It surprised him that he kept his humour through the entire ordeal. Standing with the rearguard, hands at the reins of the scrawny and bruised ex-carthorse he'd purchased for the price of a Grisan war-mount, he bowed an ironic farewell to Cawn – may it rot in the effluvium of its own sour rapaciousness. For what seemed not to have occurred to these factors in their myopic focus on the immediate gain was that once the League had taken Heng, the road to Unta led back this way.
* * *
Shaky had been motionless at an arrow-loop of the westernmost tower of Heng's north wall for some time now. Hurl was glad; she didn't want him bothering her while she worked her calculations.
‘Would you look at that…’ he said, amazement in his voice.
‘What?’ Hurl did not look up from her scratches on the slate board resting on her crossed legs.
‘They're attacking.’
‘I don't hear anything.’
‘Take a look. They're prepping.’
Sighing her annoyance, Hurl pushed her piece of chalk into a pouch and cautiously uncrossed her numb legs. ‘It's almost bloody dark, for Fanderay's sake!’
‘Guess they think they need all the help they can get.’
She looked out, studied the Talian entrenchments, and was displeased to have to admit that Shaky was right. ‘Well, so do we,’ she said absently as she watched the fires lighting down the lines, moveable shield platforms being raised and buckets of water being tossed on hides hung over every piece of wooden siege equipment. The increasing activity of the besiegers extended as far as she could see east around the curve of the outer wall. ‘Looks like a general assault,’ she said, amazed.
‘It's ridiculous. They don't have the men to take the walls.’
‘And they know we don't have the men to defend them.’
That silenced Shaky. He glanced up and down the top of the curtain wall. ‘You think maybe they've got a chance?’
‘There's always a chance.’
‘Yeah. Well, maybe someone ought to do something.’ He was looking straight at her. Hurl stared back until she realized that that someone was her. She stepped into the tower archway, leaned out. ‘Ready fires! Prepare for assault!’
‘Aye, Captain!’
Hurl fought the urge to look behind her whenever anyone called ‘Captain’ her way. She heard her orders repeated down the curve of the defences. She adjusted the rank tore at her arm – the damned thing just didn't seem to fit right. ‘Get up top and ready the Beast,’ she told Shaky.
The old saboteur winked, bellowing, ‘Oh, aye, Captain!’
‘Just get up there.’
Laughing at her discomfort, Shaky climbed a ladder affixed to the stone wall and pushed open the roof trap. ‘Stoke the fire!’ he yelled, pulling himself up.
The squat, broad figure of Sergeant Banath entered the stair tower, saluted crisply. ‘Sergeant,’ Hurl greeted him.
‘Orders?’
Hurl eyed the Malazan regular, a red-haired Falaran veteran of the Genabackan campaigns, tanned, always looking as if he needed a shave, even at the morning muster. She'd yet to detect any definite sign either way of his attitude to this new command structure. A careful career soldier, she was coming to think. She said nothing at first. Orders should be blasted obvious, she thought. ‘How do the urban levies look?’ The levies were the majority of their forces: citizens hired, cajoled and plain coerced into the apparently distasteful duty of actually defending their city. She'd been given four hundred to hold this section of the wall. Banath led the three garrison squads that formed the backbone of her command.
The sergeant frowned the usual professional's distaste for amateurs. ‘Nervous and clumsy. Not pissing their pants, yet.’
‘Keep an eye on them.’
‘Aye.’
‘And hold fire until I give the word. Dismissed.’
Another crisp salute, a regimental turn, and exit. Maybe, the thought occurred to her, the exaggerated parade-ground manner was one long extended finger for her to spin on. Well, that was just too bad. His buddy isn't the Fist. She peered out of the loop to gauge the activity. Metal screeched and ratcheted overhead, vibrating the stones of the tower. The Beast was being wound. Hurl could hear Shaky gleefully cursing the lads he had helping him and she couldn't keep down a smile; Gods, Shaky was never so happy as when he had a machine to pour destruction down on someone. And the Beast was his own special design. A winch had been installed at the rear of the stair-tower to bring up the enormous clay pots, big enough for a kid to bathe in, that were its ammunition. Only you wouldn't want to bathe in these. Sealed they were, and filled with oil. World's biggest munition.
