Dull, disbelieving eyes fixed on him.
‘Sounds like the West Gate’s down. Sounds like our defenders are back-pedalling. Meaning they’ve lost their officers, or their officers ain’t worth shit. Sergeant, you’re now a lieutenant. The rest of you, you’re sergeants. We’ve got some scared soldiers to rally. Let’s move, doubletime – don’t want you all stiffening up.’ Glaring at them, Gruntle rolled his shoulders, clashed his cutlasses. ‘Follow me.’
He jogged down the street, towards West Gate. After a moment, the others fell in step.
* * *
Two bells before dawn. To the north and to the west, the roar of battle was diminishing. Itkovian’s counterattacks had reclaimed the gates and walls there; the fight was out of the attackers on those sides, for the rest of this night at least.
Brukhalian had returned from the Thrall, Karnadas in tow, a bell earlier. The Mortal Sword had assembled the six hundred recruits the Shield Anvil had been holding in reserve, along with two Manes and two Wings, and set off towards the Jelarkan Concourse, where it was rumoured over a thousand Beklites had pushed their way in, threatening to overwhelm the inner defences.
The situation around the West Gate was even more dire. Three of Itkovian’s messengers had not returned after being sent that way. The West Barracks was a massive fist of raging fire, revealing in lurid flashes the rubble that was the West Gate itself. This breach, should it prove able to reach through to the west side of Jelarkan Concourse, could see the fall of half the city.
The Shield Anvil paced with frustration. He was out of reserve forces. For a while there, it looked as if the Capanthall and Grey Sword detachments assigned to the West Gate had simply ceased to exist, the wound gushing into a flood. Then, inexplicably, resolve had stiffened. The flood had encountered a human wall, and though it rose, it had yet to pour over.
The fate of Capustan lay with those defenders, now. And Itkovian could only watch, as all hung in the balance.
Karnadas was below, in the barracks compound. Exhausting his Denul warren, struggling against whatever sorcerous infection plagued it, yet still managing to effect healing of wounded Grey Swords. Something had happened in the Thrall, was happening even now – the entire keep was glowing, a colourless penumbra. Itkovian wanted to ask the Destriant about it, but the opportunity had yet to arise.
Boots on the ladder. The Shield Anvil swung about.
The messenger who emerged was horribly burned along one side of his face, the red, blistered skin covering his jaw and upward, forming a ridge beneath the rim on his helm. His eye on that side was puckered, wrinkled and dark as a raisin.
He climbed clear of the ladder, and Itkovian saw Karnadas behind him.
The Destriant spoke first, halfway out of the hatch. ‘He insisted he give his report to you first, sir. I can do nothing for the eye, but the pain—’
‘In a moment,’ Itkovian snapped. ‘Messenger, make your report.’
‘Apologies,’ the young man gasped, ‘for taking so long.’
The Shield Anvil’s eyes widened. ‘You humble me, sir. It has been a bell and more since I sent you to the West Gate.’
‘The Pannions had reached through to Tular Camp, Shield Anvil. Senar Camp had fallen – its inhabitants slaughtered. Everyone. Children – sir – I am sorry, but the horror remains with me…’
‘Go on.’
‘Jehbar Tower was surrounded, its defenders besieged. Such was the situation upon my arrival, sir. Our soldiers were scattered, fighting in clumps, many of them surrounded. We were being cut down, everywhere I looked.’ He paused, drew a ragged breath, then continued, ‘Such was the situation upon my arrival. As I prepared to return to you with said news, I was … absconded—’
‘You were what?’
‘Apologies, sir. I can think of no other word. A foreigner appeared, with but half a score of Capan followers, a militia of sorts, sir. And a Lestari sergeant. The man took charge – of everyone, myself included. Shield Anvil, I argued—’
‘Clearly this man was persuasive. Resume your tale, sir.’
‘The foreigner had his own soldiers break down the door into Tular Camp. He demanded that its inhabitants come out and fight. For their children—’
‘And he convinced them?’
‘Sir, he held in his arms what was left of a child from Senar Camp. The enemy, sir – the Pannions – someone had begun to eat that child—’
Karnadas moved up behind the young man, hands settling on his shoulders.
‘He convinced them,’ Itkovian said.
