The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (246 page)

The warriors on all sides began thumping their feet on the hard earth, raising a rhythmic drumbeat that echoed its way across the valley.

The unnamed youth sauntered into the Circle to stand opposite Trotts, five paces between them. Eyeing the Bridgeburner from head to toe, the boy’s smile broadened.

‘Captain,’ a voice hissed beside Paran.

He turned. ‘Corporal Aimless, isn’t it? What can I do for you? And be quick.’

The lean, stooped soldier’s habitually dour expression was even bleaker than usual. ‘We were just wondering, sir … If this scrap goes bad, I mean, well, me and a few others, we been hoarding some Moranth munitions. Cussers too, sir, we got five of those at hand. We could open something of a path – see that knoll over there, a good place, we figured, to withdraw to and hold up. Those steep sides—’

‘Stow it, Corporal,’ Paran growled under his breath. ‘My orders haven’t changed. Everyone sits tight.’

‘Sure he’s a runt, sir, but what if—’

‘You heard me, soldier.’

Aimless bobbed his head. ‘Yes, sir. It’s just that, uh, some – nine, maybe ten – well, they’re muttering about maybe doing whatever they please and to Hood with you … sir.’

Paran pulled his gaze away from the two motionless warriors in the Circle and met the corporal’s watery eyes. ‘And you are their spokesman, Aimless?’

‘No! Not me, sir! I ain’t got no opinion, I never did. Never do, in fact, Captain. No, not me. I’m just here telling you what’s going on among the squads right now, that’s all.’

‘And there they all are, watching you and me having this conversation, which is how they wanted it. You’re the mouth, Corporal, whether you like it or not. This is one instance where I probably
should
kill the messenger, if only to rid myself of his stupidity.’

Aimless’s dour expression clouded. ‘I wouldn’t try that, sir,’ he said slowly. ‘The last captain that drew his sword on me I broke his neck.’

Paran raised an eyebrow.
Bern fend me, I underestimate even the true idiots in this company.
‘Try showing some restraint this time, Corporal,’ he said. ‘Go back and tell your comrades to hold tight until I give the signal. Tell them there’s no way we’re going down without a fight, but trying a break-out when the Barghast most expect it will see us die fast.’

‘You want me to say all that, sir?’

‘In your own words, if you like.’

Aimless sighed. ‘That’s easy, then. I’ll go now, Captain.’

‘You do that, Corporal.’

Returning his attention to the Circle, Paran saw that Humbrall Taur had moved to stand directly between the two contestants. If he addressed them it was brief and under his breath, for he then stepped back, once more raising the mace overhead. The thumping dance of the massed warriors ceased. Trotts swung his shield to the ready, dropping his left leg back and positioning his sword in a tight guard position. The youth’s sloppy stance did not change, the knife held loosely at his side.

Humbrall Taur reached one edge of the ring. He waved the mace one final time over his head, then lowered it.

The duel had begun.

Trotts stepped back, crouching low with the shield rim just under his eyes. The blunt tip of his broadsword edged outward as he half extended his arm.

The youth pivoted to face him, the knife in his hand making slight bobbing, snake-head motions. At some unseen shift in weight from Trotts he danced lithely to the left, blade wavering in a haphazard, desultory defence, but the big Bridgeburner did not come forward. Ten paces still remained between them.

Every move the lad makes tells Trotts more, fills out the tactical map. What the boy reacts to, what makes him hesitate, tauten, withdraw. Every shift in weight, the play over the ground and the balls of his feet … and Trotts has yet to move.

The youth edged closer, approaching at an angle that Trotts matched only with his shield. Another step. The Bridgeburner’s sword slid out to the side. The lad skittered back, then he neared again, sharpening the angle.

Like a stolid infantryman, Trotts swung round to replant his feet – and the Barghast attacked.

A snort gusted from Paran as the Bridgeburner’s heavy-footedness vanished. Negating his own advantage in height, Trotts met the lashing assault from low behind his shield, surging forward unexpectedly into the lad’s high-bladed attack. Hook-knife glanced without strength off Trotts’s helm, then the heavy round shield hammered into the boy’s chest, throwing him back.

The youth struck the ground, skidding, raising a cloud of dust as he tumbled and rolled.

A fool would have pursued, only to find the lad’s knife slashing through the sunlit cloud – but Trotts simply settled back behind his shield. The youth emerged from the swirling dust, face powdered, knife wavering. His smile remained.

