Steven Erikson - Memories of Ice

'One was more than enough,' Quick Ben muttered.

The wizard's exhaustion left the man looking aged, almost bent as he leaned on the table with both arms, bleary, red-webbed eyes fixed on the table's scarred surface.

Numbed by the sight, Paran pulled his gaze away, back to the High Fist. 'Mallet said we were assembling, sir. Since Lieutenant Picker is here, I assume you have something in mind for the Bridgeburners.'

'We do. We were just waiting for you, Captain.'

Paran nodded, said nothing.

'These trenches are indefensible,' Dujek growled. 'We're too exposed up here. Two or three more of those condors will finish us — and the Black Moranth. And I won't risk sending any more Moranth messengers back to Whiskeyjack — the Seer's birds cut the last ones down before they'd gone a tenth of a league from the mountainside. This close to Coral, it seems they're willing to fly at night. Nor is Quick Ben in any shape to try to magically contact Whiskeyjack. So, we're not waiting.'

We're going into Coral. From the night sky, straight down into the damned streets. 'Understood, High Fist. And the Bridgeburners are the first in, sir?'

'First in …' Dujek slowly nodded.

And last out.

'You're to strike straight for that keep. Knock a hole in the wall of its compound. The Black Moranth will take you in as close as they can.'

'Sir,' Paran said, 'if Brood and Whiskeyjack aren't as close as you think …'

Dujek shrugged. 'As I said earlier, Captain, this ain't the place to be waiting for one or the other. We're all going in — my first wave will be half a bell behind you.'

This could drop us into a viper's nest. 'The lieutenant and I had better ready the squads, then.'

'Aye. You'll have Quick Ben with you, and the mages — his cadre — are back with their respective squads. Hedge and the rest of the sappers have six cussers between them, ten crackers and twenty sharpers — you're to breach that wall, then pull back to us. Don't go after the Seer yourselves, understood?'

'Understood, High Fist.'

'All right, you three, get going.'

Dawn still almost two bells away, the mists drifted grey and low through the parkland north of Coral, reaching tendrils out onto the plain beyond.

Korlat rode to where Whiskeyjack had halted beneath the tree-lined crest that marked the beginning of the coppiced parkland, and drew rein alongside him.

The Malazan wasted no time, 'What did he say?'

'All rather peculiar, Whiskeyjack. Formal apologies from himself and from Brood. He humbly offers both his sword and his, as he called it, tactical prowess. I admit, it leaves me … uneasy.'

Whiskeyjack shrugged. 'I'd welcome any advice Kallor might provide.'

He noted but chose to ignore Korlat's wry disbelief at this statement.

After a moment, the Malazan continued, 'Follow me.' He nudged his horse forward, down the wide trader road as it wound between groves and across gently humped glades.

Their horses stumbled often, heads drooping as they trotted through the dark. A short while later they approached another ridge, this one cleared of trees. Beyond it, rising slowly as they drew nearer, was the city of Coral, climbing in tiers revealed by dull reflections of torchlight from the streets. The dark mass of the keep was an indistinct presence hunched above the last visible tier.

They reached the ridge and halted.

Korlat studied the lie of the land before them. The killing ground before the city's wall was a sixth of a league across, a single stone bridge spanning a ditch close to the wall. Half a league to the west loomed a forested mountain, the flank facing them wreathed in mist or smoke.

'Aye,' Whiskeyjack said, following her gaze, 'that's where the flashes of sorcery came from. It's where I would have positioned an army to break the siege, were I the Seer.'

'And Dujek has fouled their plans.'

'He's there, I suspect. Likely driven back or surrounded — that magic we saw lighting the sky was mostly Pannion. Quick Ben must have been overwhelmed. I think Dujek's taken a beating, Korlat. We need to draw the Seer's attention away from that mountain, buy the High Fist time to regroup.'

She faced him, was silent for a moment, then said, 'Your soldiers are dead on their feet, Whiskeyjack.' As you are, my love.

'None the less, I will have us lining this ridge come the dawn, the Ilgres Clan on our left, Taur and his White Faces on our right.' He glanced at her. 'I admit the thought of the other … form you can assume still leaves me, uh, alarmed. None the less, if you and Orfantal could take to the sky…'

'My brother and I have already discussed it, Whiskeyjack. He would fly to Dujek. Perhaps his presence will give the Seer's condors pause.'

'More likely draw them like a lodestone, Korlat. With the two of you together, guarding each other …'

'Even alone, we are not easily driven off. No, Dujek's need is greater. I shall take my Soletaken form and guard your forces. Orfantal will strike for the mountain. At the very least, he will be able to determine the disposition of the High Fist and his army.'

She saw the muscles of his jaw bunching beneath the beard. Finally, he sighed and said, 'I fear for you, Korlat — you will be alone above us.'

'With, among your soldiers, my remaining kin — mages all, my love — I shall not be as alone as you imagine.'

Whiskeyjack gathered his reins. 'Have you sensed anything at all of your Lord?'

She shook her head.

'Does that trouble you? No, you've no need to answer that.'

True, it seems there is little I can disguise from you.

'We'd best get back,' Whiskeyjack continued.

Both swung their mounts round.

Had their conversation continued for another half-dozen heartbeats, Korlat — with her preternatural vision — would have seen the first flight of Black Moranth rise from the mountain's forested slope, forty in all, and, flying low, wing hard and fast for the city.

A half-dozen heartbeats, within which Oponn's coin spun…

A single, lazy turn …

From Lady to Lord.

Less than a man's height beneath them, the city's wall blurred past. Once past it, the Moranth swept their quorls still lower, slipped into an avenue between buildings, flying below the roof-lines. A sharp turn at an intersection directed the flight towards the keep.

Paran, struggling to ignore the fierce burning itch of the stitches threading the side of his face, risked a glance down. Feast-piles were visible in the street, many of them still glowing dull red and sheathed in smoke. The occasional torch mounted on building walls revealed cobbles cluttered with refuse. The city slept beneath them, it seemed — he saw not a single guard or soldier.

The captain returned his attention to the keep. Its outer wall was high, well fortified — if anything, stronger than the one enclosing the city. The main structure beyond it was as much raw rock as worked stone. The keep had been carved into a mountainside.

Monstrous gargoyles lined the ragged roof's edge, black and hunched, barely visible as darker blots against the night sky.

Then Paran saw one move.

Condors. Oh, we're in the Abyss now … He thumped on the Moranth's shoulder, jabbed a gloved finger down to the street below. The officer nodded.

As one, the quorls carrying the Bridgeburners darted down, skimmed a dozen paces at waist-height over the street, then settled with a single tilt of wings.

Soldiers scrambled from the saddles, seeking shadows.

The Moranth and their quorls leapt skyward once more, wheeling for the return flight.

Crouched in a dark alley mouth, Paran waited for the squads to gather around him. Quick Ben was first to his side.

'The keep's roof-'

'I saw,' Paran growled. 'Any ideas, Wizard?'