The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (248 page)

Hands grasped him, tore at him – a new assault. His spirit struggled, tried to pull away. Screams engulfed him from all sides, as of countless souls being destroyed. Hands fell away from his limbs, were replaced by new ones. He was being dragged, his mind yielding to the savage determination of those grasping, clawing hands.

Sudden calm. Mallet found himself kneeling in a fetid pool, shrouded in silence. Then a murmuring arose all around him. He looked up.

Take from us,
a thousand voices whispered in susurrating unison.
Take our power. Return to your place, and use all that we give to you. But hurry – the path we have laid is a costly one – so costly …

Mallet opened himself to the power swirling around him. He had no choice, he was helpless before its demand. His limbs, his body, felt like wet clay, moulded anew. From the bones outward, his tattered soul was being reassembled.

He lurched upright, swung round, and began walking. A lumpy, yielding ground was underfoot. He did not look down, simply pushed on. The Denul warren was all around him now, savage and deadly, yet held back from him. Unable to reclaim his soul, the poison howled.

Mallet could feel his fingers once more, still pressed against the broken throat of his friend, yet within his mind he still walked. Step by step, inexorably pushed onward.
This is the journey to my flesh. Who has done this for me? Why?

The warren began to dim around him. He was almost home. Mallet looked down, to see what he knew he would see. He walked a carpet of corpses – his path through the poisoned horror of his warren. Costly – so costly …

The healer’s eyes blinked open. Bruised skin beneath his fingers, yet no more than that. He blinked sweat away, met Trotts’s gaze.

Two paths, it seems. One for me, and one for you, friend.

The Barghast weakly lifted his right arm. Mallet clasped it with an iron grip. ‘You’re back,’ the healer whispered, ‘you shark-toothed bastard.’

‘Who?’ Trotts croaked, the skin around his eyes tightening at the effort. ‘Who paid?’

Mallet shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Not me.’

The Barghast’s eyes flicked down to the split and bleeding flesh of the healer’s arms.

Mallet shook his head again. ‘Not me, Trotts.’

*   *   *

Paran could not move, dared not approach closer. All he could see was a huddle of soldiers around where Trotts lay and Mallet knelt.
Gods forgive me, I ordered that healer to kill himself. If this is the true face of command, then it is a skull’s grin. I want none of it. No more, Paran, you cannot steel yourself to this life, to these choices. Who are you to balance lives? To gauge worth, to measure flesh by the pound? No, this is a nightmare. I’m done with it.

Mulch staggered into view, swung to the captain. The man’s face was white, his eyes wide. He stumbled over.

No, tell me nothing. Go away, damn you.
‘Let’s hear it, Healer.’

‘It’s – it’s all right, Captain. Trotts will make it—’

‘And Mallet?’

‘Superficial wounds – I’ll take care of those, sir. He lives – don’t ask me how—’

‘Leave me, Mulch.’

‘Sir?’

‘Go. Back to Mallet. Get out of my sight.’

Paran swung his back to the man, listened to him scurrying away. The captain shut his eyes, waiting for the agony of his gut to resume, to rise once again like a fist of fire. But all was quiescent within him. He wiped at his eyes, drew a deep breath.
No-one dies. We’re all getting out of here. Better tell Humbrall Taur. Trotts has won his claim … and damn the rest of you to Hood!

*   *   *

Fifteen paces away, Mulch and Aimless crouched, watching their captain’s back straighten, watching as Paran adjusted his sword belt, watching as he strode towards Humbrall Taur’s command tent.

‘He’s a hard bastard,’ the healer muttered.

‘Cold as a Jaghut winter,’ Aimless said, face twisting. ‘Mallet looked a dead man there for a time.’

‘For a time, he damn near was.’

The two men were silent for a while, then Mulch leaned to one side and spat. ‘Captain might make it after all,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ Aimless said. ‘He might.’

‘Hey!’ one of the soldiers nearby shouted. ‘Look at that ridge! Ain’t that Detoran? And there’s Spindle – they’re carrying somebody between ’em!’

‘Probably Quick Ben,’ Mulch said, straightening. ‘Played too long in his warrens. Idiot.’

‘Mages,’ Aimless sneered. ‘Who needs the lazy bastards anyway?’

‘Mages, huh? And what about healers, Corporal?’

The man’s long face suddenly lengthened even more as his jaw dropped. ‘Uh, healers are good, Mulch. Damned good. I meant wizards and sorcerors and the like—’

‘Stow it before you say something real stupid, Aimless. Well, we’re all here, now. Wonder what these White Faces will do to us?’

‘Trotts won!’

