Toc shifted his head—and saw something in the darkness. Huge, straining as it shrieked without pause. Massive, taloned hands stretched imploringly—reaching out—For me.
Grey light flashed in the cavern, revealing in an instant the monstrous, fat-layered reptile chained opposite Toc, its eyes lit with terror. The stone that was within reach of the creature was gouged with countless scars, on all sides, a hatch-marked nightmare of madness, triggering horror within the Malazan… for it was a nightmare he recognized within himself. She—she is my soul—
The Seer stood before him, moving in desperate, jerky motions—the old man's body, that the Jaghut had occupied for so long, was falling to pieces—and muttering a singsong chant as, ignoring Toc, he edged ever closer to the Matron, to Mother.
The enormous beast cringed, claws scraping as it pushed itself against the wall. Its shrieks did not pause, resounding through the cavern.
The Seer held something in his hands, pallid, smooth and oblong—an egg, not from a bird. A lizard's egg, latticed in grey magic.
Magic that waxed with every word of the Seer's song.
Toc watched as something exploded from the Matron's body, a coruscation of power that sought to flee upward—
—but was, instead, snared by the web of sorcery; snared, then drawn into the egg in the Seer's hands.
The Matron's shrieking suddenly ceased. The creature settled back with a mindless whimper.
In the numbing silence within the cavern, Toc could now hear more clearly the sounds of battle in the corridor beyond. Close, and closing.
The Seer, clutching the Finnest, spun to stare down at Toc. The Jaghut's smile split the corpse's desiccated lips. 'We shall return,' he whispered.
The sorcery blossomed once more, then, as heavy chains clattered freely to the floor, darkness returned.
And Toc knew that he was alone within the cavern. The Seer had taken Mother's power, and then he had taken her as well.
The wolf thrashed in his chest, launching spikes of pain along his broken, malformed limbs. It yearned to loose its howl, its call to lover and to kin. Yet it could not draw breath—
—cannot draw breath. It dies. The hail, these savage gifts, they mean nothing. With me, the god's fatal choice, we die—
The sounds of fighting had stopped. Toc heard iron bars snap, one after another, heard metal clang on the flagstones.
Then someone was crouching down beside him. A hand that was little more than rough bone and tendon settled on Toc's forehead.
The Malazan could not see. There was no light. But the hand was cool, its weight gentle.
'Hood? Have you come for us, then?' The words were clearly spoken in his mind, but came out incomprehensibly—and he realized that his tongue was gone.
'Ah, my friend,' the figure replied in a rasp. 'It is I, Onos T'oolan, once of the Tarad Clan, of the Logros T'lan Imass, but now kin to Aral Fayle, to Toc the Younger.'
Kin.
Withered arms gathered him up.
'We are leaving now, young brother.'
Leaving?
Picker eyed the breach. The bravado that had been behind her proclamation that they would follow the T'lan Imass into the keep had not survived a sudden return to caution once they came within sight of the fortress. It was under assault, and whatever enemy had stormed into the keep had kicked hard the hornet nest.
K'Chain Che'Malle were thundering back through the compound gate. Sorcerous detonations shook the entire structure. Urdomen and Beklites raced along the top of the walls. Twisting spirals of grey lightning writhed skyward from the south roof, linking the score of condors wheeling overhead. Beyond it, filling the sky above the harbour, was an enormous storm-cloud, flashes burgeoning from its heaving depths.
The lieutenant glanced back at her paltry squads. They'd lost the three badly wounded soldiers, as she had expected. Not one of the Bridgeburners crouching in the smoke-hazed street had been spared—she saw far too much blood on the soot-smeared uniforms behind her. To the northwest, the sounds of battle continued, drawing no closer. Picker knew that Dujek would have sought to reach the keep, if at all possible. From what she could hear, however, he was being pushed back, street by street. The gambit had failed. Leaving us on our own.
'K'Chain Che'Malle!' a soldier hissed from the back. 'Coming up behind us!'
'Well, that settles it, then,' Picker muttered. 'Doubletime to Hedge's breach!'
The Bridgeburners sprinted across the rubble-littered street. Blend was the first to complete her scramble over the tower's wreckage. Immediately beyond was a shattered building—three walls and half of the roof remaining. Within lay dusty darkness, and what might be a doorway far to the left of the room's far wall.
Two steps behind Blend, Picker leapt clear of the tumbled stone blocks to land skidding on the room's floor—colliding with a cursing, backpedalling Blend.
