A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

cartilage of Trotts's throat. But the core began to dissolve ...
    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