The messenger nodded. ‘The foreigner – he then … he then took what was left of the child’s tunic, and has made of it a standard. I saw it myself. Sir, I ceased arguing, then – I’m sorry—’
‘I understand you, sir.’
‘There was no shortage of weapons. The Tular Capanthall armed themselves – four, five hundred came out. Men and women. The foreigner had sent out his own followers, and they began returning. With them, surviving bands of Capanthall soldiery, a few Gidrath, Coralessian, and Grey Swords, sir. The Trimaster had been killed, you see—’
‘The foreigner rallied them,’ Itkovian cut in. ‘Then what?’
‘We marched to the relief of Jehbar Tower, sir. Shield Anvil, behind that horrible banner, we delivered slaughter.’
‘The condition of the tower?’
‘Ruined, sir. Alas. There were but twenty survivors among the Capanthall defending it. They are now with the foreigner. I, uh, I returned to my responsibilities then, sir, and was given leave to report to you—’
‘Generous of this stranger. What was the disposition of this militia at that time?’
‘They were about to sortie through the rubble of West Gate, sir—’
‘What?’
‘A Beklite company was coming up to reinforce the attackers inside the city. But those attackers were all dead. The foreigner planned on surprising them with that fact.’
‘Twin Tusks, who is this man?’
‘I know not his name, sir. He wields two cutlasses. Fights like a … like a boar, sir, with those two cutlasses…’
Itkovian stared at the young man for a long moment seeing the pain diminishing as the Destriant continued gripping his shoulders, seeing the blisters shrink, the welt fading, new skin closing around the ruined eye. The Shield Anvil swung about in a clank of armour, faced west. The fire of the West Barracks reached its crimson light only so far. Beyond, darkness ruled. He shifted his attention to the Jelarkan Concourse. No further breaches were evident, as far as he could determine. The Mortal Sword had matters well in hand, as Itkovian knew would be the case.
‘Less than a bell,’ Karnadas murmured, ‘before dawn. Shield Anvil, the city holds.’
Itkovian nodded.
More boots on the ladder. They all turned as another messenger arrived.
‘Shield Anvil, from the third sortie to East Watch redoubt. The surviving Gidrath have been recovered, sir. Movement to the southeast was discerned. The Trimaster sent a scout. Shield Anvil, the Tenescowri are on the move.’
Itkovian nodded. They will arrive with the dawn. Three hundred thousand, maybe more. ‘Destriant, open the tunnels. Begin with the inner Camps, sir. Every citizen below. Take charge of the barracks Manes and Wings and whoever else you come across to effect swift directions and control of the entranceways.’
Karnadas’s lined face twisted into a wry smile. ‘Shield Anvil, it is my duty to remind you that the Mask Council has yet to approve the construction of said tunnels.’
Itkovian nodded again, ‘Fortunately for the people of Capustan we proceeded without awaiting that approval.’ Then he frowned. ‘It seems the Mask Council has found its own means of self-defence.’
‘Not them, sir. Hetan and Cafal. And a new priest, indeed, the very “merchant” whom you rescued out on the plain.’
The Shield Anvil slowly blinked. ‘Did he not have a caravan guard – a large man with a pair of cutlasses belted to his hips?’ Cutlasses? Mor
e like Fener’s own tusks.
The Destriant hissed. ‘I believe you are right, sir. In fact, only yesterday I spared a moment to heal him.’
‘He was wounded?’
‘Hungover, Shield Anvil. Very.’
‘I see. Carry on, sir.’ Itkovian looked to his two messengers. ‘Word must be sent to the Mortal Sword … and to this foreigner…’
* * *
The Beklite’s wicker shield exploded from the man’s arm to Gruntle’s backhand swing. The notched, gore-smeared cutlass in the caravan guard’s other hand chopped straight down, through helm, then skull. Brain and blood sprayed down over his gauntlet. The Beklite fell to one side, limbs jerking.
Gruntle spun, whipping the ragged mess from his blade. A dozen paces behind him, looming above the feral ranks of his followers, was the Child’s Standard, a torn, brightly dyed yellow tunic now splashed with a red that was drying to deep magenta.
