A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

soldier's face. Breaking
his nose. The man dropped to the ground like a sack of
melons.
    The captain sat up, legs swinging round, and was on her
feet in time for Paran to take a forward step and punch
her hard, his knuckles cracking against her jaw. Eyes rolling
up, she collapsed back down onto the cot, breaking its
wooden legs.
    Massaging his hand, Paran looked round. Futhgar was
out cold, as was the captain. The steady downpour outside
had ensured that no sounds from the brief fight had been
heard beyond the tent.
    He walked over to the captain's travel chest. Unlocked.
He tilted back the lid and began rummaging through the
clothes lying atop armour. Before long, he had enough
lengths of material suitable to gag and bind the two
soldiers. Dragging Futhgar from near the entrance, he
removed the man's eating knife, his sticker and a broadbladed
Kethra gutting knife, then his sword belt. He
prepared a wad of cloth for a gag, then bent close to determine
if enough air was getting through the man's broken
nose. Not even close. Leaving that for the moment, he
tightly bound the wrists and ankles, using a harness strap to
link the two behind Futhgar's back. He then tied a strip
round Futhgar's head, hard against the gaping mouth, leaving
room to breathe but no room for the tongue to push
outward. He'd be able to make groaning sounds, but not
much more than that.
    He bound the captain in an identical manner, then
added the wad of cloth fixed in place with another strip of
material torn from one of the captain's shirts. And, finally,
he tied both of them to either side of the cot, and the cot
to the tent's centre pole, to hinder their squirming from the
tent – which he hoped would give him sufficient time.
Satisfied, he took one last look round, then, drawing up his
hood, he stepped back outside.
    He found the main avenue and made his way towards the
large command tent at the centre of the encampment.
Soldiers walked past, paying him no heed. This was
Onearm's Host, but he'd yet to see a single familiar face,
which wasn't too surprising – he had commanded the
Bridgeburners, and the Bridgeburners were gone. Most of
these soldiers would be newcomers to the army, drawn in
from garrisons at Pale, Genabaris and Nathilog. They
would have arrived since the Pannion War. Nonetheless,
he expected to find at least someone from the original force
that had marched all the way to Coral, someone who had
been part of that devastating battle.
    Four soldiers stood guard outside Dujek's command tent.
A fifth figure was nearby, holding the reins of a mudspattered
horse.
    Paran walked closer, eyes on the horseman. Familiar –
he'd found what he had been looking for. An outrider – but
one who'd belonged to Caladan Brood's army, he believed
– though I might be wrong in that. Now, what was his
name?
    The man's pale brown eyes fixed on him as Paran
approached. From within the shadow of the hood, there
came the flicker of recognition, then confusion. The out-rider
straightened, then saluted.
    Paran shook his head, but it was too late for that. The
four guards all stood to attention as well. Paran answered
the salute with a vague, sloppy gesture, then stepped close
to the outrider. 'Soldier,' he murmured, 'do you know me?
Make your answer quiet, if you please.'
    A nod. 'Captain Ganoes Paran. I don't forget faces or
names, sir, but we'd heard you were—'
    'Aye, and that's how it stays. Your name?'
    'Hurlochel.'
    'Now I remember. You acted as chronicler on occasion,
didn't you?'
    A shrug. 'I keep an account of things, yes, sir. What are you
doing here?'
    'I need to speak with Dujek.'
    Hurlochel glanced over at the guards, then scowled.
'Walk with me, sir. Don't mind them, they're new enough
not to know all the officers.'
    Leading the horse, Hurlochel guided Paran away, down a
side alley nearby, where he halted.
    'Hurlochel,' Paran said, 'why is Dujek's tent guarded by
green soldiers? That doesn't make sense at all. What's
happened and why are you camped outside G'danisban?'
    'Yes, sir, we've had a hard time of it. It's the plague, you
see – the legion healers were keeping it from us, but what
it's done to Seven Cities ... gods, Captain, there's bodies
in the tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands.
Every city. Every village. Caravan camps – everywhere, sir.
We had a Gold Moranth accompanying us, you see, a renegade
of sorts. Anyway, there's a temple, in G'danisban. The
Grand Temple of Poliel, and it's where this foul wind is
coming