A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

some weaponsmiths set up outside Tular Camp. I imagine your Tusks need sharpening—'
    'Cutlasses.'
    'As you say, sir. The Shield Anvil – no, we all would know your name—'
    But Gruntle had already stepped past her. 'Sharpeners. Good idea. Lieutenant, you think we all need to get our tusks sharpened?'
    The Grey Swords officer spun round. 'Sir, the reference is not to be taken lightly.'
    He continued on. Over his shoulder, he said, 'Fine, let's call them tiger-claws, why don't we? Looks to me you've got a gate to rebuild. Best get to it, lass. Them Tenescowri want breakfast, and we're it.'
    He heard her hiss in what might have been angry frustration.
    Moments later, the workers resumed their efforts.
    The weaponsmiths had set up their grindstone wheels in the street. Beyond them, in the direction of the Jelarkan Concourse, the sounds of battle continued. Gruntle waved his soldiers forward. 'Line up all of you. I want those blades so sharp you can shave with them.'
    The lieutenant snorted. 'Most of your troop's women, sir.'
    'Whatever.'
    A rider was driving his horse hard down the street. He reined in with a clatter of hooves, dismounted and paused to adjust his armoured gauntlets before striding to Gruntle.
    'Are you Keruli's caravan captain?' he asked, face hidden behind a full-visored helm.
    'Was. What do you want, mercenary?'
    'Compliments from the Shield Anvil, sir.' The voice was hard, deep. 'The Tenescowri are massing—'
    'I know.'
    'It is the Shield Anvil's belief that their main assault will be from the east, for it is there that the First Child of the Dead Seed has assembled his vanguard.'
    'Fine, what of it?'
    The messenger was silent for a moment, then he continued. 'Sir, Capustan's citizens are being removed—'
    'Removed where?'
    'The Grey Swords have constructed tunnels beneath the city, sir. Below are amassed sufficient supplies to support twenty thousand citizens—'
    'For how long?'
    'Two weeks, perhaps three. The tunnels are extensive. In many cases, old empty barrows were opened as well, as storage repositories – there were more of those than anyone had anticipated. The entranceways are well hidden, and defensible.'
    Two weeks. Pointless. 'Well, that takes care of the non-combatants. What about us fighters?'
    The messenger's eyes grew veiled between the black-iron bars of the visor. 'We fight. Street by street, building by building. Room by room, sir. The Shield Anvil enquires of you, which section of the city do you wish to assume? And is there anything you require? Arrows, food ...'
    'We've no archers, but food and watered wine, aye. Which section?' Gruntle surveyed his troop. 'More like which building. There's a tenement just off Old Daru Street, the one with the black-stone foundations. We'll start at North Gate, then fall back to there.'
    'Very good. Supplies will be delivered to that tenement house, sir.'
    'Oh, there's a woman in one of the rooms on the upper floor – if your evacuation of citizens involved a house-by-house search—'
    'The evacuation was voluntary, sir.'
    'She wouldn't have agreed to it.'
    'Then she remains where she is.'
    Gruntle nodded.
    The lieutenant came to the captain's side. 'Your cutlasses – time to hone your tiger-claws, sir.'
    'Aye.' Turning away, Gruntle did not notice the messenger's head jerk back at the Lestari lieutenant's words.
     
    Through the dark cage of his visor, Shield Anvil Itkovian studied the hulking caravan captain who now strode towards a swordsmith, the short-legged Lestari trailing a step behind. The blood-stained cutlasses were out, the wide, notched, tip-heavy blades the colour of smoky flames.
    He had come to meet this man for himself, to take his fullest measure and fashion a face to accompany the man's extraordinary talents.
    Itkovian already regretted the decision. He muttered a soft, lengthy curse at his own impetuosity. Fights like a boar? Gods, no, this man is a big, plains-hunting cat. He has bulk, aye, but it passes unnoticed behind a deadly grace. Fener save us all, the Tiger of Summer's ghost walks in this man's shadow.
    Returning to his horse, Itkovian drew himself up into the saddle. He gathered the reins. Swinging his mount round, he tilted his head back and stared at the morning sun. The truth of this has burst like fire in my heart. On this, our last day, I have met this unnamed man, this servant of Treach, the Tiger of Summer . . . Treach ascending.
    And Fener? The brutal boar whose savage cunning rides my soul –