‘Get your head down!’ Quick Ben hissed.
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m having enough trouble as it is, Captain – we need to stay tight – stop kicking, Detoran – what? Oh. Captain, look north, sir! High up!’
Paran twisted round.
A wing of Moranth – no more than specks – were sailing over the city, east to west.
Six condors were climbing to meet them – but they had a long way to go.
Smaller specks dropped from the Moranth, down onto the east half of the city.
Their descent seemed to take for ever, then the first one struck the roof of a building. The explosion shattered the roof and upper floor. All at once, detonations trembled as cusser after cusser struck.
Sorcery swept from the six condors, raced up towards the distant Moranth.
Bombs expended, the wing scattered. None the less, more than a score did not escape the sorcerous wave.
Smoke and dust shrouded the east side of Coral.
Above the captain and the squad, the remaining condors screamed with rage.
‘That worked, more or less,’ Quick Ben whispered. ‘Those streets were likely packed solid with Pannion soldiers.’
‘Not to mention,’ Paran gritted, ‘the rest of the Bridgeburners.’
‘They’d have withdrawn by now.’
Paran heard the effort in the wizard’s hopeful tone.
* * *
A cusser had struck the street fifty paces behind Picker and her decimated squads, less than ten paces behind the K’Chain Che’Malle K’ell Hunter that had been closing on them. The undead creature was obliterated by the blast, its mass absorbing most of the lethal, flailing rain of shattered cobbles.
Fragments of withered skin, flesh and splinters of bone pattered down almost within reach of the Bridgeburners.
Picker raised a hand to call the soldiers to a halt. She was not alone in needing to catch her breath, to wait until her hammering heart slowed somewhat.
‘That makes a damned change,’ Blend gasped at the lieutenant’s side.
Picker did not bother replying, but she could not help but agree with Blend’s bitter comment. As Paran had instructed, they had indeed drawn the attention of at least some of the K’Chain Che’Malle.
And had paid for it.
Her last count had sixteen Bridgeburners capable of combat and six wounded, of whom three were at Hood’s Gate. The K’Chain Che’Malle were more than fast, they were lightning. And relentless. Sharpers did little more than irritate them.
In any case, the munitions were gone. Picker had turned her soldiers back on one of the K’ell Hunters, to gauge their chances in a close-in fight. She would not do that again. They’d been lucky to disengage at all. Seeing friends on all sides cut into pieces where they stood was an image that would haunt her all her remaining days – days? I haven’t got days. I’ll be surprised if we live out this bell.
‘Hood take us, another one!’
The lieutenant wheeled at the shout.
Another Hunter had appeared from a side alley, claws scraping on cobbles, head hunched low, blades out.
Less than fifteen paces away, head swinging to face them.
All right … heartbeats, then.
‘Scatter!’
Even as the Bridgeburners began to bolt, a wall close to the K’Chain Che’Malle exploded onto the street. Another Hunter arrived within the dust and bricks that tumbled out, this one a chopped-up ruin, head swinging wildly – connected to neck by a thin strip of tendon – missing one arm, a leg ending in a stump at the ankle. The creature fell, pounded onto the cobbles, ribs snapping, and did not move.
The Bridgeburners froze in place.
As did the first K’Chain Che’Malle. Then it hissed and swung to face the ragged hole in the building’s wall.
Through the dust stepped a T’lan Imass. Desiccated flesh torn, hanging in strips, the gleam of bone visible everywhere, a skull-helmed head that had once held horns. The flint sword in its hands was so notched it appeared denticulated.
Ignoring the Malazans, it turned to the other K’Chain Che’Malle.
The Hunter hissed and attacked.
Picker’s eyes could not fully register the speed of the exchange of blows. All at once, it seemed, the K’Chain Che’Malle was toppling, a leg severed clean above what passed for a knee. A sword clanged on the cobbles as a dismembered arm fell. The T’lan Imass had stepped back, and now moved forward once more, an overhead chop that shattered bone down through shoulder, chest, then hip, bursting free to strike the cobbles in a spray of sparks.
The K’ell Hunter collapsed.
