A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

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. Beru 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 front-line 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