A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

positioned on
the damp stones behind him. In his gauntleted hands he
held his crossbow. Three paces to his left stood Smiles, a
sharper in her right hand, her bared teeth gleaming in the
dull moonlight. To his right was Cuttle, crouched down
over a collection of munitions laid out on a rain-cape.
Among them was a cusser.
    'Hold on, Cuttle,' Koryk said upon seeing that oversized
grenado. 'Pass that cusser right back down, will you? Unless
you're planning on blowing up everyone here, not to
mention the Silanda and the Froth Wolf.'
    The sapper squinted up at him. 'If it takes a hundred of 'em
with us, I'm happy, Koryk. Don't mind that one – it's for the
last thing left – you'll probably be all down by then, anyway.'
    'But maybe still alive—'
    'Try and avoid that, soldier. Unless you're happy with the
mob having fun with what's left of you.'
    Scowling, Koryk returned his attention to the massing
crowd opposite. Twenty paces away, milling, shouting
threats and ugly promises. Plenty of serious weapons among
them. The City Guard had vanished, and all that seemed
to be holding the fools back for the moment was the solid
line of shield-locked soldiers facing them. Tarr, Corabb
Bhilan Thenu'alas, Uru Hela, Mayfly, Shortnose and
Flashwit. A few rocks and brick fragments had been thrown
across the killing ground, and those that came close were
met by shields lifting almost languidly to fend them off.
    Burning arrows were being readied along the flanks of
the mob.
    They'll try to fire the ships here first, and that is not good. He
didn't think the Silanda would burn, not after what Gesler
had told them. But the Froth Wolf was another matter. He
glanced over to see Corporal Deadsmell cross the gangplank
back to the jetty, and behind him was Fist Keneb,
who then spoke.
    'Sergeant Balm.'
    'Aye, Fist?'
    Keneb looked around. 'Where're Gesler and Fiddler?'
    'Scouting, sir.'
    'Scouting. I see. So, you're it, are you?'
    'Those arrows, sir—'
    'Destriant Run'Thurvian assures me our moored craft
will be safe. The transports, alas, are another matter. We
have signalled the nearest ones, with the command that
they withdraw until out of range. What this means,
Sergeant, is that you and your soldiers are on your own.
The bow ballista on Froth Wolf will provide support.'
    'Appreciate that, sir,' Balm said, a strangely bewildered
look in his eyes. 'Where's the siege?'
    'Excuse me?'
    Deadsmell cleared his throat and said to Keneb, 'Don't
mind him, sir. Once the fighting starts he'll be fine. Fist,
you're saying those arrows won't light up the ships – once
they see that they'll turn 'em on us.'
    Nodding, Keneb looked over at Cuttle. 'Sapper, I want
you to hit those archers on the flanks. Don't wait for their
first move. Sharpers, assuming they're within range.'
    Straightening, Cuttle looked over. 'Easy, sir. Galt, Lobe,
get over here and collect yourselves a couple sharpers – not
the cusser, Galt, you idiot – those small round ones, right?
Two, damn you, no more than that. Come back if you need
more—'
    'Maybe three—'
    'No! Think on it, Lobe. How many hands you got?
Where you gonna hold the third one – between your
cheeks? Two, and don't drop 'em or this whole jetty will
vanish and us with it.' He turned. 'Fist, you want us to hit
'em now?'
    'Might as well,' Keneb replied. 'With luck, the rest will
scatter.'
    Flaming arrows hissed out, seeking the rigging of the Froth Wolf. The sizzling arcs suddenly disappeared.
    Koryk grunted. 'Cute. Better get to it, Cuttle. The next
salvo's coming our way, I'd wager.'
    Cuttle on the right, Galt and Lobe on the left. Hefting
sharpers, then at Cuttle's command they threw the clay
grenados.
    Detonations, snapping like cracks in brittle stone, and
bodies were down, writhing, screaming—
    The centre mob, with a guttural roar, charged.
    'Shit,' from one of the heavies up front.
    Smiles launched her sharper into that onrushing midst.
    Another explosion, this one ten paces in front of the
shield-wall, which instinctively flinched back, heads ducking
beneath raised shields. Shrieks, tumbling figures, blood
and bits of meat, bodies underfoot tripping the attackers –
the front of that charge had become a chaotic mess, but
those behind it pushed on.
    Koryk moved along to the right – he could hear someone
shouting orders, a heavy voice, authoritarian – the cadence
of a Malazan officer – and Koryk wanted the bastard.
    The ballista mounted on the prow of the Froth Wolf bucked, the oversized missile