The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (319 page)

‘You’re on, Lieutenant. Now, leave Hedge and his sappers to blowing that tower, gather up Blend and the rest of you get going.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Paran made to move away, but Picker reached out and touched his arm.

‘Captain?’

‘What?’

‘Well, uh, those knives at your back? They’ve been turned the other way for some time. Just wanted you to know.’

Paran glanced away. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’

Quick Ben had pulled together Antsy and his squad, minus Hedge and Blend. As soon as Paran joined them, the wizard nodded and said, ‘Say when, Captain.’

Paran glanced over at the compound wall. The ropes hung slack. No-one was in sight along the top. ‘How long since you last saw them?’

The wizard shrugged. ‘I expect they’re in position now, sir. Hedge looks about ready.’

Paran’s eyes dropped to see the team of sappers gathered in a tight, nervously shifting pack at the tower’s base. ‘That was fast.’

‘Hedge is lightning when he’s scared witless, sir. We’d better—’

‘Yes. Open your warren.’ He glanced over at Antsy. The sergeant, Detoran, Trotts and Mallet had dropped the visors on their helms. Weapons were out. Spindle crouched nearby, a sharper clutched in his right hand. ‘Hold it, Quick – did you tell Spin what—’

‘Aye, sir, and he’s working on it just fine.’

Spindle managed a weak grin.

‘All right. Let’s go.’

The portal flashed open, bled darkness into the street. Paran’s eyes widened.
Kurald Galain. What
—

‘Follow me!’ Quick Ben hissed, darting into the warren.

The squad plunged forward, was swallowed. Paran flung himself into their wake.

The transition was almost instantaneous. The captain stumbled across slick tiles – they were on the keep’s roof, thirty paces behind the row of condors—

A dozen of the huge, demonic creatures suddenly exploded, spraying blood and flesh to spatter across the roof. The others jerked awake as one. Loosing piercing cries, they spread vast wings and launched themselves upward.

Spindle had already unleashed his warren, and its effect was instantaneous.

The condors shrilled with terror, wings thundering in panic, heads twisting on spasming necks as the mortal beast within each body – gripped with blind fear engendered by Spindle’s twisted talent – warred with demon for command.

Crossbow quarrels shot up from along the compound wall, thudded into the flailing creatures.

The entire keep shuddered. Paran spun to see the compound tower to his left suddenly topple, the enormous battlement pitching towards the street. Smoke billowed. Shouts followed as the Bridgeburners lining the top of the wall scrambled towards the ropes.

Sharpers echoed from the streets to the east – Picker and her remaining Bridgeburners had just surprised the column of K’Chain Che’Malle – and the pursuit was on.

Quick Ben pulled Paran close. ‘The demons are winning the struggle!’

The condors were slowly gaming height, drawing ever further from the influence of Spindle’s warren. If they felt any discomfort for being studded with quarrels, they showed no sign of it. Sorcery crackled around them.

‘They’ll come round for us, Captain,’ Quick Ben predicted.

‘Better us than Dujek. Now, can we keep them occupied for a time, Wizard?’

‘Most of ’em, aye.’

‘How?’

‘Well, to start, we can run to the south side of this building.’

Run? That’s it?
‘Let’s move, then.’

*   *   *

Outside the city’s west wall, close to the shoreline’s broken, jagged edge, a lazy swirl of dust rose from the ground, took form.

Tool slowly settled the flint sword into its shoulder-hook, his depthless gaze ignoring the abandoned shacks to either side and fixing on the massive stone barrier before him.

Dust on the wind could rise and sweep high over this wall. Dust could run in streams through the rubble fill beneath the foundation stones. The T’lan Imass could make his arrival unknown.

But the Pannion Seer had taken Aral Fayle. Toc the Younger. A mortal man … who had called Tool
friend.

He strode forward, hide-wrapped feet kicking through scattered bones.

The time had come for the First Sword of the T’lan Imass to announce himself.

*   *   *

The second wave, bearing another thousand soldiers, plunged down to fill the streets directly behind Dujek’s position, even as explosions lit the skyline to the south – along the keep’s roof-line, then directly beneath it, the latter a deeper sound, rumbling through the ground to rattle the cobbles – a sound the High Fist recognized. The breach had been made.

