The stranger, hands clasped within the folds of his dun-coloured robe's sleeves, seemed unperturbed by the hostile welcome.
From where the Destriant stood, he could not see the man's face, but he saw the hood shift as the stranger scanned the masked assembly.
'Will you ignore my command?' Rath'Hood asked, visibly bridling his tone. The priest glared about. 'Where are our Gidrath? Why in the gods' names haven't they heard our summons?'
'Alas,' the stranger murmured in Daru, 'they have for the moment heeded the call of their dreams. Thus, we avoid any unnecessary interruptions.' The man turned to Brukhalian, allowing Karnadas—who now stood at the Mortal Sword's side—to see his face for the first time. Round, strangely unlined, unmemorable barring the expression of calm equanimity. Ah, the merchant retrieved by Itkovian. His name… Keruli. The man's pale eyes fixed on Brukhalian. 'My apologies to the commander of the Grey Swords, but I fear I must make address to the Mask Council. If he would be so kind as to temporarily yield the floor?' The Mortal Sword tilted his head. 'By all means, sir.'
'We do not agree to this!' Rath'Shadowthrone hissed. The stranger's eyes hardened as he swung his attention on the priest. 'You, unfortunately, have no choice. I look upon you all, and find the representation woefully inadequate.'
Karnadas choked back a laugh, and recovered in time to meet Brukhalian's raised eyebrow with an expression of innocent enquiry.
'By the Abyss,' Rath'Burn said, 'who are you to make such judgement?'
'I need make no claim as to my true name, Priestess, only to the title I now demand.'
'Title?'
'Rath'K'rul. I have come to take my place among the Mask Council, and to tell you this: there is one among you who will betray us all.'
She sat on the flatboard bed, long hair in disarray, hanging down her face. Gruntle reached out and slowly combed the tresses back.
Stonny's sigh was ragged. 'This is stupid. Things happen. There's no rules to battle. I was an idiot, trying to take on a Seerdomin with naught but a rapier—he'd batted it aside with a laugh.' She looked up. 'Don't stay with me, Gruntle. I can see what's there in your eyes. Go.' She glanced around the room. 'I just need to get… to get cleaned up. I don't want you here, not outside the door, either. If you took that position, Gruntle, you'd never leave it. Go. You're the best fighter I have ever seen. Kill some Pannions—Hood take me, kill them all.'
'Are you sure—'
Her laugh was harsh. 'Don't even try.'
He grunted, began checking his armour's straps and fittings. Adjusted the padding beneath. Dropped the visor on his helm. Loosened the heavy cutlasses in their scabbards.
Stonny watched him in silence.
Finally, he was ready. 'All right. Take your time, lass. There'll be plenty left whenever you're done here.'
'Aye, there will.'
Gruntle faced the door.
'Do some damage.'
He nodded. 'I will.'
The Beklites and Scalandi reached the east wall in their thousands. In the face of withering arrow fire, ladders were raised, figures swarmed upward, poured over the battlements. The East Gate was taken yet again, the enemy surging down the passageway to spill out onto the square of New East Market.
To the south, the city's Main Gate fell to a concerted barrage of catapult fire. A legion of Betaklites swept into Jelarkan Concourse. A well-aimed ball of burning pitch struck the Capanthall West Barracks—the building rose in a conflagration that lit the entire city a lurid red.
Shock troops of Urdomen and Seerdomin breached North Gate and entered the nearest Daru streets after destroying Nildar Camp and slaying everyone within it. The enemy was within the city on every side.
The battle, Itkovian concluded, was not going well.
