‘And there’s a windstorm blowing in over the island,’ Dancer added.
Kellanved squinted east into the gathering murk. His shaggy greying brows rose and he actually straightened a touch, as if rising up on his toes. ‘Oh, dear…’
‘Oh dear what?’ Dancer asked, knowing that tone.
The mage shooed him and Dassem away. ‘Go and see if our friends need help. I’m going to be busy for a time.’
‘Busy doing what?’
The little fellow waved them off. ‘Go now. Run.’
Dancer backed away, unwilling to leave. Dassem was already jogging towards Smiley’s.
The gyring winds struck them then, sweeping up the shore and over the city. It reminded Dancer of the dust storms that often came howling across the central Seti Plains. He raised a hand to shade his eyes against the gusting, stinging grit and dirt. Kellanved now stood at the middle of the street, arms out, as if he were beckoning to the winds.
Dancer took a step towards him. What on earth …
The heavens opened up in a white blinding blast that threw him backwards into a wall. Dazed, he staggered for the street. ‘Kellanved!’
A smoking hole in the cobbles was all that remained. The stones lay about, some glowing red, hissing and crackling. All the gods … he couldn’t possibly … really be … Blinking, Dancer forced himself to look away, then ran for Smiley’s.
He found the place preparing for a siege. Surly’s people were out piling carts and barrels across the front of the bar. Within, an argument was raging.
Dujek and the youth, Jack, stood in the centre of a ring of yelling Napans. Arms open as if begging, Jack was insisting, ‘Please, reconsider.’
‘At least listen to him,’ Dujek put in.
Spotting Dancer, Surly waved her brusque impatience at the two non-Napans. ‘Order these two to stand down.’
Dassem, Dancer noted, stood to one side, listening.
‘What’s the problem?’ Dancer asked Dujek.
Surly’s jaws worked as she swallowed her anger. ‘We don’t have time to argue,’ she snarled.
‘We’re wrong to dig in here,’ Jack told Dancer. ‘We have no avenue of retreat.’ Dujek nodded his support.
‘What would you have us do, then?’
Jack pointed outside. ‘The bridges are natural chokepoints in this swamp of a city. The south channel has only three to speak of. If we barricade those we can hold them off. If they look like breaking through, we fall back to another bridge, and so on.’
Dancer raised a hand to forestall the barrage of objections from the Napan crew. ‘Just how many soldiers are we talking here?’
‘We’re thinking about a hundred elites,’ said Grinner. ‘They’re forming columns now. We have to act.’
‘A hundred?’ Dassem said suddenly. Dancer was quite startled; he’d almost forgotten about the Dal Hon.
‘More or less,’ Grinner answered, wondering where this was going.
‘Which of the three bridges is the narrowest?’ Dassem asked.
Jack answered, frowning, ‘The one highest inland. Why?’
The swordsman strode for the door. ‘Hold the other two bridges and send the Napans to me. I will meet them there.’
He was out the door before Dancer could object. Dujek and Jack stared at one another, quite startled, until Surly threw her arms out, demanding, ‘Who in the name of the Abyss is that madman?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ Dancer answered.
Cartheron poked his head in the door, holding it open against a savagely gusting wind. ‘Are we staying or going? We have to move – now!’
Dancer waved everyone out. ‘Take all the carts and cargo and barricade the bridges.’
A brilliant flash burst upon them then, momentarily blinding them, and a blast rumbled across the city.
‘Lightning strike,’ Tocaras said as the echoes of the eruption died away.
‘That was no lightning,’ Dancer said.
* * *
Once most of them were on the way, plus some thirty local hires, Cartheron ducked back within Smiley’s and shut the door against the raging winds. All that remained were Grinner, Hawl, Shrift, and a very angry Surly. ‘Are you going to cooperate, Surly, or am I going to have to guard the door?’
She thrust an arm out, pointing. ‘Get going! You’re needed. We’re too shorthanded to hold anyone back.’
‘Except you,’ he answered, firm. ‘We can’t let them see you.’
‘I can fight!’ she nearly yelled, almost stamping a foot.
Cartheron rubbed the stubble of his unshaven chin. ‘Let’s hope you don’t have to,’ he answered, ‘because that would mean we’re all dead.’
Surly straightened as if slapped. She wrapped her arms round herself in a hug and jerked a fierce nod. ‘I’m sorry. Go. You’re needed.’
He answered her nod. ‘Good luck.’ To Grinner, he ordered, ‘Guard her.’
The burly fellow, their best fighter by far, waved him off.
He pushed open the door and leaned into the gusting, contrary wind. The streets were completely empty of anyone; the inhabitants of Malaz were more than familiar with stormy nights.
Urko and he had each been given charge of one of the lower bridges; what the Dal Hon swordsman intended at the third, he had no idea. He only knew that this Dancer character – who was no fool – had confidence in him. And in any case, he had enough to worry about at his own command. Jogging up to the bridge, he saw his troops still piling and lashing crates and cargo to carts that they’d turned on their sides. Young Jack was there, as well as Choss and Dancer, and some fifteen local Malazan hires, ex-raiders, toughs, and street-bravos all.
‘Just in time,’ Choss called, pointing past the barricade.
Cartheron nodded to him and climbed up on to a cart; a column of the Napan elites was on its way up the street.
The fierce wind buffeted him then, almost sending him head over heels, and he shielded his eyes, frowning into the winds. It was odd – there were no clouds at all.
‘Something strange, Crust,’ Choss called up. ‘I seen a robed guy watching us. When I looked back, he was gone.’
‘I believe it’s a mage battle,’ Dancer put in. ‘Kellanved’s … got involved.’
Cartheron grunted, unimpressed. What entirely engrossed him was the Napan officer leading the approaching column. He started down the opposite side of the barricade.
‘Crust!’ Choss bellowed, outraged.
‘Keep building!’ he shouted back. ‘I’ll buy us some time.’ Jumping down to the worn timbers of the bridge, he walked forward, hands raised. ‘Clementh!’ he called. ‘Is that you!’
The female officer raised a hand to call a halt and started forward alone. They met about a quarter of the way up the arch of the bridge. She wore a set of heavy leather armour, scaled in skirting down to her ankles, each scale intaglioed in swirls and edged in bronze. She pushed back her domed helm and unbuttoned its cheek-guards, then set her gauntleted fists at her hips.
‘Cartheron Crust … it is you.’
‘Clementh. Good to see you.’ He gestured to her gear. ‘Coming up in the world, I see.’
She inclined her head. ‘Lieutenant in the Royal Guard.’
Cartheron nodded, impressed. ‘So he sent the Royals, hey?’
‘For his sister? Of course.’
He shook his head. ‘She’s dead. Took her own life.’
Clementh waved a hand, dismissive. ‘Don’t even try. We’ve had spies on the island for weeks. She’s been identified.’
‘Listen, Clementh. Why follow that fool? Look at the damage he’s done to the fleets. Come over to us. You know Sureth is in the right.’
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘Look what damage he’s done to the Malazan fleets. At least he acts.’
‘The right is hers.’
She lifted a hand to forestall anything more. ‘Don’t try to involve me in a political argument right now, Crust. What’s done is done. Stand aside, or, unfortunately, I’ll just have to kill you and feel bad about it afterwards.’