Not a style the lad’s used to. Trotts could well be standing frontline in a phalanx, shoulder to shield with hard-eyed Malazan infantry. More than one barbaric horde has been deflowered and cut to pieces against that deadly human wall. These White Faces have never experienced an Imperial engagement.

The lithe Barghast began a swift, darting dance, circling Trotts, edging in then back out, playing with the bright sunlight and flashes on weapon and armour, kicking up clouds of dust. In answer, the Bridgeburner simply pivoted into one of four facings – he had become his own square – and waited, again and again seeming to hold a position too long before shifting, each time stamping the methodical steps of the Malazan infantry drill like a thick-skulled recruit. He ignored every feint, would not be pulled forward by the lad’s moments of imbalance and awkwardness – which were themselves illusory.

The ring of warriors had begun shouting their frustration. This was not a duel as they knew duels. Trotts would not play the lad’s game.
He is now a soldier of the Empire, and that is the addendum to his tale.

The youth launched another attack, his blade blurring in a wild skein of feints, then slashing low, seeking the Bridgeburner’s right knee – the hinge in the armour’s joint. Shield came down, driving the knife away. Broadsword slashed horizontally for the boy’s head. He ducked lower, hook-blade dropping down to slash ineffectually across the toe-cap of Trotts’s boot. The Bridgeburner snapped his shield into the boy’s face.

The youth reeled, blood spraying from his nose. Yet his knife rose unerringly, skirting the rim of the shield as if following a hissing guide to dig deep into the armour’s joint hinge of Trotts’s left arm, the hook biting, then tearing through ligaments and veins.

The Malazan chopped down with his broadsword, severing the lad’s knife-hand at the wrist.

Blood poured from the two warriors, yet the close-in engagement was not yet complete. Paran watched in amazement as the youth’s left hand shot up, stiff-fingered, beneath the chin-guard of Trotts’s helmet. A strange popping sound came from Trotts’s throat. Shield-arm falling senseless in a welter of blood, knees buckling, the Bridgeburner sank to the ground.

Trotts’s final gesture was a lightning-quick sweep of his broadsword across the lad’s stomach. Sleek flesh parted and the youth looked down in time to see his intestines tumble into view in a gush of fluids. He convulsed around them, pitched to the ground.

Trotts lay before the dying boy, clawing frantically at his throat, legs kicking.

The captain lurched forward, but one of his Bridgeburners was quicker – Mulch, a minor healer from the Eleventh Squad, raced into the Circle to Trotts’s side. A small flickblade flashed in the soldier’s hand as he straddled the writhing warrior and pushed his head back to expose the throat.

What in Hood’s name
—

There was pandemonium on all sides. The Circle was dissolving as Barghast warriors surged forward, weapons out yet clearly confused as to what they should do with them. Paran’s head snapped round, to see his Bridgeburners contracting within a ring of shrieking, belligerent savages.

Gods, it’s all coming down.

A horn cut through the cacophony. Faces turned. Senan warriors were reasserting the sanctity of the Circle, bellowing as they pushed the other tribesmen and women back. Humbrall Taur had once more raised high his mace, a silent yet inescapable demand for order.

Voices rose from the Barghast surrounding the company of Bridgeburners, and the captain saw Moranth munitions held high in the hands of his soldiers. The Barghast were recoiling, drawing lances back to throw.

‘Bridgeburners!’ Paran shouted, striding towards them. ‘Put those damned things away! Now!’

The horn sounded a second time.

Faces turned. The deadly grenados disappeared once more beneath rain-capes and cloaks.

‘Stand at ease!’ Paran growled as he reached them. In a lower voice, he snapped, ‘Hold fast, you damned fools! Nobody counted on a Hood-damned
draw!
Keep your wits. Corporal Aimless, go to Mulch and find out what in Fener’s name he did with that flickblade – and get the bad news on Trotts – I know, I know, he looked done for. But so’s the lad. Who knows, maybe it’s a question of who dies first—’

‘Captain,’ one of the sergeants cut in. ‘They were gonna have at us, sir, that’s all. We wasn’t planning on nothing – we was waitin’ for your signal, sir.’

‘Glad to hear it. Now keep your eyes open, but stay calm, while I go confer with Humbrall Taur.’ Paran swung round and headed towards the Circle.

The Barghast warchief’s face was grey, his gaze returning again and again to the small figure now ominously motionless on the stained ground a dozen paces away. A half-dozen minor chiefs clustered around Humbrall, each shouting to make himself heard above his rival. Taur was ignoring them one and all.

