‘I have failed, sir. Nor does it seem likely that I will have opportunity to renew my efforts in that direction.’
‘That is understandable, sir. I will convey to the Mortal Sword your words, if not your obvious relief.’
‘Thank you.’
The Destriant strode to look out upon the east killing field. ‘Gods below, do the Gidrath still hold the redoubt?’
‘Uncertain,’ Itkovian murmured as he joined the man. ‘At the very least, the bombardment has not ceased. There may be little but rubble there now – it’s too dark to make out, but I believe I heard a wall collapse half a bell ago.’
‘The legions are marshalling once more, Shield Anvil.’
‘I need more messengers, sir. My last troop—’
‘Aye, exhausted,’ Karnadas said. ‘I shall take my leave and do as you ask, sir.’
Itkovian listened to the man make his way down the ladder, but held his gaze on the enemy positions to the east and south. Hooded lanterns flashed here and there among what appeared to be troops arrayed in squares, the figures jostling and shifting behind wicker shields. Smaller companies of Scalandi skirmishers emerged, moving cautiously forward.
Bootsteps behind the Shield Anvil announced the arrival of the messengers. Without turning, Itkovian said, ‘Inform the captains of the archers and trebuchets that the Pannions are about to renew their assault. Soldiers to the walls and battlements. Gate companies assembled, full complement, including sappers.’
A score of fiery balls rose skyward from behind the massed ranks of the Pannions. The missiles arced, their sizzling roar audible as they passed high over Itkovian’s head. Explosions lit the city, shook the bronze-sheathed floorboards beneath his feet. The Shield Anvil faced his cadre of messengers. ‘Go.’
* * *
Karnadas rode his horse at a canter across Tura’l Concourse. The huge arch fifty paces to his left had just taken a hit on one corner of the pedestal, spraying broken masonry and burning pitch onto the cobbles and onto the rooftops of the scatter of tenements beside it. Flames billowed, and the Destriant saw figures pouring from the building. Somewhere to the north, at the very edge of the Temple District, another tenement block was engulfed in fire.
He reached the far side of the concourse, not slackening his mount’s pace as he rode up Shadows Street – the Temple of Shadow on his left, the Temple of the Queen of Dreams on his right – then angled his horse again to the left as they reached Daru Spear – the district’s main avenue. Ahead loomed the dark stones of the Thrall, the ancient keep towering over the lower structures of the Daru tenements.
Three squads of Gidrath commanded the gate, fully armoured and with weapons drawn. Recognizing the Destriant, they waved him through.
He dismounted in the courtyard, leaving his horse to a stabler, then made his way to the Great Hall, where he knew he would find Brukhalian.
As he strode down the main aisle towards the double doors he saw that another man was ahead. Robed, hooded, he was without the usual escort provided strangers to the Thrall, yet he approached the entrance with a graceful assurance. Karnadas wondered how he had managed to get past the Gidrath, then his eyes widened as the stranger gestured with one hand and the huge doors swung open before him.
Voices raised in argument drifted out from the Great Hall, quickly falling silent as the stranger entered.
Karnadas increased his pace, and arrived in time to catch the end of a Rath’ priest’s expostulation.
‘—this instant!’
The Destriant slipped through the entrance in the stranger’s wake. He saw the Mortal Sword standing near the centre millstone, now turned to regard the newcomer. The Barghast, Hetan and Cafal, were sitting on their rug a few paces to Brukhalian’s right. The priests and priestesses of the Mask Council were one and all leaning forward in their seats – their masks conveying caricatures of extreme displeasure – with the exception of Rath’Hood who was standing, the wooden skull visage of his mask arched with outrage.
The stranger, hands clasped within the folds of his dun-coloured robe’s sleeves, seemed unperturbed by the hostile welcome.
From where the Destriant stood, he could not see the man’s face, but he saw the hood shift as the stranger scanned the masked assembly.
‘Will you ignore my command?’ Rath’Hood asked, visibly bridling his tone. The priest glared about. ‘Where are our Gidrath? Why in the gods’ names haven’t they heard our summons?’