Feet tangling, the two women fell. 'Damn it, Blend—'
'Guards—'
A third voice cut in. 'Picker! Lieutenant!'
As her Bridgeburners gathered behind her, Picker sat up to see Hedge, Bluepearl and seven additional Bridgeburners—the ones who had taken crossbows to the top of the wall and had survived the consequences—emerge from the shadows.
'We tried getting back to you—'
'Never mind, Hedge,' Picker said, clambering to her feet. 'You played it right, soldier, trust me—'
Hedge was holding a cusser in one hand, which he raised with a grin. 'Held one back—'
'Did a T'lan Imass come through here?'
'Aye, a beat-up bastard, looked neither left nor right—just walked right past us—deeper into the keep—'
A Bridgeburner to the rear shouted, 'We got that K'Chain Che'Malle coming up behind us!'
'Through the door back there!' Hedge squealed. 'Clear the way, idiots! I've been waiting for this—'
Picker began shoving her soldiers towards the back wall.
The sapper scrambled back towards the breach.
The following events were a tumble in Picker's mind—
Blend gripped her arm and bodily threw her towards the doorway, where her soldiers were plunging through into whatever lay beyond. Picker swore, but Blend's hands were suddenly on her back, pushing her face first through the portal. Picker twisted with a snarl, and saw over Blend's shoulder—
The K'Chain Che'Malle seemed to flow as it raced over the rubble, blades lifting.
Hedge looked up—to find himself four paces away from the charging reptile.
Picker heard him grunt, a muted, momentary sound—
The sapper threw the cusser straight down.
The K'Chain Che'Malle was already swinging—two huge blades descending—
The explosion beat them clean.
Blend and Picker were thrown through the doorway. The lieutenant's head snapped back to the thudding, staccato impact of flying stones against her helm and the lowered visor and cheek-guards. Those that made it past lanced fire into her face, filled her nose and mouth with blood.
Deafened, she reeled back through clouds of dust and smoke.
Voices were screaming—issuing from what seemed very far away then swiftly closing to surround her.
Stones falling—a cross-beam of tarred wood, raging with flames, sweeping down, ending with a solid thud and crunch of bones—a death-groan amidst the chaos, so close to Picker that she wondered if it wasn't her own.
Hands gripped her once again, pulled her round, propelled her down what seemed to be a corridor.
A tunnel of smoke and dust—no air—the pounding of boots, blind collisions, curses—darkness—that suddenly dissipated.
Picker stumbled into the midst of her soldiers, spitting blood, coughing. Around them, a room littered with dead Beklites, another door, opposite, that looked to have been shattered with a single punch. A lone lantern swung wildly from a hook above them.
'Look!' someone grunted. 'A dog's been chewing on the lieutenant's chin!'
Not even
a jest—simply the absurd madness of battle. Shaking her head to a spatter of blood, Picker spat again and surveyed her troops through stinging, streaming eyes.
'Blend?' The name came out mangled but understandable.
Silence.
'Bucklund—back into the corridor! Find her!'
The Twelfth Squad's sergeant was back a moment later, dragging a blood-drenched body through the doorway. 'She's breathing—Hood knows how! Her back's full of stones and shards!'
Picker dropped to her knees beside her friend. 'You damned idiot,' she mumbled.
'We should've had Mallet with us,' Bucklund grumbled beside her.
Aye, not the only mistake in this fouled-up game.
'Oh!' a woman's voice cried. 'You are not Pannions!'
Weapons swung to the doorway.
A woman in a blindingly white telaba stood there, her long black hai shimmering, impossibly clean, perfectly combed. Veiled, stunning! Her beautiful eyes studied them. 'Have you, by any chance, seen three masked warriors? They should have passed this way, looking for the throne room, assuming there is one, that is. You might have heard some fighting—'
'No,' Bucklund growled. 'I mean, yes, we've heard fighting. Everywhere, ma'am. That is—'
'Shut up,' Picker sighed. 'No,' she said to the woman, 'we ain't seen no three masked warriors—'
'What of a T'lan Imass?'
'As a matter of fact, yeah—'
'Excellent! Tell me, does she still have all those swords impaling her? I can't imagine she'd leave—'
'What swords?' Picker demanded. 'Besides, it was male. I think.'
'It was,' another soldier piped up, then reddened as her comrades swung to her with broad grins.
'A male T'lan Imass?' The white-robed woman raised a finger to her full lips, then smiled, 'Why, that would be Tool! Excellent!' The smile vanished. 'Unless, of course, Mok finds him…'
'Who are you?' Picker demanded.