The Beklite company had been crushed. Gruntle’s victim had been the last. The caravan captain and his militia were forty paces outside what was left of the West Gate, on the wide main avenue of what had been a shanty town. The structures were gone, their wooden walls and slate roofs dismantled and taken away. Patches of stained earthen floors and the scatter of broken pottery were all that remained. Two hundred paces further west ran the pickets of the besiegers, swarming in the dawn’s growing light.
Gruntle could see half a thousand Betaklites marshalling along its edge, flanked by companies of Urdomen and Betrullid light cavalry. Beyond them, a vast veil of dust was rising, lit gold by the slanting sun.
The lieutenant had dropped to one knee beside Gruntle, struggling to regain control of his breathing. ‘Time’s – time’s come – to – withdraw, sir.’
Scowling, the caravan captain swung to survey his militia. Fifty, sixty still standing. What did I start with last night? About the same. Is that right? Gods, can that be right? ‘Where are our sergeants?’
‘They’re there, most of them, anyway. You want me to call them forward, sir?’
No, yes, I want to see their faces. I can’t remember their faces. ‘Have them assemble the squads.’
‘Sir, if that cavalry rushes us—’
‘They won’t. They’re masking.’
‘Masking what?’
‘Tenescowri. Why throw more veteran soldiers at us only to see them killed? Those bastards need a rest in any case. No, it’s time for the starving horde.’
‘Beru fend,’ the lieutenant whispered.
‘Don’t worry,’ Gruntle replied, ‘they die easy.’
‘We need to rest – we’re sliced to pieces, sir. I’m too old for a suicide stand.’
‘Then what in Hood’s name are you doing in Capustan? Never mind. Let’s see the squads. I want armour stripped from these bodies. Leathers only, and helms and gauntlets. I want my sixty to look like soldiers.’
‘Sir—’
‘Then we withdraw. Understood? Best be quick about it, too.’
* * *
Gruntle led his battered company back towards Capustan. There was activity amidst the ruin of West Gate. The plain grey cloaks of the Grey Swords dominated the crowd, though others – masons and ragtag crews of labourers – were present as well. The frenzied activity slowed as heads turned. Conversations fell away.
Gruntle’s scowl deepened. He hated undue attention. What are we, ghosts?
Eyes were pulled to the Child’s Standard.
A figure strode forward to meet them, an officer of the mercenaries. ‘Welcome back,’ the woman said with a grave nod. Her face was caked with dust, runnels of sweat tracking down from under her helm. ‘We’ve got some weaponsmiths set up outside Tular Camp. I imagine your Tusks need sharpening—’
‘Cutlasses.’
‘As you say, sir. The Shield Anvil – no, we all would know your name—’
But Gruntle had already stepped past her. ‘Sharpeners. Good idea. Lieutenant, you think we all need to get our tusks sharpened?’
The Grey Swords officer spun round. ‘Sir, the reference is not to be taken lightly.’
He continued on. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘Fine, let’s call them tiger-claws, why don’t we? Looks to me you’ve got a gate to rebuild. Best get to it, lass. Them Tenescowri want breakfast, and we’re it.’
He heard her hiss in what might have been angry frustration.
Moments later, the workers resumed their efforts.
The weaponsmiths had set up their grindstone wheels in the street. Beyond them, in the direction of the Jelarkan Concourse, the sounds of battle continued. Gruntle waved his soldiers forward. ‘Line up all of you. I want those blades so sharp you can shave with them.’
The lieutenant snorted. ‘Most of your troop’s women, sir.’
‘Whatever.’
A rider was driving his horse hard down the street. He reined in with a clatter of hooves, dismounted and paused to adjust his armoured gauntlets before striding to Gruntle.
‘Are you Keruli’s caravan captain?’ he asked, face hidden behind a full-visored helm.
‘Was. What do you want, mercenary?’
‘Compliments from the Shield Anvil, sir.’ The voice was hard, deep. ‘The Tenescowri are massing—’
‘I know.’
‘It is the Shield Anvil’s belief that their main assault will be from the east, for it is there that the First Child of the Dead Seed has assembled his vanguard.’
‘Fine, what of it?’
The messenger was silent for a moment, then he continued. ‘Sir, Capustan’s citizens are being removed—’
‘Removed where?’
‘The Grey Swords have constructed tunnels beneath the city, sir. Below are amassed sufficient supplies to support twenty thousand citizens—’
‘For how long?’
