A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

hammering on the door.
    Gruntle and his troop, still reeling from a savage clash with fifteen Urdomen that had seen most of the militia chopped to pieces – before Gruntle had personally cut down the last two Pannions – had come upon the Scalandi mob from behind.
    The engagement was swift and brutal. Only the Lestari sergeant revealed any mercy when he slit the throats of those Scalandi who had been badly scalded by the boiling water. The cessation of their shrieks brought sudden silence to the scene.
    Gruntle crouched beside a body and used its tunic to clean the blades of his cutlasses. The muscles of his arms and shoulders were leaden, trembling.
    The night's breeze had strengthened, smelling of salt, sweeping the smoke inland. Enough fires still raged on all sides to drive back the darkness.
    'Look at that, will you?'
    The caravan captain glanced over at the Lestari sergeant, then followed the man's gaze.
    The Thrall loomed to the southeast, only a few streets away. The entire keep was faintly glowing.
    'What do you figure?' the grizzled soldier muttered.
    Sorcery of some kind.
    'I'd guess that's ritual magic,' the sergeant went on. 'Probably protective. Hood knows, we could do with some of that ourselves. We're cut to pieces, sir – I ain't got much left and as for the rest...' Eyeing the dozen battered, bleeding Capanthall crouched or kneeling, or leaning against the house's walls, he shook his head. 'They're done for.'
    Sounds of fighting neared from the southwest.
    The scraping of armour from the roof of Lestari House drew Gruntle's attention. A half-dozen Capanthall regulars were looking down on them. 'Nicely done, whoever you all are!' one shouted.
    'What can you see up there?' the sergeant called up.
    'We've retaken the North Gate! Grey Swords, damn near a thousand of them. The Pannions are reeling!'
    'Grey Swords,' the Lestari muttered under his breath. He glared across at Gruntle. 'We was the ones who retook that gate—'
    'But we're not holding it, are we?' Gruntle growled, straightening. He faced his meagre troop. 'Look alive, you spineless Capans. We ain't finished.'
    Dull, disbelieving eyes fixed on him.
    'Sounds like the West Gate's down. Sounds like our defenders are back-pedalling. Meaning they've lost their officers, or their officers ain't worth shit. Sergeant, you're now a lieutenant. The rest of you, you're sergeants. We've got some scared soldiers to rally. Let's move, doubletime – don't want you all stiffening up.' Glaring at them, Gruntle rolled his shoulders, clashed his cutlasses. 'Follow me.'
    He jogged down the street, towards West Gate. After a moment, the others fell in step.
     
    Two bells before dawn. To the north and to the west, the roar of battle was diminishing. Itkovian's counterattacks had reclaimed the gates and walls there; the fight was out of the attackers on those sides, for the rest of this night at least.
    Brukhalian had returned from the Thrall, Karnadas in tow, a bell earlier. The Mortal Sword had assembled the six hundred recruits the Shield Anvil had been holding in reserve, along with two Manes and two Wings, and set off towards the Jelarkan Concourse, where it was rumoured over a thousand Beklites had pushed their way in, threatening to overwhelm the inner defences.
    The situation around the West Gate was even more dire. Three of Itkovian's messengers had not returned after being sent that way. The West Barracks was a massive fist of raging fire, revealing in lurid flashes the rubble that was the West Gate itself. This breach, should it prove able to reach through to the west side of Jelarkan Concourse, could see the fall of half the city.
    The Shield Anvil paced with frustration. He was out of reserve forces. For a while there, it looked as if the Capanthall and Grey Sword detachments assigned to the West Gate had simply ceased to exist, the wound gushing into a flood. Then, inexplicably, resolve had stiffened. The flood had encountered a human wall, and though it rose, it had yet to pour over.
    The fate of Capustan lay with those defenders, now. And Itkovian could only watch, as all hung in the balance.
    Karnadas was below, in the barracks compound. Exhausting his Denul warren, struggling against whatever sorcerous infection plagued it, yet still managing to effect healing of wounded Grey Swords. Something had happened in the Thrall, was happening even now – the entire keep was glowing, a colourless penumbra. Itkovian wanted to ask the Destriant about