Memories of Ice

made of it a standard. I saw it myself. Sir, I ceased arguing, then — I'm sorry-'

'I understand you, sir.'

'There was no shortage of weapons. The Tular Capanthall armed themselves — four, five hundred came out. Men and women. The foreigner had sent out his own followers, and they began returning. With them, surviving bands of Capanthall soldiery, a few Gidrath, Coralessian, and Grey Swords, sir. The Trimaster had been killed, you see-'

'The foreigner rallied them,' Itkovian cut in. 'Then what?'

'We marched to the relief of Jehbar Tower, sir. Shield Anvil, behind that horrible banner, we delivered slaughter.'

'The condition of the tower?'

'Ruined, sir. Alas. There were but twenty survivors among the Capanthall defending it. They are now with the foreigner. I, uh, I returned to my responsibilities then, sir, and was given leave to report to you-'

'Generous of this stranger. What was the disposition of this militia at that time?'

'They were about to sortie through the rubble of West Gate, sir-'

'What?'

'A Beklite company was coming up to reinforce the attackers inside the city. But those attackers were all dead. The foreigner planned on surprising them with that fact.'

'Twin Tusks, who is this man?'

'I know not his name, sir. He wields two cutlasses. Fights like a … like a boar, sir, with those two cutlasses …'

Itkovian stared at the young man for a long moment, seeing the pain diminishing as the Destriant continued gripping his shoulders, seeing the blisters shrink, the welt fading, new skin closing around the ruined eye. The Shield Anvil swung about in a clank of armour, faced west. The fire of the West Barracks reached its crimson light only so far. Beyond, darkness ruled. He shifted his attention to the Jelarkan Concourse. No further breaches were evident, as far as he could determine. The Mortal Sword had matters well in hand, as Itkovian knew would be the case.

'Less than a bell,' Karnadas murmured, 'before dawn. Shield Anvil, the city holds.'

Itkovian nodded.

More boots on the ladder. They all turned as another messenger arrived.

'Shield Anvil, from the third sortie to East Watch redoubt. The surviving Gidrath have been recovered, sir. Movement to the southeast was discerned. The Trimaster sent a scout. Shield Anvil, the Tenescowri are on the move.'

Itkovian nodded. They will arrive with the dawn. Three hundred thousand, maybe more. 'Destriant, open the tunnels. Begin with the inner Camps, sir. Every citizen below. Take charge of the barracks Manes and Wings and whoever else you come across to effect swift directions and control of the entranceways.'

Karnadas's lined face twisted into a wry smile. 'Shield Anvil, it is my duty to remind you that the Mask Council has yet to approve the construction of said tunnels.'

Itkovian nodded again, 'Fortunately for the people of Capustan we proceeded without awaiting that approval.' Then he frowned. 'It seems the Mask Council has found its own means of self-defence.'

'Not them, sir. Hetan and Cafal. And a new priest, indeed, the very 'merchant' whom you rescued out on the plain.'

The Shield Anvil slowly blinked. 'Did he not have a caravan guard — a large man with a pair of cutlasses belted to his hips?' Cutlasses? More like Fener's own tusks.

The Destriant hissed. 'I believe you are right, sir. In fact, only yesterday I spared a moment to heal him.'

'He was wounded?'

'Hungover, Shield Anvil. Very.'

'I see. Carry on, sir.' Itkovian looked to his two messengers. 'Word must be sent to the Mortal Sword … and to this foreigner. '

The Beklite's wicker shield exploded from the man's arm to Gruntle's backhand swing. The notched, gore- smeared cutlass in the caravan guard's other hand chopped straight down, through helm, then skull. Brain and blood sprayed down over his gauntlet. The Beklite fell to one side, limbs jerking.

Gruntle spun, whipping the ragged mess from his blade. A dozen paces behind him, looming above the feral ranks of his followers, was the Child's Standard, a torn, brightly dyed yellow tunic now splashed with a red that was drying to deep magenta.

The Beklite company had been crushed. Gruntle's victim had been the last. The caravan captain and his militia were forty paces outside what was left of the West Gate, on the wide main avenue of what had been a shanty town. The structures were gone, their wooden walls and slate roofs dismantled and taken away. Patches of stained earthen floors and the scatter of broken pottery were all that remained. Two hundred paces further west ran the pickets of the besiegers, swarming in the dawn's growing light.

Gruntle could see half a thousand Betaklites marshalling along its edge, flanked by companies of Urdomen and Betrullid light cavalry. Beyond them, a vast veil of dust was rising, lit gold by the slanting sun.

The lieutenant had dropped to one knee beside Gruntle, struggling to regain control of his breathing. 'Time's — time's come — to — withdraw, sir.'

Scowling, the caravan captain swung to survey his militia. Fifty, sixty still standing. What did I start with last night? About the same. Is that right? Gods, can that be right? 'Where are our sergeants?'

'They're there, most of them, anyway. You want me to call them forward, sir?'

No, yes, I want to see their faces. I can't remember their faces. 'Have them assemble the squads.'

'Sir, if that cavalry rushes us-'

'They won't. They're masking.'

'Masking what?'

'Tenescowri. Why throw more veteran soldiers at us only to see them killed? Those bastards need a rest in any case. No, it's time for the starving horde.'

'Beru fend,' the lieutenant whispered.

'Don't worry,' Gruntle replied, 'they die easy.'

'We need to rest — we're sliced to pieces, sir. I'm too old for a suicide stand.'

'Then what in Hood's name are you doing in Capustan? Never mind. Let's see the squads. I want armour stripped from these bodies. Leathers only, and helms and gauntlets. I want my sixty to look like soldiers.'

'Sir-'

'Then we withdraw. Understood? Best be quick about it, too.'

Gruntle led his battered company back towards Capustan. There was activity amidst the ruin of West Gate. The plain grey cloaks of the Grey Swords dominated the crowd, though others — masons and ragtag crews of labourers — were present as well. The frenzied activity slowed as heads turned. Conversations fell away.

Gruntle's scowl deepened. He hated undue attention. What are we, ghosts?

Eyes were pulled to the Child's Standard.

A figure strode forward to meet them, an officer of the mercenaries. 'Welcome back,' the woman said with a grave nod. Her face was caked with dust, runnels of sweat tracking down from under her helm. 'We've got 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.