‘Alas,’ the stranger murmured in Daru, ‘they have for the moment heeded the call of their dreams. Thus, we avoid any unnecessary interruptions.’ The man turned to Brukhalian, allowing Karnadas – who now stood at the Mortal Sword’s side – to see his face for the first time. Round, strangely unlined, unmemorable barring the expression of calm equanimity. Ah, the merchant retrieved by Itkovian. His name … Keruli. The man’s pale eyes fixed on Brukhalian. ‘My apologies to the commander of the Grey Swords, but I fear I must make address to the Mask Council. If he would be so kind as to temporarily yield the floor?’
The Mortal Sword tilted his head. ‘By all means, sir.’
‘We do not agree to this!’ Rath’Shadowthrone hissed.
The stranger’s eyes hardened as he swung his attention on the priest. ‘You, unfortunately, have no choice. I look upon you all, and find the representation woefully inadequate.’
Karnadas choked back a laugh, and recovered in time to meet Brukhalian’s raised eyebrow with an expression of innocent enquiry.
‘By the Abyss,’ Rath’Burn said, ‘who are you to make such judgement?’
‘I need make no claim as to my true name, Priestess, only to the title I now demand.’
‘Title?’
‘Rath’K’rul. I have come to take my place among the Mask Council, and to tell you this: there is one among you who will betray us all.’
* * *
She sat on the flatboard bed, long hair in disarray, hanging down her face. Gruntle reached out and slowly combed the tresses back.
Stonny’s sigh was ragged. ‘This is stupid. Things happen. There’s no rules to battle. I was an idiot, trying to take on a Seerdomin with naught but a rapier – he’d batted it aside with a laugh.’ She looked up. ‘Don’t stay with me, Gruntle. I can see what’s there in your eyes. Go.’ She glanced around the room. ‘I just need to get … to get cleaned up. I don’t want you here, not outside the door, either. If you took that position, Gruntle, you’d never leave it. Go. You’re the best fighter I have ever seen. Kill some Pannions – Hood take me, kill them all.’
‘Are you sure—’
Her laugh was harsh. ‘Don’t even try.’
He grunted, began checking his armour’s straps and fittings. Adjusted the padding beneath. Dropped the visor on his helm. Loosened the heavy cutlasses in their scabbards.
Stonny watched him in silence.
Finally, he was ready. ‘All right. Take your time, lass. There’ll be plenty left whenever you’re done here.’
‘Aye, there will.’
Gruntle faced the door.
‘Do some damage.’
He nodded. ‘I will.’
* * *
The Beklites and Scalandi reached the east wall in their thousands. In the face of withering arrow fire, ladders were raised, figures swarmed upward, poured over the battlements. The East Gate was taken yet again, the enemy surging down the passageway to spill out onto the square of New East Market.
To the south, the city’s Main Gate fell to a concerted barrage of catapult fire. A legion of Betaklites swept into Jelarkan Concourse. A well-aimed ball of burning pitch struck the Capanthall West Barracks – the building rose in a conflagration that lit the entire city a lurid red.
Shock troops of Urdomen and Seerdomin breached North Gate and entered the nearest Daru streets after destroying Nildar Camp and slaying everyone within it. The enemy was within the city on every side.
The battle, Itkovian concluded, was not going well.
With each report
that a messenger delivered, the Shield Anvil issued commands in a soft, calm voice. ‘Fourth Wing to the Ninth Barricade, between East Inside and Ne’rok towers. Resupply the Capanthall in the two towers … Seventh Wing to West Inside tower and wall. I need a report on the status of Jehbar Tower. There were five hundred Capanthall in the West Barracks – likely they’ve been routed … Fifth and Third Manes into the streets around Tular Concourse to rally the Capanthall … First, Seventh and Sixth Manes doubletime to North Temple District – block and strike until North Gate is retaken … Fourth, Second and Eighth Manes to New East Market Once the East Gate is recovered, I want Wings One, Three and Five to sortie. Their rally point is the East Watch redoubt – I want the siege engines assailing it neutralized, then any Gidrath survivors retrieved. Have the Trimaster report to me…’
In between commands and the coming and going of messengers, Itkovian watched the engagement at New East Market – what he could see of it in the glare of fires through seething clouds of smoke. The Scalandi were pushing hard to break the barricades preventing them from reaching the prince’s palace. Boulders had been hammering the palace’s outer walls incessantly, all to no effect – the thin, glistening stone walls did not so much as tremble. Burning pitch roared itself to extinction yet achieved nothing more than black stains marring the unknown stone’s surface. The palace would have to be taken the hard way, step by step, every room, every level, and the Pannions were eager to begin the task.