With each report that a messenger delivered, the Shield Anvil issued commands in a soft, calm voice. 'Fourth Wing to the Ninth Barricade, between East Inside and Ne'ror towers. Resupply the Capanthall in the two towers… Seventh Wing to West Inside tower and wall. I need a report on the status of Jehbar Tower. There were five hundred Capanthall in the West Barracks—likely they've been routed… Fifth and Third Manes into the streets around Tular Concourse to rally the Capanthall… First, Seventh and Sixth Manes doubletime to North Temple District—block and strike until North Gate is retaken… Fourth, Second and Eighth Manes to New East Market. Once the East Gate is recovered, I want Wings One, Three and Five to sortie. Their rally point is the East Watch redoubt—I want the siege engines assailing it neutralized, then any Gidrath survivors retrieved. Have the Trimaster report to me…'
In between commands and the coming and going of messengers, Itkovian watched the engagement at New East Market—what he could see of it in the glare of fires through seething clouds of smoke. The Scalandi were pushing hard to break the barricades preventing them from reaching the prince's palace. Boulders had been hammering the palace's outer walls incessantly, all to no effect—the thin, glistening stone walls did not so much as tremble. Burning pitch roared itself to extinction yet achieved nothing more than black stains marring the unknown stone's surface. The palace would have to be taken the hard way, step by step, every room, every level, and the Pannions were eager to begin the task.
The Grey Sword Trimaster commanding the First, Third and Fifth Wings arrived on the parapet. He was one of the Shield Anvil's oldest officers, lean and tall, grey-bearded to hide countless scars. 'My assignment has been conveyed to me, Shield Anvil.'
So why have I sent for you? I see the question in your eyes, sir. You do not require any stirring words to cleave you to what could be a suicidal mission. 'It will be unexpected,' Itkovian said.
The man's eyes narrowed, then he nodded. 'Aye, sir, it will. With all the breaches the enemy's front lines have lost their cohesion. Chaos claims all, this night. We shall destroy the siege engines as ordered. We shall retrieve the survivors in the redoubt.'
Aye, old friend. I am the one who needs stirring words. 'Keep your eyes open, sir. I would know the positioning of the Pannion forces to the rear. Specifically, the Tenescowri.'
'Understood, sir.'
A messenger arrived, stumbling as he cleared the ladder. 'Shield Anvil!' she gasped.
'Your report, sir,' Itkovian said.
'From the Trimaster of the First, Seventh and Sixth Manes, sir.'
North Gate. He looked to the north. Most of the Daru tenements there were burning. 'Proceed.'
'The Trimaster reports that he has encountered the shocktroops of Urdomen and Seerdomin. They're all dead, sir.'
'Dead?'
The young woman nodded, paused to wipe ash-smeared sweat from her brow. Her helm, Itkovian noted, was too large. 'A citizen rallied the remnants of the Capanthall Guard, as well as other civilians and some caravan guards. Sir, they engaged the Urdomen and Seerdomin in a succession of street battles—and drove them back. The Trimaster now controls North Gate, to which his company of sappers are effecting repairs.'
'And this impromptu militia and its commander?'
'Only a few wounded were there to greet the Trimaster, sir. The, uh, militia has set off westward, in pursuit of an Urdomen company that sought to storm Lektar House.'
'Messenger, send the First Wing to their aid. Upon delivering my command, take some rest, sir.'
'Yes, Shield Anvil.'
'That is not the helmet you were issued with, is it, sir?'
Abashed, she shook her head. 'I, uh, lost it, Shield Anvil.'
'Have the quartermaster find you one that fits.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Go.'
The two veterans watched the young woman depart.
'Careless,' the Trimaster murmured, 'losing her helm.'
'Indeed.'
'Clever, finding another one.'
The Shield Anvil smiled.
'I shall take my leave now, sir.'
'Fener go with you, Trimaster.'
Karnadas drew a long, quiet breath, the hairs of his neck rising at the sudden, heavy silence in t
he Great Hall. Betrayal? His eyes were drawn to one priest in particular. Rath'K'rul's words were fuel to suspicions the Destriant already held, and the bias led him to mistrust his own conclusions. He held his tongue, but his gaze remained fixed on Rath'Fener.
The boar mask was without expression, yet the man stood as if he had just taken a blow.
'The age of K'rul,' Rath'Shadowthrone hissed, 'is long past.'
'He has returned,' the robed man replied. 'A fact that should give every one of you a certain measure of relief. It is K'rul's blood, after all, that has been poisoned. The battle now begun shall spare no-one, including the gods whom you serve. If you doubt my words, take your inner journeys—hear the truth from your gods. Aye, the words might well be reluctant, indeed, resentful. But they will be spoken none the less.'
'Your suggestion,' Rath'Queen of Dreams said, 'cannot be achieved in haste.'