Hurl watched while flagmen signalled out at the lines. Sappers took hold of the broad-wheeled shield platforms, and bowmen were forming up behind their cover. A lot of bowmen. Narrowing her eyes, Hurl tried to penetrate the gathering dusk. They looked like Seti tribals. Dismounted horse bowmen? What in the name of Dessembrae were they up to? Horns sounded in the night, and Talian siege engines, medium-sized catapults and onagers, fired. Burning bundles of oil-soaked rags arched overhead streaking smoke and flames in their wake. Stones cracked from the walls. Hurl ignored it all: the Talians had yet to field a single engine capable of damaging Heng's walls. It was just nuisance fire meant to keep everyone's heads down. A flight of arrows darkened the sky, climbed, then fell full of deadly grace. Though she had cover, Hurl winced at the havoc such salvos would cause along the walkway. While she watched, a staccato of answering fire darted from the lines. Hurl ran to the archway, yelling, ‘Who fired? Hold, I said!’
She returned to the loop. The besiegers could waste all the arrows they wanted; they had something Heng would never get: resupply. She squinted again far out to the small hill behind the Talian investments. It was an inviting hill with a view of the river, and a good chance of a steady breeze to keep the midges away. She and Sunny and Shaky knew all this because weeks ago they'd spent a few nights clearing away rocks to make it even more attractive. And sure enough, their work had paid off because the first thing whoever it was commanding this flank had done was obligingly raise his, or her, command tent right on the spot. Hurl couldn't keep from shifting from foot to foot. C'mon, man, fire! Now. It was all calibrated and set! What was Shaky waiting for?
The mantlets were close now, the bow fire more targeted on the parapets. Hurl leaned out the archway, Tire! ‘Fire at will!’ She watched the exchange of salvos with a critical eye – wrong, it was still going all wrong. No matter how many times you had them practise … She returned to the portal. ‘Aim up, for Hood's sake! Up, dammit!’
Banath stalked the walkway, bellowing, ‘Into the sky! Rain it down on them, damn you dogs!’
Something strange caught her eye on the darkening field of burnt stubble and flattened burned hovels. Something low but moving. She stretched to stick her head out through a crenel. Arrows pattered from the stones around her, the iron heads sounding high-pitched tings. A catapulted rock exploded against the wall of the stair-tower above sending shards raining down. Everyone hunched, cursing. A nearby Heng levy raised a tower shield over Hurl. Leaning forward once more she could see that the object was some kind of low rectangular platform covered in sod and grass stubble. It was edging up toward the base of the wall and there were more of them all up and down the lines. ‘Cats!’ she yelled. ‘Sergeant, we have cats! Bring up the stones – I want them broken!’
‘Aye, Captain.’
‘Come with me,’ she said to the soldier who had raised the shield.
At the loop she leaned forward to try to get a look straight down. Not that mining the wall would do the poor bastards any good – the foundations went down a good three man-heights – she should know as she and Sunny had spent most of their time lately digging around down there.
The tower shuddered then as if it had taken a terrible blow from a stone as big as a horse thrown by a monstrous trebuchet such as those Hurl had seen rotting and broken after the siege of the island fortress of N
athilog. Dust and stones sifted down and she coughed, waving a hand. The Urban Levy had instinctively crouched. Hurl darted to the loop. At first she saw nothing, the brightly lit white command tent remained. Shadows moved against the canvas, messengers came and went. Then she flinched away as a blossom of orange and yellow flame suddenly lit the night. The eruption reached her as a shuddering boom echoing along the curtain wall. Hurl jumped up and down, yelled to the roof, ‘You nailed it, Shaky! Beautiful. Just beautiful!’ War whoops reached her from above. She could imagine the old saboteur doing his war dance. ‘Reload,’ she yelled, and went to the portal. The soldier joined her, a portly older fellow, probably a shop-owner. ‘What's your name, soldier?’