The Grey Sword Trimaster commanding the First, Third and Fifth Wings arrived on the parapet. He was one of the Shield Anvil’s oldest officers, lean and tall, grey-bearded to hide countless scars. ‘My assignment has been conveyed to me, Shield Anvil.’
So why have I sent for you? I see the question in your eyes, sir. You do not require any stirring words to cleave you to what could be a suicidal mission. ‘It will be unexpected,’ Itkovian said.
The man’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded. ‘Aye, sir, it will. With all the breaches the enemy’s front lines have lost their cohesion. Chaos claims all, this night. We shall destroy the siege engines as ordered. We shall retrieve the survivors in the redoubt.’
Aye, old friend. I am the one who needs stirring words. ‘Keep your eyes open, sir. I would know the positioning of the Pannion forces to the rear. Specifically, the Tenescowri.’
‘Understood, sir.’
A messenger arrived, stumbling as he cleared the ladder. ‘Shield Anvil!’ she gasped.
‘Your report, sir,’ Itkovian said.
‘From the Trimaster of the First, Seventh and Sixth Manes, sir.’
North Gate. He looked to the north. Most of the Daru tenements there were burning. ‘Proceed.’
‘The Trimaster reports that he has encountered the shocktroops of Urdomen and Seerdomin. They’re all dead, sir.’
‘Dead?’
The young woman nodded, paused to wipe ash-smeared sweat from her brow. Her helm, Itkovian noted, was too large. ‘A citizen rallied the remnants of the Capanthall Guard, as well as other civilians and some caravan guards. Sir, they engaged the Urdomen and Seerdomin in a succession of street battles – and drove them back. The Trimaster now controls North Gate, to which his company of sappers are effecting repairs.’
‘And this impromptu militia and its commander?’
‘Only a few wounded were there to greet the Trimaster, sir. The, uh, militia has set off westward, in pursuit of an Urdomen company that sought to storm Lektar House.’
‘Messenger, send the First Wing to their aid. Upon delivering my command, take some rest, sir.’
‘Yes, Shield Anvil.’
‘That is not the helmet you were issued with, is it, sir?’
Abashed, she shook her head. ‘I, uh, lost it, Shield Anvil.’
‘Have the quartermaster find you one that fits.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Go.’
The two veterans watched the young woman depart.
‘Careless,’ the Trimaster murmured, ‘losing her helm.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Clever, finding another one.’
The Shield Anvil smiled.
‘I shall take my leave now, sir.’
‘Fener go with you, Trimaster.’
* * *
Karnadas drew a long, quiet breath, the hairs of his neck rising at the sudden, heavy silence in the Great Hall. Betrayal? His eyes were drawn to one priest in particular. Rath’K’rul’s words were fuel to suspicions the Destriant already held, and the bias led him to mistrust his own conclusions. He held his tongue, but his gaze remained fixed on Rath’Fener.
The boar mask was without expression, yet the man stood as if he had just taken a blow.
‘The age of K’rul,’ Rath’Shadowthrone hissed, ‘is long past.’
‘He has returned,’ the robed man replied. ‘A fact that should give every one of you a certain measure of relief. It is K’rul’s blood, after all, that has been poisoned. The battle now begun shall spare no-one, including the gods whom you serve. If you doubt my words, take your inner journeys – hear the truth from your gods. Aye, the words might well be reluctant, indeed, resentful. But they will be spoken none the less.’
‘Your suggestion,’ Rath’Queen of Dreams said, ‘cannot be achieved in haste.’
‘I am amenable to reconvening,’ Rath’K’rul said with a slight bow. ‘Be warned, however, we’ve little time.’
‘You spoke of betrayal—’
‘Aye, Rath’Queen of Dreams, I did.’
‘You wound us with divisiveness.’
The robed man cocked his head. ‘Those who know your own conscience to be clear, brothers and sisters, will thereby be united. The one who cannot make that claim, will likely be dealt with by his god.’