The lone T’lan Imass turned to face the keep, and began walking.
Picker and the others watched the warrior stride past them, continue on up the street.
‘Hood’s breath!’ Blend muttered.
‘Come on!’ Picker snapped.
‘Where?’ Corporal Aimless demanded.
‘After him,’ she replied, setting off. ‘Looks like the safest place to be is in that thing’s shadow.’
‘But it’s heading for the keep!’
‘Then so are we!’
* * *
Crusted in mud, boots dragging, Whiskeyjack’s army slowly moved forward to form a line facing the killing field, and the city beyond it. Far to either flank were the Barghast, Ilgres Clan on one side, White Faces on the other.
Korlat left her horse with the others behind the line and strode to the low hill immediately to the west of the trader road, where stood Whiskeyjack, Kallor and the standard-bearer, Artanthos.
They had witnessed, one and all, the aerial battles over Coral, the slaughter of the Black Moranth and at least one wing carrying troops of Onearm’s Host. They had watched the bombardment, but not a single soldier on the ridge had cheered. There could be no disguising the brutal truth: Dujek was trapped in Coral, his army was being slaughtered, and Whiskeyjack and his exhausted force could do little about it.
Condors had been seen following the Black Moranth flying back to the mountain entrenchments – but there they would meet Orfantal. In his Soletaken form, her brother was second only to Rake himself. Korlat envied him his chance for immediate vengeance.
She approached her companions, preparing her mind for the veering into her draconic form. The power that came with the transition had always frightened her, for it was a cold, hard manifestation, unhuman and inhuman both. This time, however, she would welcome it.
Reaching the crest, she saw what the others were seeing. The north gate had opened across from them. K’Chain Che’Malle were emerging, spreading out to form a line. Eight hundred, perhaps more.
Weapons were readied among the Malazans. When Whiskeyjack gave the order, they would march down to meet that undead line of slayers.
And die. Eight hundred less K’Chain Che’Malle in Coral. Eight hundred K’Chain Che’Malle … occupied for a time. Does Dujek even know? Brood is still half a day behind us. The Grey Swords two bells, perhaps more – I’d not expected that news from Kallor – but they will have ridden too hard, too long.
And Gruntle and his legion – they seem to have vanished entirely. Have we lost our shock-troops? Abyss knows, that Daru had no love of battle …
Does Dujek comprehend what we do to purchase for him this day?
Eight hundred K’Chain Che’Malle on the plain. How many remain in the city? How many now carve deadly paths through the High Fist’s companies?
The twenty or so condors left over the city were one and all circling the keep itself, a measure, perhaps, of the Seer’s confidence, that he would see no need for their participation in what was to come.
The thought brought a bitter taste to her mouth.
Whiskeyjack turned as she arrived, nodded in greeting. ‘Did you find Kruppe? I trust he has chosen a safe place.’
‘With Hetan,’ Korlat replied. ‘Demanding white paint for his face.’
Whiskeyjack could not quite manage a smile.
‘My T
iste Andii will precede your soldiers when they advance,’ Korlat said after a moment. ‘We will see how these undead fare against Kurald Galain.’
Kallor’s expression hinted at a smirk, ‘Your warren is still beset, Korlat. You would require a full unveiling – by all your kin, not just the ones here – to achieve a cleansing. Your brothers and sisters are about to be slaughtered.’
Her eyes narrowed. A full unveiling. Kallor, you know far too much of us. ‘I appreciate your tactical acumen,’ she replied drily.
She saw Whiskeyjack glance back at Artanthos, who stood fifteen paces from the others, wrapped against the morning chill in a fur-lined cloak. The man was paying no attention to the others, his gaze fixed on the plain below, a slight frown slowly marring his unlined brow.
Two marines approached on horseback from the east, riding hard in front of the Malazan line.
Whiskeyjack’s two marines …
Labouring, coughing froth, the horses galloped up the slope. The two women reined in. ‘Commander!’ one shouted.
The other added, ‘We found her!’ Then she pointed.
Emerging from the ranks to the east … Silverfox.
