A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

could hear fighting upslope, along the embankment and perhaps beyond.
    The explosions of sorcery that had struck the legions at the
    base of the ramp had not continued – a cause for worry. They'd had a
    worse scare with the avalanche, but its path had missed them by a hundred
    paces or more. As if Quick Ben had known where we were. Somehow. Even more
    incredible, that damned wizard also managed to control the descent of a third
    of the mountainside. Maybe if a dozen High Mages had showed up to give him
    a hand, I might believe it.
    Or a god . . .
    With that chilling thought, she began to make her way down the tree.
    There had been condors in the sky earlier, and at least one had attacked the Malazan defences. Briefly. Where the others had gone, she had no idea.
    Not here, thank Hood . . .
    She dropped the last man's height to land on the ground in a jangle and clank of armour.
    'That was subtle.'
    Picker spun. 'Damn you, Blend—'
    'Shh ... uh, sir.'
    'Do you know where the others are?'
    'More or less. Want me to collect them?'
    'That would be useful.'
    'Then what?'
    Damned if I know, woman. 'Just get them, Blend.'
    'Aye, sir.'
     
    Paran awoke to the stench of vomit, which he realized, from the stale taste in his mouth, was his own. Groaning, he rolled onto his side. It was dark. Muted voices conversed nearby. He sensed, but could not quite see, that others lay in the trench he'd found himself in.
    Other . . . casualties . . .
    Someone approached, a wide, burly shape.
    Paran reached up to his temple, winced as his fingertips touched knotted gut. He tentatively traced the wound's length, down to a mass of damp bandages covering his ear.
    'Captain?'
    'That you, Mallet?'
    'Aye, sir. We only just made it back.'
    'Picker?'
    'The squad's still breathing, sir. Had a couple of scrapes on the way up, but nothing to slow us much.'
    'Why's it so dark?'
    'No torches, sir. No lanterns. Dujek's order – we're assembling.'
    Assembling. No, ask that later. 'Is Quick Ben still breathing? The last I remember, we were closing in on a downed condor...'
    'Aye, though from what I hear, it was you plucking the goose, Captain. He brought you here and the cutters put you back together... more or less. Mostly superficial, you'll be glad to hear – I've come to make your face pretty again.'
    Paran slowly sat up. 'There's plenty of soldiers around me who need your healing touch more than I do, Mallet.'
    'True enough, sir, only Dujek said—'
    'I'll carry my scars, Healer. See what you can do with these wounded. Now, where will I find the High Fist and Quick Ben?'
    'Headquarters, Captain. That big chamber—'
    'I know it.' Paran rose, stood for a moment until the spinning nausea passed. 'Now, a more important question – where am I?'
    'Main trench, sir. Head left, straight down.'
    'Thanks.'
    The captain slowly threaded through the rows of wounded marines. The fight, he saw, had been bad – but not as bad as it might have been.
    Dujek's Untan bodyguard commanded the tunnel's entrance. By their kit, they'd yet to draw blades. Their officer waved the captain past without a word.
    Thirty paces later, Paran reached the chamber.
    High Fist Dujek, Quick Ben and Lieutenant Picker were seated at the map table, a small lantern hanging from the wood-beamed ceiling above them. All three turned in their chairs as the captain entered.
    Dujek scowled. 'Didn't Mallet find you?'
    'He did, High Fist. I am fine.'
    'You'll be seamed with scars, lad.'
    Paran shrugged. 'So, what has happened? The Beklites don't like fighting at night?'
    'They've withdrawn,' Dujek replied. 'And before you ask, no, it wasn't because we were too hard – they could've pushed, and if they had we'd be doubletiming through the woods right now – those few of us still able to draw breath, that is. Only one of those condors came after us, as well. We've been sitting here, Captain, trying to figure out why we got off so easy.'
    'Any possible answers to that, sir?'
    'Only one. We think Whiskeyjack and Brood are closing fast. The Seer doesn't want his forces tangled up with us when they arrive. He also doesn't want to risk any more of his damned condors.'
    'One was more than enough,' Quick Ben muttered.
    The wizard's exhaustion left the man looking aged, almost bent as he leaned on the table with both arms, bleary, red-webbed eyes fixed on the table's scarred surface.
    Numbed by the sight, Paran pulled his gaze away, back to the High Fist. 'Mallet said we were assembling, sir.