'I am amenable to reconvening,' Rath'K'rul said with a slight bow. 'Be warned, however, we've little time.'
'You spoke of betrayal—'
'Aye, Rath'Queen of Dreams, I did.'
'You wound us with divisiveness.'
The robed man cocked his head. 'Those who know your own conscience to be clear, brothers and sisters, will thereby be united. The one who cannot make that claim, will likely be dealt with by his god.'
'His?'
Rath'K'rul shrugged.
Brukhalian cleared his throat in the subsequent silence. 'With the leave of the Mask Council, I shall now depart. My Shield Anvil has need of me.'
'Of course,' Rath'Hood said. 'Indeed, from the sounds beyond the Thrall, it would appear that the walls are breached and the enemy is within.'
And Hood stalks Capustan's streets. Ambivalence, sufficient to cool your tone.
The Mortal Sword smiled. 'It was our expectation from the very beginning, Rath'Hood, that the walls and gates would be taken. Periodically.' He swung to Karnadas. 'Join me, please. I require the latest information.'
The Destriant nodded.
Hetan suddenly rose, eyes flashing as she glared at Rath'K'rul. 'Sleeping Man, is your god's offer true? Will he in truth aid us?'
'He will. Which of you volunteers?'
The Barghast woman, eyes wide, jerked her head towards her brother.
The robed man smiled.
Rath'Shadowthrone seemed to spit out his words, 'What now? What now? What now?'
Karnadas turned to study Cafal, was shocked to see the man still seated cross-legged, with his head bowed in slumber.
'To all here,' Rath'K'rul said in a low voice, 'awaken him not, if you value your lives.'
An even dozen Capanthall remained of the sixty-odd followers Gruntle had led westward from North Gate, and only one Lestari guardsman, a short-legged, long-armed sergeant who had stepped into the role of second-in-command without a word.
Lestari House was one of the few well-fortified private residences in Capustan, the home of Kalan D'Arle, a merchant family with links to the Council in Darujhistan as well as the now fallen noble house of the same name in Lestari itself. The solid stone structure abutted the north wall and its flat roof had become a strongpoint and rallying position for the wall's defenders.
At street level, the grand entrance consisted of a thick bronze door set in a stone frame, the hinges recessed. A broad pediment overhung the entrance, held up by twin marble columns, its ceiling crowded with the carved heads of demons, their mouths open and now dripping with the last of the boiling water that had gushed down on the screaming Scalandi who had been hammering on the door.
Gruntle and his troop, still reeling from a savage clash with fifteen Urdomen that had seen most of the militia chopped to pieces—before Gruntle had personally cut down the last two Pannions—had come upon the Scalandi mob from behind.
The engagement was swift and brutal. Only the Lestari sergeant revealed any mercy when he slit the throats of those Scalandi who had been badly scalded by the boiling water. The cessation of their shrieks brought sudden silence to the scene.
Gruntle crouched beside a body and used its tunic to clean the blades of his cutlasses. The muscles of his arms and shoulders were leaden, trembling.
The night's breeze had strengthened, smelling of salt, sweeping the smoke inland. Enough fires still raged on all sides to drive back the darkness.
'Look at that, will you?'
The caravan captain glanced over at the Lestari sergeant, then followed the man's gaze.
The Thrall loomed to the southeast, only a few streets away. The entire keep was faintly glowing.
'What do you figure?' the grizzled soldier muttered.
Sorcery of some kind.
'I'd guess that's ritual magic,' the sergeant went on. 'Probably protective. Hood knows, we could do with some of that ourselves. We're cut to pieces, sir—I ain't got much left and as for the rest…' Eyeing the dozen battered, bleeding Capanthall crouched or kneeling, or leaning against the house's walls, he shook his head. 'They're done for.'
Sounds of fighting neared from the southwest.
The scraping of armour from the roof of Lestari House drew Gruntle's attention. A half-dozen Capanthall regulars were looking down on them. 'Nicely done, whoever you all are!' one shouted.
'What can you see up there?' the sergeant called up.
'We've retaken the North Gate! Grey Swords, damn near a thousand of them. The Pannions are reeling!'