The sound of thousands of voices crying out in surprise alerted Korlat – she turned to see the killing field before the K’Chain Che’Malle vanish in a sudden haze of dust, thinning quickly to reveal rank upon rank of T’lan Imass.
Silverfox approached. She seemed to have chosen Artanthos as her destination, her eyes half lidded, her round, heavy face expressionless.
A roar from Whiskeyjack’s army rose into the morning air.
‘Yes…’ rasped Kallor beside her.
Korlat pulled her gaze from Silverfox, curious enough at Kallor’s tone to draw her attention.
In time to see the rough-edged blade flashing at her head.
Pain exploded. A moment of confusion, when all was strangely still, then the ground hammered her side. Heat flared down her face, lancing down from her forehead. She blinked, wondered at her own body, which had begun thrashing.
Warren—
—chaotic—
Kallor—
A blurred scene before her eyes, her point of view from the ground.
Skull – broken – dying—
Her vision cleared, every line and edge of what she saw too sharp, sharp like knife-blades, slicing her soul to ribbons. Kallor, with a delighted roar, charged towards Silverfox, chain armour flowing like a cloak. Grey-veined magic danced on the ground around the warrior.
The Rhivi woman stopped, mouth opening, terror filling her eyes. She screamed something—
—something—
‘T’lan Ay. Defend me!’
Yet she remained alone—
Kallor closed, sword gripped in both gauntleted hands, closed, raising the weapon high.
Then Whiskeyjack stood in his path, longsword lashing up to clang against Kallor’s weapon. A sudden, fierce exchange, sparks flashing. Kallor leapt back, bellowing his frustration, and his heel caught—
Whiskeyjack saw his moment. Sword thrusting out, a duellist’s lunge, fully extending, weight pounding down on the lead leg—
Which buckled.
She saw the sliver of bone rip up through the man’s leather-clad thigh.
Saw the pain on her lover’s face, the sudden recognition—
As Kallor’s huge sword punched into his chest. Slid between ribs. Ripped through heart and lungs in a diagonal, inward-slicing thrust.
Whiskeyjack died on that blade – life dropping back from the eyes that met Korlat’s, back, away, then gone.
Kallor dragged his weapon free.
He reeled suddenly, impaled by two crossbow quarrels. Chaotic magic snaked up around the offending missiles, disintegrating them. Blood spurted. Unmindful, Kallor readied his sword once more, as the two marines closed in tandem.
The women were superb, fighting as one.
But the man they fought—
A mortal scream – the marine on the right stumbled in a welter of blood, reaching down to gather uncoiling, tumbling intestines, then sinking earthward. Her helmed head left her shoulders before her knees touched ground.
The other woman rushed Kallor, sword thrusting high for the warrior’s face.
A side-step, a downward chop, severing the arm—
But the marine had already surrendered it, and her left hand, gripping a pig-sticker, was unimpeded as it punched through the chain-links covering Kallor’s stomach.
The edge of Kallor’s sword carved up through the marine’s throat. She spun in a red spray, toppled.
Gasping, the ancient warrior reeled back, yellow-streaked blood spurting from the hole in his stomach. ‘Chained One!’ he screamed. ‘Heal me!’
Hot – a warren—
—not chaotic – where?
A wave of knotted gold hammered into Kallor, swallowed him in frenzied fire. He shrieked, thrown off his feet, battered as the magic pursued, ripping into him, blood threading the air as he sprawled to the ground.
A second wave rolled towards the man, coruscating with sunfire—
The warren that opened around Kallor was a miasmic stain, a sickly tear – that swept around him—
—to vanish, taking Kallor with it.
The golden sorcery flickered, dissipated.
No – such control. Who?
Korlat’s body no longer spasmed. It was now numb and cool, strangely remote. Blood was filling one eye. She had to keep blinking to clear it. She was lying on the ground, she finally realized. Kallor had struck her—
Someone knelt by her side, a soft, warm hand settling on her cheek.
Korlat struggled to focus.
