A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

and pull the lass out. Won't take long. Hood knows, I'll beat her un-conscious if she objects. We're going to find a way out of here, and that's that.
    He approached the back of the row of market stalls facing Inside Port Street. The alleys between the ramshackle stalls were narrow and knee-deep in refuse. The street beyond was invisible behind a wall of smoke. Kicking his way through the rubbish, Gruntle arrived at the street. The gate was to his left, barely visible. The massive doors were shattered, the passageway and threshold heaped with bodies. The block towers flanking the aperture, their blackened sides bearing white scars made by glancing arrows, quarrels and ballista bolts, were both issuing smoke from their arrow-slits. Screams and the clash of swords echoed from within them. Along the wall platforms to either side, soldiers in the garb of the Grey Swords were pushing their way into the top floors of the block towers.
    Thumping boots approached from Gruntle's right. A half-dozen Grey Sword squads emerged from the smoke, the front two ranks with swords and shields, the rear two with cocked crossbows. They crossed in front of the caravan captain and took position behind the pile of bodies at the gateway.
    A wayward wind swept the smoke from the street's length to Gruntle's right, revealing more bodies – Capanthall, Lestari, and Pannion Betaklites, continuing down the street to a barricaded intersection sixty paces distant, where there was yet another mound of slain soldiers.
    Gruntle jogged towards the troop of Grey Swords. Seeing no obvious officer, he elected the crossbow-woman nearest him. 'What's the situation here, soldier?'
    She glanced at him, her face a flat, expressionless mask covered in soot, and he was surprised to realize she was Capan. 'We're clearing out the towers up top. The sortie should be back soon – we'll let them through then hold the gateway.'
    He stared at her. Sortie? Gods, they've lost their minds! 'Hold, you said.' He glanced at the arched passage. 'For how long?'
    She shrugged. 'Sappers are on their way with work crews. There'll be a new gate in a bell or two.'
    'How many breaches? What's been lost?'
    'I wouldn't know, citizen.'
    'Cease your chatter over there,' a male voice called out. 'And get that civilian out of here—'
    'Movement ahead, sir!' another soldier shouted.
    Crossbows were readied over the shoulders of the crouching swordsmen.
    Someone called from outside the passageway, 'Lestari Troop – hold your fire! We're coming in!'
    There was no relaxing evident among the Grey Swords. A moment later the first elements of the sortie trundled into view. Cut and battered and bearing wounded, the heavily armoured foot-soldiers began shouting for the Grey Swords to clear a path.
    The waiting squads split to form a corridor.
    Every Lestari among the first thirty who passed through was encumbered by a wounded comrade. From beyond the gateway the sound of fighting drew Gruntle's attention. It was getting closer. There was a rearguard, protecting those bearing the wounded, and the pressure on them was building.
    'Counterattack!' someone bellowed. 'Scalandi skirmishers—'
    A horn moaned from high atop the wall to the right of the southside block tower.
    The roar was growing from the killing field beyond the gateway. The cobbles beneath Gruntle's boots trembled. Scalandi. They engage in legions of no less than five thousand —
    Ranks of Grey Swords were assembling further down Inside Port Street, swordsmen, crossbowmen, and Capanthall archers, forming a fall-back line. An even larger company was gathering beyond them, along with ballistae, trebuchets and hurlers – the latter with their buckets of scalding gravel steaming like cauldrons.
    The rearguard stumbled into the passage. Javelins sliced among them, glancing off armour and shield, only one finding its mark, sending a soldier wheeling with the barbed shaft through his neck. The first of the Pannion Scalandi appeared, lithe, leather-shirted and leather-helmed, wielding spears and scavenged swords, a few with wicker shields, pushing against the yielding line of Lestari heavy infantry, dying one after another, yet still more came on, voicing a keening warcry.
    'Break! Break!'
    The bellowed command had an instant effect, as the Lestari rearguard suddenly disengaged, spun round and bolted down the corridor, leaving their fallen behind – to be claimed by the Scalandi, dragged back, vanishing from sight. Then the skirmishers