The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (245 page)

Her eyes narrowed. ‘If not sun scorching you, then what happened?’

‘Whatever’s poisoned my warren can cross over. Or so I found.’

‘Mallet,’ Picker said after a moment, ‘there’s a rumour going around, says we maybe ain’t as outlawed as Dujek and Whiskeyjack are making out. Maybe the Empress nodded her head in our direction, in fact’

In the firelight the healer’s round face was blank as he shrugged. ‘That’s a new one to me, Corporal. Sounds like something Antsy would think up.’

‘No, but he’ll love it when he hears it.’

Mallet’s small eyes settled on Picker’s face. ‘Now why would you do that?’

Picker raised her brows. ‘Why would I tell Antsy? The answer should be obvious, Healer. I love watching him panic. Besides,’ she shrugged, ‘it’s just an empty rumour, right?’ She straightened. ‘Make sure the sapper’s ready to march tomorrow.’

‘We going somewhere, Corporal?’

‘In case the mage shows up.’

‘Right. I’ll do what I can.’

*   *   *

Hands clawing rotted, stained energy, Quick Ben dragged himself from his warren. Gagging, spitting the bitter, sicky taste from his mouth, the mage staggered forward a few paces, until the clear night air flowed into his lungs and he halted, waiting for his thoughts to clear.

The last half-day had been spent in a desperate, seemingly endless struggle to extricate himself from Hood’s realm, yet he knew it to be the least poisoned among all the warrens he commonly used. The others would have killed him. The realization left him feeling bereft – a mage stripped of his power, his vast command of his own discipline made meaningless, impotent.

The sharp, cool air of the steppes flowed over him, plucking the sweat from his trembling limbs. Stars glittered overhead. A thousand paces to the north, beyond the scrub-brush and grassy humps, rose a line of hills. Dull yellow firelight bathed the base of the nearest hill.

Quick Ben sighed. He’d been unable to establish sorcerous contact with anyone since beginning his journey.
Paran’s left me a squad … better than I could have hoped for. I wonder how many days we’ve lost. I was supposed to be Trotts’s back-up, in case things went wrong …

He shook himself and strode forward, still fighting the remnants of the enervating influence of Hood’s infected warren.
This is the Crippled God’s assault, a war against the warrens themselves. Sorcery was the sword that struck him down. Now he seeks to destroy that weapon, and so leave his enemies unarmed. Helpless.

The wizard drew his ash-stained cloak about him as he walked.
No, not entirely helpless. We’ve our wits. More, we can sniff out a feint – at least I can, anyway. And this is a feint – the whole Pannion Domin and its infectious influence. Somehow, the Chained One’s found a way to open the floodgates of the Warren of Chaos. A conduit, perhaps the Pannion Seer himself entirely unaware that he is being used, that he’s no more than a pawn thrown forward in an opening gambit. A gambit designed to test the will, the efficacy, of his foe … We need to take the pawn down. Fast. Decisively.

He approached the squad’s firelight, heard the low mutter of voices, and felt he was coming home.

*   *   *

A thousand skulls on poles danced along the ridge, their burning braids of oil-soaked grass creating manes of flame above the bleached death-grimaces. Voices rose and fell in a wavering, droning song. Closer to where Paran stood, young warriors contested with short hook-bladed knives, the occasional spatter of blood sizzling as it sprayed into the clan’s hearth-ring – rivalries took precedence over all else, it seemed.

Barghast women moved among the Bridgeburner squads, pulling soldiers of both sexes towards the hide tents of the encampment. The captain had thought to prohibit such amorous contact, but had then dismissed the notion as both unworkable and unwise.
Come tomorrow or the day after, we might all be dead.

The clans of the White Face had gathered. Tents and yurts of the Senan, Gilk, Ahkrata and Barahn tribes – as well as many others – covered the valley floor. Paran judged that a hundred thousand Barghast had heeded Humbrall Taur’s call to counsel. But not just counsel.
They’ve come to answer Trotts’s challenge. He is the last of his own clan, and tattooed on his scarred body is the history of his tribe, a tale five hundred generations long. He comes claiming kinship, blood-ties knotted at the very beginning … and more, though no-one’s explaining precisely what else is involved Taciturn bastards. There are too many secrets at work here …

A Nith’rithal warrior loosed a wet shriek as a rival clan’s warrior opened his throat with a hook-knife. Voices bellowed, cursed. The stricken warrior writhed on the ground before the hearth-fire, life spilling out in a glimmering pool that spread out beneath him. His slayer strutted circles to wild cheers.