‘So?’

The corporal’s jaw dropped a second time.

*   *   *

Woodsmoke filled Humbrall Taur’s hide tent. The huge warchief stood alone, his back to the round hearth, silhouetted by the fire’s light. ‘What have you to tell me?’ he rumbled as Paran let the hide flap drop behind him.

‘Trotts lives. He asserts his claim to leadership.’

‘Yet he has no tribe—’

‘He has a tribe, Warchief. Thirty-eight Bridgeburners. He showed you that, in the style he chose for the duel.’

‘I know what he showed us—’

‘Yet who understood?’

‘I did, and that is all that matters.’

There was silence. Paran studied the tent and its meagre scatter of contents, seeking clues as to the nature of the warrior who stood before him. The floor was covered in bhederin hides. A half-dozen spears lay to one side, one of them splintered. A lone wooden chest carved from a single tree trunk, big enough to hold a three-deep stack of stretched-out corpses, dominated the far wall. The lid was thrown back, revealing on its underside a huge, massively complex locking mechanism. An unruly tumble of blankets ran parallel to the chest where Taur evidently slept. Coins, stitched into the hide walls, glittered dully on all sides, and on the conical ceiling more coins hung like tassels – these ones blackened by years of smoke.

‘You have lost your command, Captain.’

Paran blinked, met the warchief’s dark eyes. ‘That is a relief,’ he said.

‘Never admit your unwillingness to rule, Malazan. What you fear in yourself will cloud your judgement of all that your successor does. Your fear will blind you to his wisdom and stupidity both. Trotts has never been a commander – I saw that in his eyes when he first stepped forward from your ranks. You must watch him, now. With clear vision.’ The man turned and walked to the chest. ‘I have mead. Drink with me.’

Gods, my stomach …
‘Thank you, Warchief.’

Humbrall Taur withdrew from the chest a clay jug and two wooden mugs. He unstoppered the jug, sniffed tentatively, then nodded and poured. ‘We shall wait another day,’ he said. ‘Then I shall address the clans. Trotts will have leave to speak, he has earned his place among the chiefs. But I tell you this now, Captain.’ He handed Paran a mug. ‘We shall not march on Capustan. We owe those people nothing. Each year we lose more of our youths to that city, to their way of life. Their traders come among us with nothing of value, bold with claims and offers, and would strip my people naked if they could.’

Paran took a sip of the heady mead, felt it burn down his throat. ‘Capustan is not your true enemy, Warchief—’

‘The Pannion Domin will wage war on us. I know this, Malazan. They will take Capustan and use it to marshal their armies on our very borders. Then they will march.’

‘If you understand all that, then why—’

‘Twenty-seven tribes, Captain Paran.’ Humbrall Taur drained his mug, then wiped his mouth. ‘Of those, only eight chiefs will stand with me. Not enough. I need them all. Tell me, your new chief. Can he sway minds with his words?’

Paran grimaced. ‘I don’t know. He rarely uses them. Then again, up until now, he’s had little need. We shall see tomorrow, I suppose.’

‘Your Bridgeburners are still in danger.’

The captain stiffened, studied the thick honey wine in his mug. ‘Why?’ he asked after a moment.

‘The Barahn, the Gilk, the Ahkrata – these clans are united against you. Even now, they spread tales of duplicity. Your healers are necromancers – they are conducting a ritual of resurrection to bring Trotts back to life. The White Faces have no love of Malazans. You are allied with the Moranth. You conquered the north – how soon will you turn your hungry gaze on us? You are the plains bear at our side, urging us to lock talons with the southern tiger. A hunter always knows the mind of a tiger, but never the mind of a plains bear.’

‘So it seems our fate still hangs in the balance,’ Paran said.

‘Come the morrow,’ Humbrall Taur said.

The captain drained his mug and set it down on the edge of the chest. Spot-fires were growing in his stomach. Behind the cloying mead numbing his tongue, he could taste blood. ‘I must attend to my soldiers,’ he said.

‘Give them this night, Captain.’

Paran nodded, then made his way out of the tent.

Ten paces away, Picker and Blend stood waiting for him. The captain scowled as the two women hurried over. ‘More good news, I take it,’ he growled under his breath.

‘Captain.’

‘What is it, Corporal?’

Picker blinked. ‘Well, uh, we’ve made it. I thought I should report—’

‘Where’s Antsy?’

‘He ain’t feeling too good, sir.’

‘Something he ate?’

Blend grinned. ‘That’s a good one. Something he ate.’

