Locked in battle since dawn with Beklites, Urdomen and Seerdomin, Onearm's Host had more than held its own. And when the first dozen or so K'Chain Che'Malle appeared, Moranth munitions — cussers and burners — destroyed the undead K'ell Hunters. The same fate befell the second wave. By the time the third arrived, the cussers were gone, and soldiers died by the score. The fifth and sixth waves were met only with swords, and battle became slaughter.
Dujek had no idea how many remained among the five thousand Malazans who had been delivered into the city. He did not think a cohesive defence still existed. The battle had become a hunt, plain and simple. A cleansing by the K'Chain Che'Malle of pockets of Malazan resistance.
Until recently, he could still hear sounds of battle — of collapsing walls and perhaps sorcery — from the keep, though perhaps, he now reflected, he had been wrong in that — the storm-cloud that filled the sky to the south was itself thundering, arcs of lightning splitting the sky to lance at the thrashing seas below. Its rage now overwhelmed all other sounds.
A scrabble of boots behind him. Dujek swung about, shortsword in hand.
'High Fist!'
'Which company, soldier?'
'Eleventh, sir,' the woman gasped. 'Captain Hareb sent a squad to look for you, High Fist. I'm what's left.'
'Does Hareb still hold?'
'Aye, sir. We're collecting souvenirs — pieces of K'Chain Che'Malle.'
'And how in Hood's name are you managing that?'
'Twist, sir, he led a final flight in with the last of the munitions — mostly sharpers and crackers, High Fist — but the sappers are rigging buildings along our retreat, dropping tons of brick and stone on the damned lizards — your pardon, sir — on the Hunters.'
'Where is Hareb's company right now, soldier?'
'Not far, High Fist. Follow me.'
Hareb, that Seven Cities noble-born with the permanent sneer. Gods, 1 could kiss the man.
Moving to the head of his legion, Gruntle watched the Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords approach. The woman reined in even as he arrived.
'I greet you, sir,' she said, only the lower half of her face visible beneath the helm's broad, flaring cheek-guards. 'We are about to advance upon the enemy — would you flank us?'
The Daru grimaced. 'No, Shield Anvil.'
She hesitated, then gave a brusque nod and gathered up her reins. 'As you wish, sir. No dishonour in refusing a suicidal engagement.'
'You misunderstand,' Gruntle interrupted her. 'My legion leads, you follow in our wake — as close as you can. We'll drive across that stone bridge and head straight for the gate. Granted, it looks damned solid, but we might still batter it down.'
'We are seeking to relieve Dujek Onearm, agreed, Mortal Sword?'
'Aye.' And we both know we will fail.
They turned at the sound of horns, the sudden staccato of Malazan drums.
The standard-bearer — sorcery swirling from the man like flecks of gold — seemed to have taken command, calling together the company officers. Along the line, shields were readied, locked overlapping. Pikes, twice the height of a man, wavered like wind-tugged reeds above the ranks of soldiery — an uncharacteristic unsteadiness that Gruntle found disturbing.
Artanthos had despatched a rider who rode towards the Daru and the Shield Anvil at a gallop.
The Malazan reined in. 'Sirs! The High Mage Tayschrenn would know your intentions!'
Gruntle bared his teeth. 'Tayschrenn, is it? Let's hear his, first.'
'Dujek, sirs. These K'Chain Che'Malle must be broken, the gate breached, an assault on the defenders-'
'And what of the High Mage himself?' the Shield Anvil enquired.
'They're mages on the walls, sir. Tayschrenn will endeavour to deny their involvement. Orfantal and his Tiste Andii will seek to assist us in our attack upon the K'Chain Che'Malle, as will the shouldermen of the White Faces.'
'Inform the High Mage,' the Shield Anvil said, 'that Trake's Legion will initiate the charge, supported by my company.'
The soldier saluted and rode back towards the Malazan line.
Gruntle turned to study his followers. He wondered again at the effect that the Lord of Summer's gift had had upon these grim-faced Capans. Like D'ivers. only in reverse. From many, to one — and such power! They had crossed the land swift as a flowing shadow. Gruntle had found himself looking out upon the world with a tiger's eyes — no, not simply a tiger, a creature immortal, boundless in strength, a mass of muscle and bone within which was the Legion. His Legion. A will, fused, terrifyingly focused.
And now they would become that beast once again. This time, to enter battle.
His god seemed to possess a particular hatred for these K'Chain Che'Malle, as if Treach had a score to settle. The cold killer was giving way to bloodlust — a realization that left Gruntle vaguely troubled.
His gaze flicked to the hilltop — to see Caladan Brood, Korlat slowly straightening beside him. Distance was irrelevant — she was covered in blood, and he could feel the sickly pain that flowed and ebbed, then flowed again within her.
Brood's warren suffers, and if that's the case, then so too must. He swung round, back to where Artanthos — High Mage Tayschrenn — stood before the Malazan companies. Ah, I see the price he pays. 'Shield Anvil.'
'Sir?'
''Ware the mages on the city wall.'
'We await you, sir.'
Gruntle nodded.
A moment later, the Mortal Sword and his Legion were one, bones and muscle merging, identities — entire lives — swept under a deluge of cold, animal rage.
A tawny swirl, surging, flowing forward.
Ahead, K'Chain Che'Malle raised weapons. And stood their ground.
Again. We have done this before — no, not us. Our Lord. Tearing dead flesh. the spray of blood. blood … oh, Hood-
Kurald Galain, the darkness within the soul, flowing out' ward, filling her limbs, sweeping round to swallow her feelings — the comfort of oblivion. Korlat stood, her back to the three lifeless figures on the hilltop that still lay where they fell. Stood, silent, the power of her warren — flickering, dimming to surges of pain — reaching out, seeking her kin.
Caladan Brood, hammer unlimbered in his hands, was beside her. He was speaking, his rumbling voice as distant as thunder on the sea's horizon. 'Late afternoon. No earlier. It will be over long before then … one way or another. Korlat, please listen to me. You must seek your Lord — that storm-cloud, does Moon's Spawn hide within it? He said he would come. At the precise moment. He said he would strike…'
Korlat no longer heard him.
Orfantal was veering, there before the now marching Malazan forces, black, blossoming outward, wings spreading, sinuous neck lifting — a thudding pulsation of sorcery and the dragon was in the air, climbing-Condors winged out from the keep, a dozen of the demonic creatures, each linked by a writhing chain of chaotic magic.
On the plain below, the beast that was the Mortal Sword and Trake's Legion seemed to flow in and out of her vision, blurred, deadly motion — and struck the line of K'Chain Che'Malle.
Sorcery stained the air around the impact in blood-spattered sheets as within the savage maelstrom blades flashed. A K'ell Hunter reeled away and toppled, its bones shattered. The huge tiger twisted from side to side as swords descended, tore into its flanks. Where each blade struck, human figures fell away from the beast, limbs severed, torsos cut through, heads crushed.
Sorcery was building along the top of the city wall.