‘Two weeks, perhaps three. The tunnels are extensive. In many cases, old empty barrows were opened as well, as storage repositories – there were more of those than anyone had anticipated. The entranceways are well hidden, and defensible.’
Two weeks. Pointless. ‘Well, that takes care of the noncombatants. What about us fighters?’
The messenger’s eyes grew veiled between the black-iron bars of the visor. ‘We fight. Street by street, building by building. Room by room, sir. The Shield Anvil enquires of you, which section of the city do you wish to assume? And is there anything you require? Arrows, food…’
‘We’ve no archers, but food and watered wine, aye. Which section?’ Gruntle surveyed his troop. ‘More like which building. There’s a tenement just off Old Daru Street, the one with the black-stone foundations. We’ll start at North Gate, then fall back to there.’
‘Very good. Supplies will be delivered to that tenement house, sir.’
‘Oh, there’s a woman in one of the rooms on the upper floor – if your evacuation of citizens involved a house-by-house search—’
‘The evacuation was voluntary, sir.’
‘She wouldn’t have agreed to it.’
‘Then she remains where she is.’
Gruntle nodded.
The lieutenant came to the captain’s side. ‘Your cutlasses – time to hone your tiger-claws, sir.’
‘Aye.’ Turning away, Gruntle did not notice the messenger’s head jerk back at the Lestari lieutenant’s words.
* * *
Through the dark cage of his visor, Shield Anvil Itkovian studied the hulking caravan captain who now strode towards a swordsmith, the short-legged Lestari trailing a step behind. The blood-stained cutlasses were out, the wide, notched, tip-heavy blades the colour of smoky flames.
He had come to meet this man for himself, to take his fullest measure and fashion a face to accompany the man’s extraordinary talents.
Itkovian already regretted the decision. He muttered a soft, lengthy curse at his own impetuosity. Fights like a boar? Gods, no, this man is a big, plains-hunting cat. He has bulk, aye, but it passes unnoticed behind a deadly grace. Fener save us all, the Tiger of Summer�
��s ghost walks in this man’s shadow.
Returning to his horse, Itkovian drew himself up into the saddle. He gathered the reins. Swinging his mount round, he tilted his head back and stared at the morning sun. The truth of this has burst like fire in my heart. On this, our last day, I have met this unnamed man, this servant of Treach, the Tiger of Summer … Treach ascending.
And Fener? The brutal boar whose savage cunning rides my soul – what of my lord?
Fener … descending. On this, our last day.
A susurrating roar rose in the distance, from all sides. The Tenescowri were on the move.
‘Twin Tusks guard us,’ Itkovian rasped, driving his heels into the horse’s flanks. The animal surged forward, sparks raining as its hooves struck the cobbles.
* * *
Grey-faced with exhaustion, Buke made his way towards the necromancers’ estate. It was a large edifice, commanding a long, low hill that looked too regular to be natural, surrounded by a high wall with mock guard towers at the corners. A grand entrance faced onto Kilsban Way, set back from the street itself with a ramped approach. The gate was a miniature version of the Thrall’s, vertically raised and lowered by countersunk centre-holed millstones.
A fireball had struck the gate, blasting it into ruin. The flames had raged for a time, blackening the stone frame and cracking it, but somehow the structure remained upright.
As the old caravan guard limped his way up the ramp towards it, he was startled by the sudden exit of a tall, gaunt, black-robed man. Stumbling, half hopping like a huge ebon-winged vulture, the man spun round to glare at Buke. His face twisted. ‘I am second only to Rath’Shadowthrone himself! Do you not know me? Do they not know me? I am Marble! Also known as the Malefic! Feared among all the cowering citizens of Capustan! A sorcerer of powers unimagined! Yet they…’ He sputtered with fury. ‘A boot to the backside, no less! I will have my revenge, this I swear!’
‘Ill-advised, priest,’ Buke said, not unkindly. ‘My employers—’
‘Are arrogant scum!’
‘That may be, but they’re not ones to irritate, sir.’
‘Irritate? When my master hears of this – this – insult delivered to his most valued servant, then, oh then shall the shadows flow!’ With a final snarl, the priest stamped down the walkway, black robe skirling dramatically in his wake.
The Malazan Empire Page 210