Amidst hisses from those Barghast near by, Twist came to the captain’s side, the Black Moranth ignoring the curses.

‘You’re not too popular,’ Paran observed. ‘I didn’t know the Moranth hunted this far east.’

‘We do not,’ Twist replied, his voice thin and flat behind his chitinous helm. ‘The enmity is ancient, born of memories, not experience. The memories are false.’

‘Are they now. I’d suggest you make no effort at informing them of your opinion.’

‘Indeed, there is no point, Captain. I am curious, this warrior, Trotts – is he uniquely skilled as a fighter?’

Paran grimaced. ‘He’s come through a lot of nasty scrapes. He can hold his own, I suppose. To be honest, I have never seen him fight.’

‘And those among the Bridgeburners who have?’

‘Disparaging, of course. They disparage everything, however, so I don’t think that’s a reliable opinion. We will see soon enough.’

‘Humbrall Taur has selected his champion,’ Twist said. ‘One of his sons.’

The captain squinted through the darkness at the Black Moranth. ‘Where did you hear this? Do you understand the Barghast language?’

‘It is related to our own. The news of the selection is upon everyone’s lips. Humbrall’s youngest son, as yet unnamed, still two moons before his Death Night – his passage into adulthood. Born with blades in his hands. Undefeated in duel, even when facing seasoned warriors. Dark-hearted, without mercy … the descriptions continue, but I tire of repeating them. We shall see this formidable youth soon enough. All else is naught but wasted breath.’

‘I still don’t understand the need for the duel in the first place,’ Paran said. ‘Trotts doesn’t need to make any claim – the history is writ plain on his skin. Why should there be any doubt as to its veracity? He’s Barghast through and through – you just have to look at him.’

‘He makes claim to leadership, Captain. His tribe’s history sets his lineage as that of the First Founders. His blood is purer than the blood of these clans, and so he must make challenge to affirm his status.’

Paran grimaced. His gut was clenched in knots. A sour taste had come to his mouth and no amount of ale or wine would take it away. When he slept visions haunted his dreams – the chill cavern beneath the Finnest House, the carved stone flagstones with their ancient, depthless images from the Deck of Dragons. Even now, should he close his eyes and let his will fall away, he would feel himself falling into the Hold of the Beasts – the home of the T’lan Imass and its vacant, antlered throne – with a physical presence, tactile and rich with senses, as if he had bodily travelled to that place.
And to that time … unless that time is now, and the throne remains, waiting … waiting for a new occupant. Did it seem that way for the Emperor? When he found himself before the Throne of Shadow? Power, domination over the dread Hounds, all but a single step away?

‘You are not well, Captain.’

Paran glanced over at Twist Reflected firelight glimmered on the Moranth’s midnight armour, played like the illusion of eyes across the planes of his helm. The only proof that a flesh and blood man was beneath that chitinous shell was the mangled hand that dangled lifeless from his right arm.
Withered and crushed by the necromantic grasp of a Rhivi spirit … that entire arm hangs dead. Slow, but inevitable, the lifelessness will continue its climb … to shoulder, then into his chest. In a year this man will be dead – he’d need a god’s healing touch to save him, and how likely is that?
‘I’ve an unsettled stomach,’ the captain replied.

‘You deceive by understatement,’ Twist said. Then he shrugged. ‘As you wish. I will pry no further.’

‘I need you to do something,’ Paran said after a moment, his eyes narrowed on yet another duel before the hearth-ring. ‘Unless you and your quorl are too weary—’

‘We are rested enough,’ the Black Moranth said. ‘Request, and it shall be done.’

The captain drew a deep breath, then sighed and nodded. ‘Good. I thank you.’

*   *   *

A bruise of colour showed on the eastern horizon, spreading through the clefts in the ridge of hills just south of the Barghast Mountains. Red-eyed and shivering in the chill, Paran drew his quilted cloak tighter as he surveyed the first stirrings in the massive, smoke-wreathed encampment filling the valley. He was able to pick out various clans by the barbaric standards rising above the seemingly haphazard layout of tents – Whiskeyjack’s briefing had been thorough – and held most of his attention on those that the commander had cited as being potential trouble-makers.

