A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

still darkness – a time Itkovian had chosen to ease the shock of the surrounding ruination – with the priests sleeping soundly in the Thrall, the Grey Swords, numbering three hundred and nineteen in all when including those from the tunnels, were positioned at every tunnel mouth and at every place of convergence.
    They were there to ensure martial law and impart a sombre order to the proceedings, but their greatest value, as Itkovian well knew, was psychological.
    We are the defenders. And we still stand.
    While grieving was darkness, victory and all it meant was a greying to match the dawn, a lessening of the oppression that was loss, and of the devastation that slowly revealed itself on all sides. There could be no easing of the conflict within each and every survivor – the brutal randomness of fate that plagued the spirit – but the Grey Swords made of themselves a simple, solid presence. They had become, in truth, the city's standard.
    And we still stand.
    Once this task was complete, the contract was, to Itkovian's mind, concluded. Law and order could be left to the Gidrath from the Thrall. The surviving Grey Swords would leave Capustan, likely never to return. The question now occupying the Shield Anvil concerned the company's future. From over seven thousand to three hundred and nineteen: this was a siege from which the Grey Swords might never recover. But even such horrific losses, if borne alone, were manageable. The expelling of Fener from his warren was another matter. An army sworn to a god bereft of its power was, as far as Itkovian was concerned, no different from any other band of mercenaries: a collection of misfits and a scattering of professional soldiers. A column of coins offered no reliable backbone; few were the existent companies that could rightly lay claim to honour and integrity; few would stand' firm when flight was possible.
    Recruiting to strength had become problematic. The Grey Swords needed sober, straight-backed individuals; ones capable of accepting discipline of the highest order; ones for whom a vow held meaning.
    Twin Tusks, what I need is fanatics . . .
    At the same time, such people had to be without ties, of any sort. An unlikely combination.
    And, given such people could be found, to whom could they swear? Not Trake – that army's core already existed, centred around Gruntle.
    There were two other war-aspected gods that Itkovian knew of; northern gods, rarely worshipped here in the midlands or to the south.
    What did Hetan call me? She never likened me to a cat, or a bear. No. In her eyes, I was a wolf.
    Very well, then . . .
    He raised his head, scanned over the heads of the milling survivors in the concourse until he spied the other lone rider.
    She was watching him.
    Itkovian gestured her over.
    It was a few moments before she could pick her horse through the press and reach his side. 'Sir?'
    'Find the captain. We three have a task before us, sir.'
    The woman saluted, swung her mount round.
    He watched her ride onto a side street, then out of sight. There was a strong logic behind his decision, yet, for him, it felt hollow, as if he personally was to have no part to play in what was to come beyond the act of preparation – no subsequent role in what had to be. None the less, the survival of the Grey Swords took precedence over his own wishes; indeed, his own life. It has to be this way. I can think of no other. A new Reve must be fashioned. Even in this, I am not yet done.
     
    Captain Norul had found a horse for herself. Her face was aged beneath the rim of her helm: sleep had been denied them all for too long. She said nothing as she and the recruit reined in beside the Shield Anvil.
    'Follow me, sirs,' Itkovian said, wheeling his mount.
    They rode through the city, the sky paling to cerulean blue overhead, and left through the north gate. Encamped on the hills a third of a league away were the Barghast, the yurts and tents sparsely patrolled by a modest rearguard. Smoke rose from countless fires as the camp's old men and women began the morning meal. Children already ran down the uneven aisles, quieter than their city counterparts, but no less energetic.
    The three Grey Swords crossed the looted remains of the Pannion lines and rode directly for the nearest Barghast camp.
    Itkovian was not surprised to see a half-dozen old women gathering to meet them at the camp's edge. There is a current that carries us to this, and you witches have felt it as surely as have