‘Captain,’ Picker interjected hastily, shooting Blend a warning glare. ‘We lost Quick Ben for a while, then got him back, only he ain’t woken up. Spindle figures it’s some kind of shock. He was pulled into a Barghast warren—’

Paran started. ‘He was what? Take me to him. Blend, get Mallet and join us, double-time! Well, Picker? Why are you just standing there? Lead on.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Seventh squad had dropped their gear in the Bridgeburner encampment. Detoran and Hedge were unfolding tents, watched morosely by a pale, shivering Antsy. Spindle sat beside Quick Ben, fingers combing absently through his tattered hairshirt as he frowned down at the unconscious wizard. The Black Moranth, Twist, stood nearby. Soldiers from other squads sat in their respective groups, watchful of the newcomers and coming no closer.

Paran followed the corporal to Spindle and Quick Ben. The captain glanced at the other squads. ‘What’s with them?’ he wondered aloud.

Picker grunted. ‘See Hedge’s swollen face? Detoran’s in a temper, sir. We’re all thinking she’s got a crush on the poor sapper.’

‘And she showed her affection by beating him up?’

‘She’s a rough sort, sir.’

The captain sighed, guiding Spindle to one side as he crouched to study Quick Ben. ‘Tell me what happened, Spin. Picker said a Barghast warren.’

‘Aye, sir. Mind you, I’m just guessing. We was crossing a barrow—’

‘Oh, that was smart,’ Paran snapped.

The mage ducked. ‘Aye, well, it wasn’t the first one we crossed and all the others were sleepy enough. Anyway, the spirits reached up and snatched Quick, dragged him outa sight. We waited a while. Then they spat him back out, like this. Captain, the warrens have gone sour. Nasty sour. Quick said it was the Pannion, only not really the Pannion, but the hidden power behind it Said we was all in trouble.’

Footsteps approached and Paran turned to see Mallet and Blend approach. Behind them walked Trotts. A few ragged, sardonic cheers rose to greet him from the other squads, followed by a loud raspberry. Trotts bared his teeth and changed direction. A figure bolted like a rabbit. The Barghast’s grin broadened.

‘Get back here, Trotts,’ Paran ordered. ‘We need to talk.’

Shrugging, the huge warrior swung round and resumed his approach.

Mallet leaned heavily on Paran’s shoulder as he knelt down. ‘Sorry, Captain,’ he gasped. ‘I ain’t feeling right.’

‘I won’t ask you to use your warren again, Healer,’ Paran said. ‘But I need Quick Ben awake. Any suggestions?’

Mallet squinted down at the wizard. ‘I didn’t say I was weakened, sir, only that I ain’t feeling right. I got help healing Trotts. Spirits, I think now. Maybe Barghast. They put me back together, somehow, someway, and Hood knows I needed putting back together. Anyway, it’s like I got someone else’s legs, someone else’s arms…’ He reached out and laid a hand against Quick Ben’s brow, then grunted. ‘He’s on his way back. It’s protective sorcery that’s keeping him asleep.’

‘Can you speed things up?’

‘Sure.’ The healer slapped the wizard.

Quick Ben’s eyes snapped open. ‘Ow. You bastard, Mallet.’

‘Stop complaining, Quick. Captain wants to talk to you.’

The wizard’s dark eyes swivelled to take in Paran, then, looming over the captain’s shoulder, Trotts. Quick Ben grinned. ‘You all owe me.’

‘Ignore that,’ Mallet said to Paran. ‘The man’s always saying that. Gods, what an ego. If Whiskeyjack was here he’d clout you on the head, Wizard, and I’m tempted to stand in for him on that.’

‘Don’t even think it.’ Quick Ben slowly sat up. ‘What’s the situation here?’

‘Our heads are still on the chopping block,’ Paran said in a low voice. ‘We haven’t many friends here, and our enemies are getting bolder. Humbrall Taur’s command is shaky and he knows it. Trotts killing his favoured son hasn’t helped. Even so, the warchief’s on our side. More or less. He may not care one whit for Capustan, but he knows the threat the Pannion Domin represents.’

‘He doesn’t care about Capustan, huh?’ Quick Ben smiled. ‘I can change that attitude. Mallet, you got company in that body of yours?’

The healer blinked. ‘What?’

‘Feeling strange, are you?’

‘Well—’

‘So he says,’ Paran cut in. ‘What do you know about it?’

‘Only everything. Captain, we’ve got to go to Humbrall Taur. The three – no, the four of us – you too, Trotts. Hood, let’s bring Twist, too – he knows a lot more than he’s let on, and maybe I can’t see that grin, Moranth, but I know it’s there. Spindle, that hairshirt reeks. Go away before I throw up.’