To one side of the Challenge Clearing, where Trotts and Humbrall Taur’s champion would fight in a short while, was the thousand-strong camp of the Ahkrata. Distinguished by their characteristic nose-plugs, lone braids and multi-toned armour fashioned from Moranth victims – including Green, Black, Red and, here and there, Gold Clans – they were the smallest contingent, having travelled farthest, yet reputedly the meanest. Avowed enemies of the IIgres Clan – who now fought for Brood – they could prove difficult in the fashioning of an alliance.

Humbrall Taur’s closest rival was the warchief Maral Eb, whose own Barahn Clan had arrived in strength – over ten thousand weapon-bearers, painted in red ochre and wearing bronze brigandine armour, their hair spiked and bristling with porcupine quills. There was the risk that Maral might contest Humbrall’s position if an opportunity arose, and the night just past had seen over fifty duels between the Barahn and Humbrall Taur’s own Senan warriors. Such a challenge could trigger an all-out war between the clans.

Perhaps the strangest group of warriors Paran had seen was the Gilk. Their hair was cut in stiff, narrow wedges and they wore armour assembled from the plates of some kind of tortoise. Distinctively short and stout for Barghast, they looked to the captain to be a match for any heavy infantry they might face.

Scores of minor tribes contributed to the confused mix that made up the White Face nation. Mutually antagonistic and with longstanding feuds and rivalries, it was a wonder that Humbrall Taur had managed to draw them all together, and more or less keep the peace for four days and counting.

And today is the crux. Even if Trotts wins the duel, full acceptance is not guaranteed. Bloody eruptions could follow. And if he loses
 … Paran pulled his thoughts away from that possibility.

A voice wailed to greet the dawn, and suddenly the camps were alive with silent, rising figures. The muted clank of weapons and armour followed, amidst the barking of dogs and nasal bellowing of geese. As if the Challenge Clearing drew an invisible breath, warriors began converging towards it.

Paran glanced over to see his Bridgeburners slowly gathering themselves, like quarry pricked alert by a hunter’s horn. Thirty-odd Malazans – the captain knew they were determined to put up a fight if things went wrong; knew as well that the struggle would be shortlived. He scanned the lightening sky, eyes narrowing to the southwest in the hopes that he would see a dark speck – Twist and his quorl, fast approaching – but there was nothing to mar the silver-blue vastness.

A deeper silence among the Barghast alerted Paran. He turned to see Humbrall Taur striding through the press to take position in the centre of the clearing. This was the closest the captain had come to the man since their arrival. The warrior was huge, bestial, bedecked in the withered, hair-matted skins of deboned human heads. His hauberk of overlapping coins glittered in the morning light: the horde of ancient, unknown money that the Senan stumbled across some time in the past must have been huge, for every warrior in the tribe wore such armour.
There must have been shiploads of the damned things. That, or an entire temple filled to its ceiling.

The warchief wasted no time with words. He unslung the spiked mace at his hip and raised it skyward, slowly turning full circle. All eyes held on him, the elite warriors from all the tribes ringing the clearing, the rest massed behind them, all the way to the valley’s slopes.

Humbrall Taur paused as a witless dog trotted across the expanse. A well-flung stone sent it scampering with a yelp. The warchief growled something under his breath, then gestured with his weapon.

Paran watched Trotts emerge from the crowd. The tattooed Barghast wore the standard issue Malazan armour for marines: studded boiled leather with iron bands over the shoulders and hips. His half-helm had been collected from a dead officer among the soldiers of Aren, in Seven Cities. Bridge-guard and cheek-plates bore a filigreed design of inlaid silver. A chain camail protected the sides and back of his neck. A round shield was strapped to his left forearm, the hand protected by a spiked, iron-banded cestus. A straight, blunt-tipped broadsword was in his right hand.

His arrival elicited low growls from the gathered Barghast, which Trotts answered with a hard grin, revealing blue-stained, filed teeth.

Humbrall Taur eyed him for a moment, as if disapproving of Trotts’s choice of Malazan weapons over those of the Barghast, then he swung in the opposite direction and gestured once more with the mace.

His youngest son emerged from the circle.

Paran had not known what to expect, but the sight of this scrawny, grinning youth – wearing only leathers, with a single short hook-knife in his right hand – did not match any of the images he had fashioned.
What is this? Some kind of twisted insult? Does Taur want to ensure his own defeat? At the cost of his youngest son’s life?