Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

'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.'

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.