Memories of Ice

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.