Paran pushed through the crowd. A glance to his right showed Aimless crouched down beside Mulch. The healer had a hand pressed tight against the wound in Trotts’s left arm and seemed to be whispering under his breath, his eyes closed. Slight movement from Trotts revealed that the Bridgeburner still lived. And, the captain realized, he had ceased his thrashing around. Somehow, Mulch had given him a means of drawing breath. Paran shook his head in disbelief. Crush a man’s throat and he dies.
Unless there’s a High Denul healer nearby … and Mulch isn’t, he’s a cutter with a handful of cantrips at his disposal – the man’s pulled off a miracle …

‘Malazan!’ Humbrall Taur’s small, flat eyes were fixed on Paran. He gestured. ‘We must speak, you and I.’ He switched from Daru to bellow at the warriors crowding him. They withdrew, scowling, casting venomous glares towards the captain.

A moment later Paran and the Barghast warchief stood face to face. Humbrall Taur studied him for a moment, then said, ‘Your warriors think little of you. Soft blood, they say.’

Paran shrugged. ‘They’re soldiers. I’m their new officer.’

‘They are disobedient. You should kill one or two of them, then the others will respect you.’

‘It’s my task to keep them alive, not kill them, Warchief.

Humbrall Taur’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your Barghast fought in the style of you foreigners. He did not fight as kin to us. Twenty-three duels, my unnamed son. Without loss, without so much as a wound. I have lost one of my blood, a great warrior.’

‘Trotts lives still,’ Paran said.

‘He should be dead. Crush a man’s throat and the convulsions take him. He should not have been able to swing his sword. My son sacrificed a hand to kill him.’

‘A valiant effort, Warchief.’

‘In vain, it seems. Do you claim that Trotts will survive his wounds?’

‘I don’t know. I need to confer with my healer.’

‘The spirits are silent, Malazan,’ Humbrall Taur said after a moment. ‘They wait. As must we.’

‘Your council of chiefs might not agree with you,’ Paran observed.

Taur scowled. ‘That is a matter for the Barghast. Return to your company, Malazan. Keep them alive … if you can.’

‘Does our fate rest on Trotts’s surviving, Warchief?’

The huge warrior bared his teeth. ‘Not entirely. I am done with you, now.’ He turned his back on the captain. The other chiefs closed in once again.

Paran pulled away, fighting a resurgence of pain in his stomach, and strode to where Trotts lay. Eyes on the Barghast warrior, he crouched down beside the healer, Mulch. There was a hole between Trotts’s collar bones, home to a hollow bone tube that whistled softly as he breathed. The rest of his throat was crumpled, a mass of green and blue bruising. The Barghast’s eyes were open, aware and filled with pain.

Mulch glanced over. ‘I’ve healed the vessels and tendons in his arm,’ he said quietly. ‘He won’t lose it, I think. It’ll be weaker, though, unless Mallet gets here soon.’

Paran pointed at the bone tube. ‘What in Hood’s name is that, healer?’

‘It ain’t easy playing with warrens right now, sir. Besides, I ain’t good enough to fix anything like that anyway. It’s a cutter’s trick, learned it from Bullit when I was in the 6th Army – he was always figuring ways of doing things without magic, since he could never find his warren when things got hot.’

‘Looks … temporary.’

‘Aye, Captain. We need Mallet. Soon.’

‘That was fast work, Mulch,’ Paran said, straightening. ‘Well done.’

‘Thanks, sir.’

‘Corporal Aimless.’

‘Captain?’

‘Get some soldiers down here. I don’t want any Barghast getting too close to Trotts. When Mulch gives the word, move him back to our camp.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Paran watched the soldier hurry off, then he faced south and scanned the sky. ‘Hood’s breath!’ he muttered with plaintive relief.

Mulch rose. ‘You sent Twist to find ’em, didn’t you, sir? Look, he’s got a passenger. Probably Quick Ben, though…’

Paran slowly smiled, squinting at the distant black speck above the ridgeline. ‘Not if Twist followed my orders, Healer.’

Mulch looked over. ‘Mallet. Fener’s hoof, that was a good play, Captain.’

Paran met the healer’s gaze. ‘Nobody dies on this mission, Mulch.’

The old veteran slowly nodded, then knelt once again to tend to Trotts.

*   *   *

Picker studied Quick Ben as they trudged up yet another grass-backed hillside. ‘You want us to get someone to carry you, Mage?’