A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

speeding out, ripping through
the crowd in a streak of spraying blood. A quarrel designed
to knock holes in hulls punched through flesh and bone
effortlessly, one body after another.
    A few arrows raced towards the soldiers on the jetty, and
then the mob reached the front line.
    Undisciplined, convinced that the weight of impetus
alone would suffice in shattering the shield-wall, they were
not prepared for the perfectly timed answering push from
the heavies, the large shields hammering into them, blades
lashing out.
    The only soldier untrained in holding a wall was Corabb
Bhilan Thenu'alas, and Koryk saw Smiles move up behind
the man as he chopped away at a foe with his cutlass. The
man before him was huge, wielding shortswords, one
thrusting the other slashing, and Corabb dropped into a
sustained defence with his round shield and his weapon –
even as Smiles, seeing an opening, threw a knife that took
the attacker in the throat. As the man crumpled, Corabb
swung and the cutlass crunched down into the unprotected
head.
    'Back into the gap!' Smiles screamed, pushing Corabb
forward.
    Koryk caught sight of a figure off to one side – not the
commander – gods, that's a mage, and he's readying a warren
– he raised his crossbow, depressed the trigger.
    The quarrel sent the man spinning.
    Three more sharpers detonated further back in the pressing
mob. All at once the attack crumpled, and the
shield-wall advanced a step, then another, weapons slashing
down to finish off the wounded. Figures raced away, and
Koryk heard someone in the distance shouting, calling out
a rallying point – for the moment, he saw, few were
listening.
    One down.
    On the broad loading platform and to either side, scores
of bodies littered the cobbles, faint voices crying with sorrow
and pain.
    Gods below, we're killing our own here.
     
    On the foredeck of the Froth Wolf, Keneb turned to
Captain Rynag. He struggled to contain his fury as he said,
'Captain, there were soldiers in that mob. Out of uniform.'
    The man was pale. 'I know nothing of that, Fist.'
    'What is the point of this? They won't get their hands on
the Fourteenth.'
    'I – I don't know. It's the Wickans – they want them. A
pogrom's begun and there's no way of stopping it.
A crusade's been launched, there's an army marching onto
the Wickan Plains—'
    'An army? What kind of army?'
    'Well, a rabble, but they say it's ten thousand strong, and
there's veterans among them.'
    'The Empress approves? Never mind.' Keneb turned
once more and regarded the city. The bastards were
regrouping. 'All right,' he said, 'if this goes on long enough
I may defy the orders given me by the Adjunct. And land
the whole damned army—'
    'Fist, you cannot do that—'
    Keneb spun round. 'Not long ago you were insisting on
it!'
    'Plague, Fist! You would unleash devastation—'
    'So what? I'd rather give than receive, under the circumstances.
Now, unless the Empress has a whole army hidden
here in the city, the Fourteenth can put an end to this
uprising – the gods know, we've got enough experience
when it comes to those. And I admit, I am now of a mind
to do just that.'
    'Fist—'
    'Get off this ship, Captain. Now.'
    The man stared. 'You are threatening me?'
    'Threatening? Coltaine was pinned spreadeagled to a
cross outside Aren. While Pormqual's army hid behind the
city's walls. I am sorely tempted, Captain, to nail you to
something similar, right here and now. A gift for the unbelievers
out there, just to remind them that some of us
remember the truth. I am going to draw three breaths and
if you're still here when I'm done—'
    The captain scrambled.
     
    Koryk watched the officer rush down the gangplank, then
edge round the heavies in their line. He seemed to be
making for the nearest crowd that was rallying at the
mouth of a broad street.
    Had Koryk considered, he would have found that array
of dark thoughts in his mind – each and every one ready to
find voice – to give him the excuses he needed. But he did
not consider, and as for excuses, there was, for him, no
need, no need at all.
    He raised his crossbow.
    Loosed the quarrel.
    Watched it strike the captain between the shoulderblades,
watched the man sprawl forward, arms flung out to
the sides.
    Tarr and others in that front line turned to study him,
silent, expressions blank beneath the rims of helms.
    Smiles voiced a disbelieving laugh.
    Heavy boots on the gangplank, then Keneb's harsh
demand: 'Who was responsible for that?'
    Koryk faced the