A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

throbbing thing, a deadweight she dragged behind her,
growing ever more distant in her mind.
    We run from our place of wounding. No different from
any other beast, we run from our place of wounding. Run,
or crawl, crawl or drag, drag or reach. She realized that
even such efforts had failed her. She was broken everywhere.
She was dying.
    See me? I have been blessed. He has blessed me.
    Bless you all.
    He could barely stand, and now he must duel. Murillio
untied his coin pouch and tossed it towards the foreman
who had just returned, gasping and red-faced. The bag
landed in a cloud of dust, a heavy thud. 'I came for the boy,'
Murillio said. 'That's more than he's worth – do you accept
the payment, foreman?'
    'He does not,' said Gorlas. 'No, I have something special
in mind for little Harllo.'
    'He's not part of any of this—'
    'You just made him so, Murillio. One of your clan, maybe
even a whelp of one of your useless friends in the Phoenix
Inn – your favoured hangout, yes? Hanut knows everything
there is to know about you. No, the boy's in this, and that's
why you won't have him. I will, to do with as I please.'
    Murillio drew his rapier. 'What makes people like you,
Gorlas?'
    'I could well ask the same of you.'
    Well, a lifetime of mistakes. And so we are perhaps more
alike than either of us would care to admit. He saw the foreman
bend down to collect the purse. The odious man
hefted it and grinned. 'About those interest payments,
Councillor . . .'
    Gorlas smiled. 'Why, it seems you can clear your debt
after all.'
    Murillio assumed his stance, point extended, sword
arm bent slightly at the elbow, left shoulder thrown back
to reduce the plane of his exposed torso. He settled his
weight, gingerly, down through the centre of his hips.
    Smiling still, Gorlas Vidikas moved into a matching
pose, although he was leaning slightly forward. Not a
duellist ready to retreat, then. Murillio recalled that from
the fight he'd seen the very end of, the way Gorlas would
not step back, unwilling to yield ground, unwilling to
accept that sometimes pulling away earned advantages.
No, he would push, and push, surrendering nothing.
    He rapped Murillio's blade with his own, a contemptuous
batting aside to gauge response.
    There was none. Murillio simply resumed his line.
    Gorlas probed with the rapier's point, jabbing here and
there round the bell hilt, teasing and gambling with the
quillons that could trap his blade, but for Murillio to do so
he would have to twist and fold his wrist – not much, but
enough for Gorlas to make a darting thrust into the opened
guard, and so Murillio let the man play with that. He was
in no hurry; footsore and weary as he was, he suspected
he would have but one solid chance, sooner or later, to
end this. Point to lead kneecap, or down to lead boot, or a
flicking slash into wrist tendons, crippling the sword arm
– possibly for ever. Or higher, into the shoulder, stop-hitting
a lunge.
    Gorlas pressed, closing the distance, and Murillio
stepped back.
    And that hurt .
    He could feel wetness in his boots, that wretched clear
liquid oozing out from the broken blisters.
    'I think,' ventured Gorlas, 'there's something wrong with
your feet, Murillio. You move like a man standing on nails.'
    Murillio shrugged. He was past conversation; it was hard
enough concentrating through the stabs of pain.
    'Such an old-style stance you have, old man. So . . .
upright.' Gorlas resumed the flitting, wavering motions of
his rapier, minute threats here and there. He had begun a
rhythmic rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet,
attempting to lull Murillio into that motion.
    When he finally launched into his attack, the move was
explosive, lightning fast.
    Murillio tracked the feints, caught and parried the
lunge, and snapped out a riposte – but he was stepping
back as he did so, and his point snipped the cloth of
Gorlas's sleeve. Before he could ready himself, the younger
duellist extended his attack with a hard parrying beat and
then a second lunge, throwing his upper body far forward
– closing enough to make Murillio's retreat insufficient, as
was his parry.
    Sizzling fire in his left shoulder. Staggering back, the
motion tugging the point free of his flesh, Murillio righted
himself and then straightened. 'Blood drawn,' he said,
voice tightened by pain.
    'Oh, that,' said Gorlas, resuming his rocking motion
once more, 'I've changed my mind.'
    One insult too many. I never learn.
    Murillio felt his heart pounding.