'Grey Swords,' the Lestari muttered under his breath. He glared across at Gruntle. 'We was the ones who retook that gate—'
'But we're not holding it, are we?' Gruntle growled, straightening. He faced his meagre troop. 'Look alive, you spineless Capans. We ain't finished.'
Dull, disbelieving eyes fixed on him.
'Sounds like the West Gate's down. Sounds like our defenders are back-pedalling. Meaning they've lost their officers, or their officers ain't worth shit. Sergeant, you're now a lieutenant. The rest of you, you're sergeants. We've got some scared soldiers to rally. Let's move, double-time—don't want you all stiffening up.' Glaring at them, Gruntle rolled his shoulders, clashed his cutlasses. 'Follow me.'
He jogged down the street, towards West Gate. After a moment, the others fell in step.
Two bells before dawn. To the north and to the west, the roar of battle was diminishing. Itkovian's counterattacks had reclaimed the gates and walls there; the fight was out of the attackers on those sides, for the rest of this night at least.
Brukhalian had returned from the Thrall, Karnadas in tow, a bell earlier. The Mortal Sword had assembled the six hundred recruits the Shield Anvil had been holding in reserve, along with two Manes and two Wings, and set off towards the Jelarkan Concourse, where it was rumoured over a thousand Beklites had pushed their way in, threatening to overwhelm the inner defences.
The situation around the West Gate was even more dire. Three of Itkovian's messengers had not returned after being sent that way. The West Barracks was a massive fist of raging fire, revealing in lurid flashes the rubble that was the West Gate itself. This breach, should it prove able to reach through to the west side of Jelarkan Concourse, could see the fall of half the city.
The Shield Anvil paced with frustration. He was out of reserve forces. For a while there, it looked as if the Capanthall and Grey Sword detachments assigned to the West Gate had simply ceased to exist, the wound gushing into a flood. Then, inexplicably, resolve had stiffened. The flood had encountered a human wall, and though it rose, it had yet to pour over.
The fate of Capustan lay with those defenders, now. And Itkovian could only watch, as all hung in the balance.
Karnadas was below, in the barracks compound. Exhausting his Denul warren, struggling against whatever sorcerous infection plagued it, yet still managing to effect healing of wounded Grey Swords. Something had happened in the Thrall, was happening even now—the entire keep was glowing, a colourless penumbra. Itkovian wanted to ask the Destriant about it, but the opportunity had yet to arise. Boots on the ladder. The Shield Anvil swung a
bout. The messenger who emerged was horribly burned along one side of his face, the red, blistered skin covering his jaw and upward, forming a ridge beneath the rim on his helm. His eye on that side was puckered, wrinkled and dark as a raisin.
He climbed clear of the ladder, and Itkovian saw Karnadas behind him.
The Destriant spoke first, halfway out of the hatch. 'He insisted he give his report to you first, sir. I can do nothing for the eye, but the pain—'
'In a moment,' Itkovian snapped. 'Messenger, make your report.'
'Apologies,' the young man gasped, 'for taking so long.' The Shield Anvil's eyes widened. 'You humble me, sir. It has been a bell and more since I sent you to the West Gate.'
'The Pannions had reached through to Tular Camp, Shield Anvil. Senar Camp had fallen—its inhabitants slaughtered. Everyone. Children—sir—I am sorry, but the horror remains with me…'
'Go on.'
'Jehbar Tower was surrounded, its defenders besieged. Such was the situation upon my arrival, sir. Our soldiers were scattered, fighting in clumps, many of them surrounded. We were being cut down, everywhere I looked.' He paused, drew a ragged breath, then continued, 'Such was the situation upon my arrival. As I prepared to return to you with said news, I was… absconded—'
'You were what'}'
'Apologies, sir. I can think of no other word. A foreigner appeared, with but half a score of Capan followers, a militia of sorts, sir. And a Lestari sergeant. The man took charge—of everyone, myself included. Shield Anvil, I argued—'
'Clearly this man was persuasive. Resume your tale, sir.'
'The foreigner had his own soldiers break down the door into Tular Camp. He demanded that its inhabitants come out and fight. For their children—'
'And he convinced them?'
'Sir, he held in his arms what was left of a child from Senar Camp. The enemy, sir—the Pannions—someone had begun to eat that child—'