A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

devoured by the Tenescowri?'
    'A more merciful demise even so, friend.'
    'Hood take me, Buke. Let me think on this.'
    'I'll come by this evening, then. At the barracks. Stonny—'
    'Stonny can't know a damn thing about it. If she catches on, she'll go after Broach herself, and she won't be subtle—'
    'And they'll kill her. Aye.'
    'Gods, my head's about to explode.'
    Buke grinned. 'What you need is a priest.'
    'A priest?'
    'A priest with the powers to heal. Come on, I know just the man.'
     
    Shield Anvil Itkovian stood by the barracks gate, fully armoured and gauntleted, his helm's visor raised though the cheek-guards remained in place. The afternoon's first bell had tolled a hundred heartbeats ago. The others were late, but that was nothing new; nor was Itkovian's punctuality. He'd grown long accustomed to awaiting Brukhalian and Karnadas, and it seemed that the two Barghast who were to join them for the meeting held a similar disregard.
    The Mask Council would greet them all seething from the apparent insult – and not for the first time.
    The contempt is mutual, alas. Dialogue has degraded. No-one wins in such a situation. And poor Prince Jelarkan . . . positioned directly between two parties exchanging mutual loathing.
    The Shield Anvil had spent the morning on Capustan's walls, surveying the measured settling of the Domin's besieging army. He judged that Septarch Kulpath had been given command of fully ten legions of Beklites, the red- and gold-clad, peak-helmed regular infantry that was the heart of the Domin's forces – half of the famed Hundred Thousand, then. Kulpath's Urdomen – elite heavy infantry – numbered at least eight thousand. When the breach occurred, it would be the Urdomen who pushed through into the city. In addition to these arrayed forces were various augmented divisions: Betaklites, medium infantry; at least three Betrullid Wings, light cavalry; as well as a division of Desandi – sappers and engineers – and Scalandi skirmishers. Perhaps eighty thousand soldiers in all.
    Beyond the impressively organized camps of the Septarch's army, the landscape was a seething mass of humanity, reaching down to the banks of the river to the south, and to the cobbled beaches of the coast to the east – the Tenescowri, the peasant army, with their wild-haired Women of the Dead Seed and their shrieking feral offspring; the scavenging parties – hunters of the weak and old among their own kind, and, soon, among the hapless citizens of Capustan. A starving horde, and seeing them crumbled the professional detachment with which Itkovian had viewed Kulpath's legions. He had left the walls, shaken for the first time in his life.
    There were a hundred thousand Tenescowri, with more arriving on overloaded barges with every bell, and Itkovian was staggered by the waves of their palpable hunger.
    The prince's Capanthall soldiers manning the battlements were pale as corpses, silent and virtually motionless. Upon arriving on the walls, the Shield Anvil had been dismayed by their fear; by the time he made his descent, he shared it, a cold knife lodged in his chest. The companies of Gidrath in the outside redoubts were the fortunate ones – their deaths were imminent, and would come beneath the blades of professional soldiers. Capustan's fate, and the fate of those defending it, was likely to be far more horrifying.
    The soft slither of coin armour announced the approach of the two Barghast warriors. Itkovian studied the woman in the lead. Hetan's face was smeared in ash, as was her brother Cafal's. The mourning visage would remain for as long as they chose, and the Shield Anvil suspected he would not live to see its removal. Even sheathed in grey, there is a brutal beauty to this woman.
    'Where is the hill bear and his scrawny pup?' Hetan demanded.
    'Fener's Mortal Sword and the Destriant have just emerged from the building behind you, Hetan.'
    She bared her teeth. 'Good, let us go meet these bickering priests, then.'
    'I still wonder why you have requested this audience, Hetan,' Itkovian said. 'If you are to announce the impending arrival of the entire clans of the Barghast to our aid, the Mask Council is not the place to do so. Efforts will begin immediately to manipulate you and your people, towards an endless and infectious mire of petty rivalries and battles of will. If you will not inform the Grey Swords, then I strongly urge you to speak with Prince Jelarkan—'
    'You talk too much, wolf.'
    Itkovian fell