The cries and screams hung over the city, echoing, shifting with the breeze. The far off swell of pain and fury, the clatter and din of combat. Sometimes it sounded like a distant storm, incomprehensible. Sometimes a single cry or word would float to Glokta’s ear with surprising clarity. It reminded him of the sound of the crowd at the Contest. Except the blades are not blunted now. Both sides are in deadly earnest. How many already dead this morning, I wonder? He turned to General Vissbruck, sweating beside him in his immaculate uniform.
“Have you ever fought in a melee like that, General? A straight fight, toe to toe, at push of pike, as they say?”
Vissbruck did not pause for a moment from squinting eagerly through his own eye-glass. “No. I have not.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. I have only done it once and I am not keen to repeat the experience.” He shifted the handle of his cane in his sweaty palm. Not that that’s terribly likely now, of course. “I fought on horseback often enough. Charged small bodies of infantry, broke and pursued them. A noble business, cutting men down as they run, I earned all kinds of praise for it. I soon discovered a battle on foot is a different matter. The crush is so tight you can hardly take a breath, let alone perform acts of heroism. The heroes are the ones lucky enough to live through it.” He snorted with joyless laughter. “I remember being pushed up against a Gurkish officer, as close to each other as lovers, neither one of us able to strike, or do anything but snarl at each other. Spear-points digging everywhere, at random. Men pushed onto the weapons of their own side, or crushed underfoot. More killed by mishap than design.” The whole business is one giant mishap.
“An ugly affair,” muttered Vissbruck, “but it has to be done.”
“So it does. So it does.” Glokta could see a Gurkish standard waving around above the boiling throng, silk flapping, tattered and stained. Stones flung from the broken walls above began to crash down amongst them. Men pressed in helpless, shoulder to shoulder, unable to move. A great vat of boiling water was upended into their midst from high above. The Gurkish had lost all semblance of order as they came through the breach, and now the formless mass of men began to waver. The defenders pressed in on them from all sides, relentless, shoving with pike and shield, hacking with sword and axe, trampling the fallen under their boots.
“We’re driving them back!” came Vissbruck’s voice.
“Yes,” muttered Glokta, peering through his eye-glass at the desperate fighting. “So it would seem.” And my joy is limitless.
The Gurkish assault had been surrounded and men were falling fast, stumbling back up the hill of rubble towards the breach. Gradually the survivors were driven out and down into the no-man’s-land behind, flatbows on the walls firing into the mass of men as they fled, spreading panic and murder. The vague sound of the defenders cheering filtered up to them on the walls of the citadel.
One more assault defeated. Scores of Gurkish killed, but there are always more. If they break through the barricades, and into the Lower City, we are finished. They can keep coming as often as they like. We need only lose once, and the game is done.
“It would seem the day is ours. This one, at least.” Glokta limped to the corner of the balcony and peered southwards through his eye-glass, down into the bay and the Southern Sea beyond. There was nothing but calm water, glittering bright to the flat horizon. “And still no sign of any Gurkish ships.”
Vissbruck cleared his throat. “With the greatest of respect…” Meaning none, I suppose. “The Gurkish have never been sailors. Is there any reason to suppose that they have ships now?”
Only that an old black wizard appeared in my chambers in the dead of night, and told me to watch out for some. “Simply because we fail to see a thing, it does not mean it is not there. The Emperor has us on the rack as it is. Perhaps he keeps his fleet in reserve, waiting for a better time, refusing to show his whole hand until he needs to.”
“But with ships, he could blockade us, starve us out, get around our defences! He need not have squandered all those soldiers—”
“If the Emperor of Gurkhul has one thing in abundance, General, it is more soldiers. They have made a workable breach.” Glokta scanned along the walls until he came to the other weak spot. He could see the great cracks in the masonry on the inside, shored up with heavy beams, with heaped-up rubble, but still bowing inwards, more each day. “And they will soon have another. They have filled the ditch in four places. Meanwhile our numbers dwindle, our morale falters. They don’t need ships.”
“But we have them.” Glokta was surprised to find the General had stepped up close beside him and was speaking softly and urgently, looking earnestly into his eyes. Like a man proposing marriage. Or treason. I wonder which we have here? “There is still time,” muttered Vissbruck, his eyes swivelling nervously towards the door and back. “We control the bay. As long as we still hold the Lower City we hold the wharves. We can pull out the Union forces. The civilians at least. There are still some wives and children of officers left in the Citadel, a scattering of merchants and craftsmen who settled in the Upper City and are reluctant to leave. It could be done swiftly.”
Glokta frowned. True, perhaps, but the Arch Lector’s orders were otherwise. The civilians can make their own arrangements, if they so desire. The Union troops will not be going anywhere. Except onto their funeral pyres, of course. But Vissbruck took his silence for encouragement. “If you were to give me the word it could be done this very evening, and all away before—”
“And what will become of us all, General, when we step down onto Union soil? A tearful reunion with our masters in the Agriont? Some of us would soon be crying, I do not doubt. Or should we take the ships and sail to far-off Suljuk, do you suppose, to live long lives of ease and plenty?” Glokta slowly shook his head. “It is a charming fantasy, but that’s all it is. Our orders are to hold the city. There can be no surrender. No backing down. No sailing home.”
“No sailing home,” echoed Vissbruck sourly. “Meanwhile the Gurkish press in closer every day, our losses mount, and the lowest beggar in the city can see that we cannot hold the land walls for much longer. My men are close to mutiny, and the mercenaries are considerably less dependable. What would you have me tell them? That the Closed Council’s orders do not include retreat?”
“Tell them that reinforcements will be here any day.”
“I’ve been telling them that for weeks!”
“Then a few more days should make no difference.”
Vissbruck blinked. “And might I ask when reinforcements will arrive?”
“Any.” Glokta narrowed his eyes. “Day. Until then we hold.”
“But why?” Vissbruck’s voice had gone high as a girl’s. “What for? The task is impossible! The waste! Why, damn it?”
Why. Always why. I grow bored of asking it. “If you think I know the Arch Lector’s mind you’re an even bigger idiot than I supposed.” Glokta sucked slowly at his gums, thinking. “You are right about one thing, however. The land walls may fall at any moment. We must prepare to withdraw into the Upper City.”