A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

Anyway, don't matter if'n he is or not,
so long as he knows what he's doing and he keeps telling us
what we're supposed to be doing.' He nudged his companion,
'Ain't that right, Thikburd?'
    'Right enough,' the other mumbled, examining one of
the combs.
    'The Malazan soldier is trained to think,' Pores said.
'That tradition has been with us since Kellanved and
Dassem Ultor. Have you forgotten that?'
    'No, sir, we ain't. There's thinkin' and there's thinkin'
and that's jus' the way it is. Soldiers do one kind and leaders
do the other. Ain't good the two gettin' mixed up.'
    'Must make life easy for you.'
    A nod. 'Aye, sir, that it does.'
    'If your friend scratches that comb he's admiring,
Captain Kindly will kill you both.'
    'Thikburd! Put that down!'
    'But it's pretty!'
    'So's a mouthful of teeth and you want to keep yours,
don't ya?'
    And with soldiers like these, we won an empire.
     
    The horses were past their prime, but they would have to
do. A lone mule would carry the bulk of their supplies,
including the wrapped corpse of Heboric Ghost Hands.
The beasts stood waiting on the east end of the main street,
tails flicking to fend off the flies, already enervated by the
heat, although it was but mid-morning.
    Barathol Mekhar made one last adjustment to his
weapons belt, bemused to find that he'd put on weight in
his midriff, then he squinted over as Cutter and Scillara
emerged from the inn and made their way towards the
horses.
    The woman's conversation with the two Jessas had been
an admirable display of brevity, devoid of advice and ending
with a most perfunctory thanks. So, the baby was now
the youngest resident of this forgotten hamlet. The girl
would grow up playing with scorpions, rhizan and meer rats,
her horizons seemingly limitless, the sun overhead the
harsh, blinding and brutal face of a god. But all in all, she
would be safe, and loved.
    The blacksmith noted a figure nearby, hovering in the
shadow of a doorway. Ah, well, at least someone will miss us. Feeling oddly sad, Barathol made his way over to the
others.
    'Your horse will collapse under you,' Cutter said. 'It's too
old and you're too big, Barathol. That axe alone would
stagger a mule.'
    'Who's that standing over there?' Scillara asked.
    'Chaur.' The blacksmith swung himself onto his horse,
the beast side-stepping beneath him as he settled his weight
in the saddle. 'Come to see us off, I expect. Mount up, you
two.'
    'This is the hottest part of the day,' Cutter said. 'It seems
we're always travelling through the worst this damned land
can throw at us.'
    'We will reach a spring by dusk,' Barathol said, 'when
we'll all need it most. We lie over there, until the following
dusk, because the next leg of the journey will be a long
one.'
    They set out on the road, that quickly became a track. A
short while later, Scillara said, 'We have company,
Barathol.'
    Glancing back, they saw Chaur, carrying a canvas
bundle against his chest. There was a dogged expression on
his sweaty face.
    Sighing, the blacksmith halted his horse.
    'Can you convince him to go home?' Scillara asked.
    'Not likely,' Barathol admitted. 'Simple and stubborn –
that's a miserable combination.' He slipped down to the
ground and walked back to the huge young man. 'Here,
Chaur, let's tie your kit to the mule's pack.'
    Smiling, Chaur handed it over.
    'We have a long way to go, Chaur. And for the next few
days at least, you will have to walk – do you understand?
Now, let's see what you're wearing on your feet – Hood's
breath—'
    'He's barefoot!' Cutter said, incredulous.
    'Chaur,' Barathol tried to explain, 'this track is nothing
but sharp stones and hot sand.'
    'There's some thick bhederin hide in our kit,' Scillara
said, lighting her pipe, 'somewhere. Tonight I can make
him sandals. Unless you want us to stop right now.'
    The blacksmith unslung his axe, then crouched and
began pulling at his boots. 'Since I'll be riding, he can wear
these until then.'
     
    Cutter watched as Chaur struggled to pull on Barathol's
boots. Most men, he knew, would have left Chaur to his
fate. Just a child in a giant's body, after all, foolish and
mostly useless, a burden. In fact, most men would have
beaten the simpleton until he fled back to the hamlet – a
beating for Chaur's own good, and in some ways very nearly
justifiable. But this blacksmith ... he hardly seemed the
mass murderer he was purported to be. The betrayer of
Aren, the man who assassinated a Fist. And now, their
escort to the