A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 1

late—'
    'Take me to Pormqual – to Mallick Rel—'
    'Follow me, then.'
    The refugees were stirring as garrison soldiers moved among them, beginning the task of clearing the concourse to allow room for the High Fist's army.
    Blistig pushed through the crowd, Duiker a step behind him. 'Pormqual's ordered my garrison out with them,' the commander said over his shoulder. 'Rearguard. That's in defiance of my responsibility. My task is to defend this city, yet the High Fist has been conscripting from my own soldiers, bleeding the companies. I'm down to three hundred now, barely enough to hold the walls. Especially with all the Red Blades under arrest—'
    'Under arrest! Why?'
    'Seven Cities blood – Pormqual doesn't trust them.'
    'The fool! They're the most loyal soldiers of the Empire I've ever known—'
    'I agree, Historian, but my opinion is worthless—'
    'Mine had better not be,' Duiker said.
    Blistig paused, turning. 'Do you support the High Fist's decision to attack?'
    'Hood, no!'
    'Why?'
    'Because we don't know how many are out there. Wiser to wait for Tavore, wiser still to let Korbolo fling his warriors against these walls—'
    Blistig nodded. 'We'd cut them to pieces. The question is, can you convince Pormqual of all you've just said?'
    'You know him,' Duiker retorted. 'I don't.'
    The commander grimaced. 'Let's go.'
    The standards of the High Fist's army flanked a knot of mounted figures near the mouth of the main avenue leading off from the concourse. Blistig led the historian directly for them.
    Duiker saw Pormqual seated atop a magnificent warhorse. The High Fist's armour was ornate, more decorative than functional. The jewelled hilt of a Grisian broadsword jutted from one hip; the helm bore a gold-threaded sunburst on the polished iron skullcap. His face looked sickly and bloodless.
    Mallick Rel sat on a white horse beside the High Fist, silk-cloaked and weaponless, a sea-blue cloth wrapped about his head. Various officers, both mounted and on foot, surrounded them, and among that group Duiker saw Nethpara and Pullyk Alar.
    A red mist descended on the scene as Duiker's stare fixed on the two noblemen. Increasing his pace, he pushed past Blistig, who snapped a hand out to drag the historian back.
    'Leave that till later, man. You've got a more immediate responsibility to deal with first.'
    Trembling, Duiker forced his rage back. He managed a nod.
    'Come on, the High Fist has seen us.'
    Pormqual's expression was cold as he looked down on Duiker. His voice was shrill as he said, 'Historian, your arrival is timely. We have two tasks before us this day, both of which require your presence—'
    'High Fist—'
    'Silence! Interrupt me again and I'll have your tongue cut out!' He paused, settled, then resumed his statement. 'First of all, you shall yourself accompany us in the battle to come. To witness the proper means of dealing with that rabble. The selling of the lives of innocent refugees is not a bargain I shall make – there shall be no repetition of earlier tragedies, earlier crimes of treason! The fools out there have only now settled to sleep – and they shall pay for that stupidity, I assure you.
    'Then, when the renegades have been slaughtered, we shall attend to other responsibilities, primarily your arrest and that of the warlocks known as Nil and Nether – the last remaining "officers" of Coltaine's horrific command. And I assure you, the punishment following your conviction shall match the severity of your crimes.' He gestured and an aide led Duiker's mare forward. 'Alas, your beast is hardly fit for the company, but it shall suffice.
    'Commander Blistig, prepare your soldiers for marching. We wish our rearguard to be no more and no less than three hundred paces behind us. I trust that is within your capabilities – if not, inform me now, and I shall happily place someone else in command of the garrison.'
    'Aye, High Fist, the task is within my capabilities.'
    Duiker's gaze swung to Mallick Rel, and the historian wondered at the satisfied flush in the priest's face, but only for a moment. Ah, of course, past slights. Not a man to cross, are you, Rel?
    In silence, the historian walked to his horse and climbed into the saddle. He laid a hand on the mare's thin, ungroomed neck, then gathered the reins.
    The lead companies of medium cavalry were assembled at the gate. Once out of the city, little time would be wasted, as the horsewarriors would immediately part in a sweeping manoeuvre intended to