The bow ballista on Froth Wolf will provide support.'
'Appreciate that, sir,' Balm said, a strangely bewildered look in his eyes. 'Where's the siege?'
'Excuse me?'
Deadsmell cleared his throat and said to Keneb, 'Don't mind him, sir.
Once the fighting starts he'll be fine. Fist, you're saying those arrows won't light up the ships – once they see that they'll turn 'em on us.'
Nodding, Keneb looked over at Cuttle. 'Sapper, I want you to hit those archers on the flanks. Don't wait for their first move. Sharpers, assuming they're within range.'
Straightening, Cuttle looked over. 'Easy, sir. Galt, Lobe, get over here and collect yourselves a couple sharpers – not the cusser, Galt, you idiot – those small round ones, right? Two, damn you, no more than that. Come back if you need more-'
'Maybe three-'
'No! Think on it, Lobe. How many hands you got? Where you gonna hold the third one – between your cheeks? Two, and don't drop 'em or this whole jetty will vanish and us with it.' He turned. 'Fist, you want us to hit 'em now?'
'Might as well,' Keneb replied. 'With luck, the rest will scatter.'
Flaming arrows hissed out, seeking the rigging of the Froth Wolf. The sizzling arcs suddenly disappeared.
Koryk grunted. 'Cute. Better get to it, Cuttle. The next salvo's coming our way, I'd wager.'
Cuttle on the right, Galt and Lobe on the left. Hefting sharpers, then at Cuttle's command they threw the clay grenados.
Detonations, snapping like cracks in brittle stone, and bodies were down, writhing, screamingThe centre mob, with a guttural roar, charged.
'Shit,' from one of the heavies up front.
Smiles launched her sharper into that onrushing midst.
Another explosion, this one ten paces in front of the shield-wall, which instinctively flinched back, heads ducking beneath raised shields. Shrieks, tumbling figures, blood and bits of meat, bodies underfoot tripping the attackers – the front of that charge had become a chaotic mess, but those behind it pushed on.
Koryk moved along to the right – he could hear someone shouting orders, a heavy voice, authoritarian – the cadence of a Malazan officer – and Koryk wanted the bastard.
The ballista mounted on the prow of the Froth Wolf bucked, the oversized missile speeding out, ripping through the crowd in a streak of spraying blood. A quarrel designed to knock holes in hulls punched through flesh and bone effortlessly, one body after another.
A few arrows raced towards the soldiers on the jetty, and then the mob reached the front line.
Undisciplined, convinced that the weight of impetus alone would suffice in shattering the shield-wall, they were not prepared for the perfectly timed answering push from the heavies, the large shields hammering into them, blades lashing out.
The only soldier untrained in holding a wall was Corabb Bhilan Thenu' alas, and Koryk saw Smiles move up behind the man as he chopped away at a foe with his cutlass. The man before him was huge, wielding shortswords, one thrusting the other slashing, and Corabb dropped into a sustained defence with his round shield and his weapon – even as Smiles, seeing an opening, threw a knife that took the attacker in the throat. As the man crumpled, Corabb swung and the cutlass crunched down into the unprotected head.
'Back into the gap!' Smiles screamed, pushing Corabb forward.
Koryk caught sight of a figure off to one side – not the commander – gods, that's a mage, and he's readying a warren – he raised his crossbow, depressed the trigger.
The quarrel sent the man spinning.
Three more sharpers detonated further back in the pressing mob. All at once the attack crumpled, and the shield-wall advanced a step, then another, weapons slashing down to finish off the wounded. Figures raced away, and Koryk heard someone in the distance shouting, calling out a rallying point – for the moment, he saw, few were listening.
One down.
On the broad loading platform and to either side, scores of bodies littered the cobbles, faint voices crying with sorrow and pain.
Gods below, we're killing our own here.
On the foredeck of the Froth Wolf, Keneb turned to Captain Rynag. He struggled to contain his fury as he said, 'Captain, there were soldiers in that mob. Out of uniform.'
The man was pale. 'I know nothing of that, Fist.'
'What is the point of this? They won't get their hands on the Fourteenth.'
'I – I don't know. It's the Wickans – they want them. A pogrom's begun and there's no way of stopping it. A crusade's been launched, there's an army marching onto the Wickan Plains-'