‘It’s me, Silverfox. Help is coming—’
The Tiste Andii tried to lift a hand, to manage some kind of gesture towards Whiskeyjack, but the desire remained within her mind, racing in circles, and she knew by the faint feel of damp grasses under her palm that her hand did not heed her call.
‘Korlat! Look at me. Please. Brood is coming – and I see a black dragon approaching from the west – Orfantal? The warlord possesses High Denul, Korlat. You must hold on—’
A shadow over her face. Silverfox glancing up, features twisting into something bitter. ‘Tell me,’ she said to the newcomer, ‘the sorcery that accompanied Kallor’s betrayal: was it truly so efficacious as to leave you stunned for so long? Or did you hold back? Calculating your moment, observing the consequences of your inaction – after all, you’ve done it before, Tayschrenn, haven’t you?’
Tayschrenn?
But the ragged, pain-racked voice that replied was that of Artanthos, the standard-bearer. ‘Silverfox. Please. I would not—’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘No. Whiskeyjack – he’s—’
‘I know,’ Silverfox snapped.
A poorly mended leg … never the right time – Brood could have—
He’s dead. Oh, my love, no …
Blurred figures were on all sides now. Malazan soldiers. Barghast. Someone began keening with grief.
The man she had known as Artanthos leaned over her. Sorcery had split the flesh of his face – the touch of chaos, she recognized. A fiercer touch than what she could have survived. She knew, then, in her soul, that the High Mage had willed no delay to his response. That he’d managed anything at all was … extraordinary. She met his eyes, saw the layers of pain that still racked through the man.
‘Sil…’
‘Korlat?’
‘Woman,’ the Tiste Andii said, the word slurred but audible, ‘this man…’
‘Yes? He is Tayschrenn, Korlat. The part of me that is Nightchill has known for a long time. I was coming to conf—’
‘… thank him.’
‘What?’
‘For … your … life. Thank him, woman…’ She held still to Tayschrenn’s eyes. Dark grey, like Whiskeyjack’s. ‘Kallor – he surprised us all…’
The man winced, then slowly nodded. ‘I am sorry, Korlat. I should have seen—�
�
‘Yes. Me, too. And Brood.’
She could feel horse hooves drumming the earth beneath her, the vibration rising up to settle into her bones.
A dirge. Drums, a lost sound. Horses, driven hard … knowing nothing of the reason, yet on they come. Closer. Mindless, yet filled with the urgency of incomprehensible masters.
But death has already ridden across this hilltop.
Knowing nothing of reason.
My love.
He is yours, now, Hood … do you smile?
My love is … yours …
* * *
Brave and magnificent as it was, Itkovian’s mount was faltering. With dawn still two bells away, Gruntle had roused him with uncharacteristic curtness. ‘Something’s gone wrong,’ he’d growled. ‘We must ride for Coral, friend.’
The Grey Swords had not stopped for the night – Itkovian had watched them for as long as he could, until the night’s gloom took them from his vision. The Shield Anvil had elected to ride to Whiskeyjack’s support. He had thought himself indifferent to the decision, and to what their departure signified, yet bleakness filled his heart, and the sleep that eventually came to him was troubled. After Gruntle’s rough awakening, he sought to reflect upon the source of his restlessness, but it eluded him.
Saddling his horse, Itkovian had paid little attention to Gruntle and his legion, and only when he swung himself up onto his mount and gathered the reins did he note that the Daru and his followers waited – on foot.
Itkovian had frowned at Gruntle. ‘Mortal Sword, what do you intend?’
The large man grimaced, then said, ‘For this journey, swiftness is required. For this journey,’ he repeated, glancing at a fiercely scowling Stonny Menackis, ‘Trake risks the heart of his power.’
‘Not my god!’ Stonny snapped.
Gruntle offered her a sad smile, ‘No, alas. You will have to join Itkovian, and simply ride. We’ll not wait for you, but perhaps you will keep up with us … for a while.’
Itkovian had not understood any of this. ‘Sir,’ he said to Gruntle, ‘will you travel by warren?’
‘No. Well, not quite. Maybe, how do I know? I just know – somehow – that my legion is capable of … well, of something different. Something … fast.’
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