Paran slowly sat up. 'There's plenty of soldiers around me who need your healing touch more than I do, Mallet.'
'True enough, sir, only Dujek said-'
'I'll carry my scars, Healer. See what you can do with these wounded. Now, where will I find the High Fist and Quick Ben?'
'Headquarters, Captain. That big chamber-'
'I know it.' Paran rose, stood for a moment until the spinning nausea passed. 'Now, a more important question — where am I?'
'Main trench, sir. Head left, straight down.'
'Thanks.'
The captain slowly threaded through the rows of wounded marines. The fight, he saw, had been bad — but not as bad as it might have been.
Dujek's Untan bodyguard commanded the tunnel's entrance. By their kit, they'd yet to draw blades. Their officer waved the captain past without a word.
Thirty paces later, Paran reached the chamber.
High Fist Dujek, Quick Ben and Lieutenant Picker were seated at the map table, a small lantern hanging from the wood-beamed ceiling above them. All three turned in their chairs as the captain entered.
Dujek scowled. 'Didn't Mallet find you?'
'He did, High Fist. I am fine.'
'You'll be seamed with scars, lad.'
Paran shrugged. 'So, what has happened? The Beklites don't like fighting at night?'
'They've withdrawn,' Dujek replied. 'And before you ask, no, it wasn't because we were too hard — they could've pushed, and if they had we'd be doubletiming through the woods right now — those few of us still able to draw breath, that is. Only one of those condors came after us, as well. We've been sitting here, Captain, trying to figure out why we got off so easy.'
'Any possible answers to that, sir?'
'Only one. We think Whiskeyjack and Brood are closing fast. The Seer doesn't want his forces tangled up with us when they arrive. He also doesn't want to risk any more of his damned condors.'
'One was more than enough,' Quick Ben muttered.
The wizard's exhaustion left the man looking aged, almost bent as he leaned on the table with both arms, bleary, red-webbed eyes fixed on the table's scarred surface.
Numbed by the sight, Paran pulled his gaze away, back to the High Fist. 'Mallet said we were assembling, sir. Since Lieutenant Picker is here, I assume you have something in mind for the Bridgeburners.'
'We do. We were just waiting for you, Captain.'
Paran nodded, said nothing.
'These trenches are indefensible,' Dujek growled. 'We're too exposed up here. Two or three more of those condors will finish us — and the Black Moranth. And I won't risk sending any more Moranth messengers back to Whiskeyjack — the Seer's birds cut the last ones down before they'd gone a tenth of a league from the mountainside. This close to Coral, it seems they're willing to fly at night. Nor is Quick Ben in any shape to try to magically contact Whiskeyjack. So, we're not waiting.'
We're going into Coral. From the night sky, straight down into the damned streets. 'Understood, High Fist. And the Bridgeburners are the first in, sir?'
'First in …' Dujek slowly nodded.
And last out.
'You're to strike straight for that keep. Knock a hole in the wall of its compound. The Black Moranth will take you in as close as they can.'
'Sir,' Paran said, 'if Brood and Whiskeyjack aren't as close as you think …'
Dujek shrugged. 'As I said earlier, Captain, this ain't the place to be waiting for one or the other. We're all going in — my first wave will be half a bell behind you.'
This could drop us into a viper's nest. 'The lieutenant and I had better ready the squads, then.'
'Aye. You'll have Quick Ben with you, and the mages — his cadre — are back with their respective squads. Hedge and the rest of the sappers have six cussers between them, ten crackers and twenty sharpers — you're to breach that wall, then pull back to us. Don't go after the Seer yourselves, understood?'
'Understood, High Fist.'
'All right, you three, get going.'
Dawn still almost two bells away, the mists drifted grey and low through the parkland north of Coral, reaching tendrils out onto the plain beyond.
Korlat rode to where Whiskeyjack had halted beneath the tree-lined crest that marked the beginning of the coppiced parkland, and drew rein alongside him.
The Malazan wasted no time, 'What did he say?'
'All rather peculiar, Whiskeyjack. Formal apologies from himself and from Brood. He humbly offers both his sword and his, as he called it, tactical prowess. I admit, it leaves me … uneasy.'