‘His?’
Rath’K’rul shrugged.
Brukhalian cleared his throat in the subsequent silence. ‘With the leave of the Mask Council, I shall now depart. My Shield Anvil has need of me.’
‘Of course,’ Rath’Hood said. ‘Indeed, from the sounds beyond the Thrall, it would appear that the walls are breached and the enemy is within.’
And Hood stalks Capustan’s streets. Ambivalence, sufficient to cool your tone.
The Mortal Sword smiled. ‘It was our expectation from the very beginning, Rath’Hood, that the walls and gates would be taken. Periodically.’ He swung to Karnadas. ‘Join me, please. I require the latest information.’
The Destriant nodded.
Hetan suddenly rose, eyes flashing as she glared at Rath’K’rul. ‘Sleeping Man, is your god’s offer true? Will he in truth aid us?’
‘He will. Which of you volunteers?’
The Barghast woman, eyes wide, jerked her head towards her brother.
The robed man smiled.
Rath’Shadowthrone seemed to spit out his words, ‘What now? What now? What now?’
Karnadas turned to study Cafal, was shocked to see the man still seated cross-legged, with his head bowed in slumber.
‘To all here,’ Rath’K’rul said in a low voice, ‘awaken him not, if you value your lives.’
* * *
An even dozen Capanthall remained of the sixty-odd followers Gruntle had led westward from North Gate, and only one Lestari guardsman, a short-legged, long-armed sergeant who had stepped into the role of second-in-command without a word.
Lestari House was one of the few well-fortified private residences in Capustan, the home of Kalan D’Arle, a merchant family with links to the Council in Darujhistan as well as the now fallen noble house of the same name in Lestari itself. The solid stone structure abutted the north wall and its flat roof had become a strongpoint and rallying position for the wall’s defenders.
At street level, the grand entrance consisted of a thick bronze door set in a stone frame, the hinges recessed. A broad pediment overhung the entrance, held up by twin marble columns, its ceiling crowded with the carved heads of demons, their mouths open and now dripping with the last of the boiling water that
had gushed down on the screaming Scalandi who had been hammering on the door.
Gruntle and his troop, still reeling from a savage clash with fifteen Urdomen that had seen most of the militia chopped to pieces – before Gruntle had personally cut down the last two Pannions – had come upon the Scalandi mob from behind.
The engagement was swift and brutal. Only the Lestari sergeant revealed any mercy when he slit the throats of those Scalandi who had been badly scalded by the boiling water. The cessation of their shrieks brought sudden silence to the scene.
Gruntle crouched beside a body and used its tunic to clean the blades of his cutlasses. The muscles of his arms and shoulders were leaden, trembling.
The night’s breeze had strengthened, smelling of salt, sweeping the smoke inland. Enough fires still raged on all sides to drive back the darkness.
‘Look at that, will you?’
The caravan captain glanced over at the Lestari sergeant, then followed the man’s gaze.
The Thrall loomed to the southeast, only a few streets away. The entire keep was faintly glowing.
‘What do you figure?’ the grizzled soldier muttered.
Sorcery of some kind.
‘I’d guess that’s ritual magic,’ the sergeant went on. ‘Probably protective. Hood knows, we could do with some of that ourselves. We’re cut to pieces, sir – I ain’t got much left and as for the rest…’ Eyeing the dozen battered, bleeding Capanthall crouched or kneeling, or leaning against the house’s walls, he shook his head. ‘They’re done for.’
Sounds of fighting neared from the southwest.
The scraping of armour from the roof of Lestari House drew Gruntle’s attention. A half-dozen Capanthall regulars were looking down on them. ‘Nicely done, whoever you all are!’ one shouted.
‘What can you see up there?’ the sergeant called up.
‘We’ve retaken the North Gate! Grey Swords, damn near a thousand of them. The Pannions are reeling!’
‘Grey Swords,’ the Lestari muttered under his breath. He glared across at Gruntle. ‘We was the ones who retook that gate—’
‘But we’re not holding it, are we?’ Gruntle growled, straightening. He faced his meagre troop. ‘Look alive, you spineless Capans. We ain’t finished.’
The Malazan Empire Page 209