access to the wall, and if his luck followed the same route as those who had already challenged the enemy, than he would find his end coming sooner than he had ever expected.
Scanning about him, he saw the same expressions of grim hope, splashed vigorously upon the battered faces that were herded before the wall. As far back as he was, his time to climb the wall would take some time, probably never if the munitions were to once more continue in their abundance.
Stroking at his throat, feeling the dry pain which heaved through his oesophagus, he wondered if the delight of voicing his anger had been in vain. Not only was there no one to listen to what he had screamed, but his throat was stinging like a bastard.
Beside him, Jehu noticed a smaller man whispering his prays to his God, rapidly repeating the same monotonous tones of worship.
Jehu ignored the man, finding that the man’s words went further to dilute any form of hope that happened to remain.
Edging his sight upwards to the zenith of the wall, he could see as his fellow citizens made the attempt to batter aside the defending Malazan’s. Watching in horror, he saw as one man was swept from the top of the ladder, falling and arching through the air, flattening a few of his unlucky colleagues as he landed with a sicken thud.
‘The God’s are a amusing bunch, yes?’ the man before him, turned back and grinned like a loon, his blackened features seeming to imprint upon Jehu’s mind.
Jehu tried to shrink back from the madness that confronted him, but so pressed was he from behind, that all he did was to strike the back of his helm against that of the man behind him.
In that moment, Jehu wanted nothing more than to be free from the restraint of what surrounded him, to be away from the conflict that he happened to find himself within.
He was beginning to feel pressured by the entire situation, cramped by the dominance of the fighting, when the shout came from above.
‘MUNITIONS!’
Jehu did not understand Malazan, yet he knew that with each shout of the word, the world than seemed to explode about him.
About him, the same nervous energy seemed to intensify, mounting as everyone looked towards the skies for the horror that would signal the next act of devastation.
Jehu looked upwards with his fellow Hatra brothers, hoping that the projectile would not be seen overhead. It was as he was bobbing his head back and forward, eyes fearful in their regard, when he must have caught the smallest of motions from the corner of his perspective.
Without thinking, acting on instinct for which was usually not there, he found his hand reaching upwards, moving towards the motion. His hand opened, fingers craving outwards, and he snatched the object from the air.
The object in his hand was surprisingly heavy, and bringing his hand closer to his body, he suddenly found that the hampered settings of his surroundings had opened. Instead of being crammed in by the hostility of his fellow soldiers, he found that he was now very much alone. From all around him, soldiers had found their feet, rushing away so to leave him alone within the centre of nothingness.
In his hand, the object was sizzling, making the noise with reassuring consistency. Opening his fingers, he stared down at the Cusser to hand. Mind blank, thoughts lost to what he was looking at, he found that the rational part of his mind had shut down. Instead of focusing on the danger that was very much to hand, he was solely aware of what he was to do.
Without an expression on his face, he began to move forward.
He had so little time.
Raising his hands, holding the Cusser like some form of trophy, he began to increase in pace, finding that his path forward was opening before him as men began to throw themselves out of his way.
Running now, he made his way towards the fort’s main gates. The acid eating into the Cusser with rapid consumption, still held up above his head.
He ran with purpose. He ran with no thought to mind rather than the reassurance that he was to make the ultimate impression upon the war, the name of Jehu the 13th to be remembered with optimism.
Jehu Epen Dana Johl Hutal Tanaka Geb Jhul Fhent Kall Lolka Abdul Menato was five feet from the gates when the acid within the shell of the Cusser reached the innermost explosive core.
The calls of encouragement from the soldiers who watched from their relative places of safety was drowned out by the detonation which eradicated Jehu the 13th from the surface of the world.