This was what the Awl warriors had been waiting to hear. Their loyalty was not in question, not since Bast Fulmar, yet they were young and they had tasted blood. They wanted to taste it again. The elaborate hare-dance in which they had led the Letherii had gone on too long. Even the clever ambushes sprung on the enemy outriders and scouts had not been enough. The wending, chaotic march had seemed too much like flight.
The warriors were assembled north of the encampment with dawn still fresh in the air, the dog-masters and their helpers leashing the snapping, restless beasts and positioning their charges slightly to the east. Horses stamped on the dew-smeared ground, clan pennons wavering like tall reeds. Scouts were sent off with horse-archers to make contact with the Letherii outriders and drive them back to their nest. This would ensure that the specific presentation of Redmask’s forces would remain unknown for as long as possible.
Moments before the army set out, Torrent arrived to position himself at Toc’s side. The warrior was scowling, as he did most mornings-and afternoons and evenings-when he had forgotten to don his mask of paint. Since it had begun to give him a blotchy rash on cheeks, chin and forehead, he ‘forgot’ more often these days-and Toc answered that belligerent expression with a bright smile.
‘Swords unsheathed this day, Torrent.’
‘Has Redmask given you leave to ride to battle?’
Toc shrugged. ‘He’s said nothing either way, which I suppose is leave enough.’
‘It is not.’ Torrent backed his horse away, then swung it round to ride to where Redmask sat astride his Letherii mount beyond the rough line of readied riders.
Settling back in the strange boxy Awl saddle, Toc examined once again his bow, then the arrows in the quiver strapped to his right thigh. He wasn’t much interested in actually fighting, but at the very least he would be ready to defend himself if necessary. Ill omens. Clearly Redmask was indifferent to such notions. Toc scratched at the lurid tissue surrounding his eyeless socket. I miss that eye, gift of High Derail in what seems ages past. Gods knew, made me a real archer again-these days I’m damned near useless. Fast and inaccurate, that’s Toc the Unlucky.
Would Redmask forbid him his ride this day? Toc did not think so. He could see Torrent exchanging words with the war leader, the unmasked warrior’s horse sidestepping and tossing its head. True enough, how the beast comes to resemble its master. Imagine all the one’eyed dogs I might have owned. Torrent then wheeled his mount and made his way back towards Toc at a quick canter.
The scowl had darkened. Toc smiled once more. ‘Swords unsheathed this day, Torrent.’
‘You’ve said that before.’
‘I thought we might start over.’
‘He wants you out of danger.’
‘But I can still ride with the army.’
‘I do not trust you, so do not think that anything you do will not be unwitnessed.’
‘Too many nots there, I think, Torrent. But I’m feeling generous this morning so I’ll leave the reins loose.’
‘One must never knot his reins,’ Torrent said. ‘Any fool knows that.’
‘As you say.’
The army set out, all mounted for the moment-including the dog-masters-but’ that would not last. Nor, Toc suspected, would the force remain united. Redmask saw no battle as a singular event. Rather, he saw a collection of clashes, an engagement of wills; where one was blunted he would shift his attention to resume the sparring elsewhere, and it was in the orchestration of these numerous meetings that a battle was won or lost. Flanking elements would spin off from the main column. More than one attack, more than one objective.
Toc understood this well enough. It was, he suspected, the essence of tactics among successful commanders the world over. Certainly the Malazans had fought that way, with great success. Eschewing the notion of feints, every engagement was deliberate and deliberately intended to lock an enemy down, into fierce, desperate combat.
‘Leave feints to the nobility,’ Kellanved had once said. ‘And they can take their clever elegance to the barrow.’ That had been while he and Dassem Ultor had observed the Untan knights on the field of battle east of Jurda. Riding back and forth, back and forth. Tiring their burdened warhorses, sowing confusion in the dust-clouds engulfing their own ranks. Feint and blind. Dassem had ignored the pureblood fools, and before the day’s battle was done he had shattered the entire Untan army, including those vaunted, once-feared knights.
The Letherii did not possess heavy cavalry. But if they did, Toc believed, they would play feint and blind all day long.
Or perhaps not. Their sorcery in battle was neither subtle nor elegant. Ugly as a Fenn’s fist, in fact. This suggested a certain pragmatism, an interest in efficiency over pomp, and, indeed, a kind of impatience regarding the mannerisms of war.
Sorcery. Had Redmask forgotten the Letherii mages?