'You know, dear, it's growing increasingly difficult to understand what you are saying through all that blood and such. I believe you're Malazans, yes? Unwitting allies, but you are all so terribly injured. I have an idea, a wonderful idea—as are all my ideas, of course. Wonderful, that is. We are here, you see, to effect the rescue of one Toc the Younger, a soldier of—'
'Toc the Younger?' Picker repeated. 'Toc? But he's—'
'A prisoner of the Seer, alas. A distressing fact, and I dislike being distressed. It irritates me. Immeasurably. Now, as I was saying, I have an idea. Assist me in this rescue, and I will heal those of you who need healing—which seems to be all of you.'
Picker gestured down at Blend. 'Deal. Start with her.'
As the woman stepped into the room, Bucklund shouted and scrabbled back from the doorway.
Picker looked up. A massive wolf stood in the hallway beyond, eyes gleaming through the dust-shrouded gloom.
The woman glanced back. 'Oh, not to worry. That is Baaljagg. Garath has wandered off, I believe. Busy killing Pannions, I expect. He seems to have acquired a taste for Seerdomin… now, this poor woman—well, we'll have you right in no time, dear…'
'What in Hood's name is happening over there?'
On the other side of the low wall, a flight of stairs gave access to the parapet overlooking the harbour and the bay beyond—or, rather, so Paran concluded, since nothing else made sense. In any case, some kind of approach was being contested, and from the screams, whatever was on its way to the flat rooftop was wreaking havoc on the defenders.
Beside Paran, Quick Ben raised his head a fraction. 'I don't know and I'm not popping up for a look, either,' he said in answer to the captain's question, 'but let's hope it proves a worthwhile diversion. I can't keep us here much longer, without those condors finding us.'
'Something's keeping them busy,' Spindle asserted, 'and you know it, Quick. If one of them took the time to look hard—we'd be feeding the chicks in its nest by now.'
'You're right.'
'Then what in Hood's name are we still doing here?'
Good question. Paran twisted round, looked back along the roof to the north. There was a trapdoor there.
'We're still here,' Quick Ben grated, 'because this is where we need to be—'
'Hold it,' Paran growled, reaching up to wipe what he thought was sweat from his eyes, though the smear on his hand was red—the stitches on his temple had pulled loose. 'Not quite true, Quick. It's where you and I need to be. Mallet, if there's anything left of the Bridgeburners, they need you right now.'
'Aye, Captain, and knowing that's been eating me up inside.'
'All right. Listen, then. The fiery Abyss has broken loose down in this keep under us. We've no idea who's doing the fighting, but we do know one thing—they're no friends of the Pannions. So, Mallet, take Spindle and the rest—that trapdoor back there looks flimsy enough to break open if it's locked.'
'Aye, Captain. Only, how do we get there without being seen?'
'Spindle's right about those condors—they're busy with something else, and looking more agitated with every beat of the heart. It's a short sprint, Healer. But if you're not willing to risk it—'
Mallet glanced at Spindle, then at Detoran and Trotts. Finally, at Antsy. The sergeant nodded. Mallet sighed. 'Aye, sir, we'll give it a go.'
Paran glanced at Quick Ben. 'Any objections, Wizard?'
'No, Captain. At the very least…' He fell silent.
At the very least, they've a better chance of getting out alive. I hear you, Quick. 'OK, Mallet, make your run when you're ready.'
'Push and pull, Captain.'
'And to you, Healer.'
With a grunted command, the squad scrambled for the trapdoor.
Dujek dragged the wounded soldier through the doorway, and only then noticed that the man's legs had been left behind, and the trail of blood leading back to the limbs thinned to virtually nothing by the time it reached the threshold. He let the body drop, sagged against the frame.
The K'Chain Che'Malle had cut through the company in the span of a dozen heartbeats, and though the Hunter had lost an arm, it had not slowed as it thumped westward—in search of another company of hapless Malazans.
Dujek's elite bodyguard of Untan heavy infantry lay in a chopped ruin in front of the building into which they had pushed the High Fist. As sworn, they'd given their lives in his defence. At the moment, however, Dujek would rather they'd failed—or, better yet, fled.
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 Fis
t—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 nobleborn with the permanent sneer. Gods, I 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 Andü will seek to assist us in our attack upon the K'Chain Che'Malle, as will the shouldermen of the White Faces.'