‘Ah, Jekurathenaw, Captain.’
‘Jeck-your-what? Never mind. Cover me, Jeck.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hurl stepped out on to the walkway; Jeck held the tower shield between her and the parapets. Soldiers knelt among the litter loading and aiming. Arrows pelted around them. She stepped over the wounded and fallen alike. The sergeant, Banath, ran to meet her. ‘How's it going?’ she yelled.
They should just pack it up and go home, sir.’
‘I agree.’
Hurl studied the too-empty curve of the walkway. ‘Stones, sergeant? Where are the stones?’
Banath spat. ‘Ran out. Trouble at the winch. Some kind of mess up.’
‘Hood's bony arse! All right. You stay on the levies – I'll check it out.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Hurl edged further along. Jeck followed, shield extended. She jumped a section of walkway burning with oil where levies beat soaked cloth at the flames. The main winch was idle, and a team of three men and one woman sat next to it, staring down. ‘What in the name of Gedderone is the problem here?’
One fellow rubbed a greasy rag over his neck. ‘Don't know. Maybe flames spooked the oxen. Or a broken block.’
Hurl leant far out past the inner edge of the wall, grasped the thick hemp rope. ‘What's going on down there!’ she bellowed as loud as she could.
Catapulted fire-bombs arching over the walls lit for Hurl a milling chaos of soldiers and citizens below. Growing fires dotted the crowded buildings of the Outer Round. For as far as she could see torches danced up and down the roads around their curve where men and women surged in seeming headless panic. Ranks were forming up around the base of her section of wall from the West River Gate to half-way to the North Gate. More Urban Levy? Reinforcements? Who had sent them? Storo?
Down at the base of the winch a fellow holding a torch was yelling something back up to her. ‘What?’ The fellow waved his torch, gesturing to the platform. Snarling her disgust, Hurl pushed herself upright. ‘Oh, to Hood with this.’ She pointed to the crew, ‘Get this thing working or I'll toss you over the side!’ She waved Jeck to her. ‘Let's go.’ She went to find Banath.
She found him with two Malazan regulars next to the wall of the stair-tower assembling a cache of casks, flasks and skins of oil. Hurl took in the supplies, the rags, the torches, and nodded her approval. ‘Good. How soon?’
‘Working double-time, sir,’ said Banath without pause in tying together the fat goatskin bladders.
‘How much do we have?’ Hurl asked. She crouched and lent a hand.
Banath spat again, scowling. ‘This is it.’
‘Not nearly enough.’
‘No.’
‘Did you send word for reinforcements?’
Banath looked up, blinking. ‘Reinforcements? No, sir.’
‘There's more Urban Levy below, waiting.’
‘Maybe someone's on to the Talians.’
Hurl thought of Silk and returned to work soaking rags. ‘Maybe.’
The regulars lifted a cask and set off. Banath shouldered the bombs of oil-skins. ‘Good hunting,’ Hurl called. The ginger-haired veteran straightened his helmet and cracked an evil smile. ‘Aye, sir.’
Hurl returned to the parapets. She wiped her hands, looking out. Jeck raised his shield over her. Below, more cats were inching their way to the walls. So many … And the archers seemed mainly Seti tribals …
Cheers brought Hurl's attention around; the men were waving to Urban Levy ranks now climbing the open stairs lining the walls. Hurl gaped – who in the Abyss ordered that? She retreated to the stair-tower for a better look. Inside, stamping sandals echoed up the circular stairwell.