‘Time to push forward,’ he barked to his officers. ‘Take your commands – we drive for the keep.’

Dujek raised his visor. The air above was filled with the whispering flutter of quorl wings. The second wave of carriers were climbing back into the night sky, even as a third approached from the north – moments from delivering another thousand marines.

Sharpers echoed from the city to the east. Dujek paused to wonder at that – then the sky ignited, a grey, rolling wave, sweeping towards the third flight.

The High Fist watched, silent, as between two beats of his cold heart a thousand Black Moranth, their quorls, and five companies of Onearm’s Host disintegrated in grey flames.

Behind the wave, sailing black and deadly, flew three condors.

The Moranth of the second wave, who had climbed high before intending to turn about and race north, reappeared, above the three condors, diving en masse towards the creatures.

A fourth flight of carriers approaching from the northwest had captured the birds’ attention.

Rider and quorl descended on the unsuspecting condors, in successive, suicidal attacks. Black-armoured warriors drove lances deep into feathered bodies. Quorls twisted their triangular heads, chitinous jaws tearing strips of flesh, even as the collisions shattered their frail bodies and frailer wings.

Hundreds of quorls died, their riders falling with them to strike roofs and streets, lying broken and unmoving.

The three condors followed, dying as they fell.

Dujek had no time to think of the horrific price his Moranth had paid for that momentary victory. The fourth wing dropped down into the streets, soldiers flinging themselves from the saddles and scrambling for cover.

The High Fist beckoned for a messenger.

‘New orders to the officers – the companies are to take buildings – defensible ones. The keep will have to wait – I want roofs over us—’

Another message-bearer appeared. ‘High Fist!’

‘What?’

‘The Pannion legions are assembling, sir – every street in a line from the north gate right up to the keep.’

‘And we hold the west third of the city. They’re coming to drive us out. All right.’ He faced the first messenger and said, ‘Let the officers know so they can adjust their defence—’

But the second message-bearer wasn’t finished. ‘High Fist, sir – sorry. There’s K’Chain Che’Malle with those legions.’

Then where is Silverfox and her damned T’lan Imass?
‘They could be dragons for all it matters,’ he growled after a moment. ‘Go,’ he said to the first messenger. The soldier saluted and left. The High Fist glared at the other message-bearer, then said, ‘Find Twist and inform him we’ll need a pass of his heavies – east of our position – just one, though. Tell him that they probably won’t make it back, so he’d better hold a wing in reserve.’ Dujek raised his visor and studied the sky overhead. Dawn was arriving – the fifth and sixth wings had delivered their troops and were distant specks racing back towards the mountain.
That’s it, then, we’re all in Coral. And if we don’t get help soon we’ll never leave.
‘That’s all.’ He nodded to the soldier.

*   *   *

The condors circled above the rooftop, crying out to each other, dipping and diving then, wings thudding the air, lifting back towards the paling sky.

Paran stared up, disbelieving. ‘They must be able to see us!’ he hissed.

They crouched against a low wall beyond which was a parapet overlooking the harbour and Coral Bay, and the darkness that had swallowed them was fast fading.

‘They can’t see us,’ Quick Ben muttered at his side, ‘because I’m keeping them from seeing us. But they know we’re here … somewhere.’

And that’s why they’re hanging around. Fine. Good. That means they’re not busy annihilating Dujek’s army.

The keep shook beneath them, rattling tiles. ‘Hood’s breath, what was that?’

The wizard at his side scowled. ‘Not sure. That didn’t sound like munitions … but I’d say the compound wall’s been breached again.’

Again? By whom?
The detonation had come from the harbour side, east. A billowing cloud of dust slowly lifted into view.

Paran cautiously lifted his head until he could see past the low wall.

Out over the bay, seagulls were screaming. The sea beyond, which seemed to be solid ice, was rumbling. Spouts exploded skyward along that south horizon. A storm was building out there.
Let’s hope it comes here – we could do with the confusion.

‘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!’