A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

Lieutenant.'
    'Sir.'
    Something in her tone brought him round. 'Yes?'
    'You shouldn't have left me in command – I messed it up, bad, sir.'
    He saw the raw pain in her eyes, continued to meet them despite a sudden desire to look away. 'Not you, Lieutenant. The command was mine, after all. I abandoned all of you.'
    She shook her head. 'Quick's told us what you two did, Captain. You went where you had to, sir. It was well played. It'd seemed to us that there was no victory to be found, in any of this, but now we know that's not true – and that means more than you might realize.'
    'Lieutenant, you walked out of that keep with survivors. No-one could have done better.'
    'I agree,' a new voice growled.
    Dujek's appearance shocked both soldiers to silence. The man seemed to have aged ten years in the span of a single day and night. He was bent, the hand of his lone arm trembling. 'Lieutenant, call the Bridgeburners over. I would speak to you all.'
    Picker turned and gestured the five soldiers closer.
    'Good,' the High Fist grunted. 'Now, hear me. There's half a wagon of back pay being loaded onto one of those Trygalle carriages below. Back pay for the company known as the Bridgeburners. Full complement. Enough to buy each of you an estate and a life of well-earned idyll. The Trygalle will take you to Darujhistan – I don't recommend you head back to the Empire. As far as Tayschrenn and Fist Aragan and I are concerned, not one Bridgeburner walked out of that keep. No, say not a single word, soldiers – Whiskeyjack wanted this for you. Hood, he wanted it for himself, too. Respect that.
    'Besides, you've one more mission, and it takes you to Darujhistan. The Trygalle has delivered someone. He's presently in the care of the High Alchemist, Baruk. The man's not well – he needs you, I think. Malazans. Soldiers. Do what you can for him when you're there, and when you decide that you can't do anything more, then walk away.'
    Dujek paused, eyed them, then nodded and said, 'That's all, Bridgeburners. The Trygalle are waiting for you. Captain, remain a moment – I would a private word with you. Oh, Picker, send High Mage Quick Ben up here, will you?'
    Picker blinked. 'High Mage?'
    Dujek grimaced. 'That bastard can't hide any longer. Tayschrenn's insisted.'
    'Yes, sir.'
    Paran watched the small troop head down the hill.
    Dujek drew a palsied hand across his face, turned away. 'Walk with me, Paran.'
    Paran did. 'That was well done, sir.'
    'No, it wasn't, Ganoes, but it was all I could do. I don't want the last of the Bridgeburners to die on some field of battle, or in some nameless city that's fighting hard to stay free. I'm taking what's left of my Host to Seven Cities, to reinforce Adjunct Tavore's retributive army. You are welcome—'
    'No, sir. I'd rather not.'
    Dujek nodded, as if he had expected that. 'There's a dozen or so columns for you, near the carriages below. Go with your company, then, with my blessing. I'll have you counted among the casualties.'
    'Thank you, High Fist. I don't think I was ever cut out to be a soldier.'
    'Not another word of that, Captain. Think what you like about yourself, but we will continue seeing you as you are – a noble man.'
    'Noble—'
    'Not that kind of noble, Ganoes. This is the kind that's earned, the only kind that means anything. Because, in this day and age, it's damned rare.'
    'Well, sir, there I'll respectfully disagree with you. If there's but one experience I will carry with me of my time in this campaign, High Fist, it is that of being humbled, again and again, by those around me.'
    'Go join your fellow Bridgeburners, Ganoes Paran.'
    'Yes, sir. Goodbye, High Fist.'
    'Goodbye.'
    As Paran made his way down the slope, he stumbled momentarily, then righted himself. My fellow Bridgeburners, he said . . , well, the achievement is shortlived, but even so.
    I made it.
     
    Ignoring the grim-faced soldiers on all sides, Toc – Anaster – reined in beside the small tent the Grey Swords had given him. Aye, I remember Anaster, and this may be his body, but that's all. He slipped from the saddle and entered it.
    He hunted until he found the cask, hid it within a leather sack and slung that over a shoulder, then hurried back outside.
    As he drew himself into the saddle once more, a man stepped up to him.
    Toc frowned down at him. This was no Tenescowri, nor a Grey Sword. If anything, he looked, from his faded, tattered leathers and furs, to be Barghast.
    Covered in scars – more scars