A strange silence then descended all along the wall. Hurl was momentarily frozen when suddenly the cries of the wounded dominated the night. Voices pleaded for water, for relief. From the darkness a woman cursed the besiegers in a string of obscenities worthy of any Jakatakan pirate. Hurl stood still, straining to listen, and a shiver ran down her arms. The bow-fire had ceased; the catapults had stopped. Up and down the wall the men were straightening, looking to one another in wonder. Had the attack been called? Had they beat them off?
Hurl stood motionless but her thoughts gyred the same circle. They've stopped firing – new cohorts she didn't request – they've stopped firing – Gods Below! She bolted to the archway and there across the inner curve of the curtain wall she caught a glimpse of the unmistakable tall slim form of Captain Harmin Els D'Shil, Smiley himself, leading a column of urban levies charging up the stairs. She pointed, bellowing, ‘Don't let them—’
An arm at her neck yanked her back. Pain lanced her side. She was thrown to the stone floor where she curled around a wound that felt as if it passed entirely through her. Blinking back a veil of pain she saw Jeck over her, his face expressionless. He sheathed his dagger and drew his shortsword. He raised it in both hands above her, paused. ‘Amaron,’ he said, ‘sends his regrets.’
Hurl could only stare up dumbly. Oh Storo, I'm so sorry. Out-generalled from the start.
Then the man was gone. Hurl blinked her confusion, peered around. Jeck lay now all crumpled up, bloody vomit at his mouth. Arms straightened her, leaned her up against the wall. She looked up at the dirty torn robes of a chubby ugly fellow with a slack mouth and one drooping eye. ‘… situation?’ he said, slurring the word.
Hurl stared at the man blankly. Who in Soliel's Mercy was this? Yet had she any choice? She took a deep breath, fought her dizziness and nausea. ‘Urban Levy turned. Working with the attack.’ The man closed his eyes, cocked his head as if listening to someone or something Hurl could not hear. Then he nodded and opened his eyes.
‘Retreat. Defend River Gate.’
‘Says who?’
‘Your commander.’
‘Storo? Help me up.’
Showing astonishing strength, the man lifted her, held her erect with an arm under hers. Pain blackened Hurl's vision but she fought it back. ‘Who are you?’
‘City mage … old friend of Silk's.’
She gestured to the archway. The mage dragged her over. What confronted her was like a vision out of Hood's Paths: waving torches lit figures seething, locked in hand-to-hand fighting, some panicked, even leaping, or pushed, from the walkway. Grapnels now lined the parapets and some Urban Levy chopped at them while others defended them. Two Malazan regulars were crouched behind shields facing the tower entrance, ready to stop any further enemy. Upon seeing her their eyes widened within the visors of their helmets.
‘Soldiers,’ she tried to bark, but could only gasp. They straightened, saluting. ‘Spread the word – retreat to the River Gate.’
‘Aye, sir.’
The mage turned round, taking her with him, and Hurl now saw that the circular stairway had been reduced to broken rubble. She craned her neck to face the man directly. ‘Who are you?’
‘… Ahl …’
‘Well, Ahl, my thanks, I—’ But the mage kept walking, taking Hurl out through the westerly tower arch. ‘What are you doing?’ she snarled, her side biting at her with teeth of acid.
‘Retreating.’
‘No, I have to see to—’
But Ahl kept going. They passed Urban Levy who stared and gabbled questions. Hurl just shook her head. ‘Defend. Def
end the wall here.’ They came to a grapnel that had yet to be cut. As they passed Ahl reached out one hand, and, grunting his effort, yanked it free of where the iron tines had dug into the stone, held it out beyond the lip of the parapet and released it. Screams accompanied its fall. Hurl stared at the man. Who in Serc's regard was this? A scent now wafted up from the fellow as well: the sharp bite of spice.
At Hurl's stare, Ahl smiled lopsidedly, the one side of his mouth edging up, and he winked his good eye. ‘We could've held off any besiegers. But not those damned undead Imass of the emperor's.’
Return of the Crimson Guard: A Novel of the Malazan Empire Page 47
