A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

The scar of his last,
near fatal wounding seemed to be throbbing as if eager to
reopen. He could feel blood pulsing down from his pierced
shoulder muscle, could feel warm trickles running down
the length of his upper arm to soak the cloth at his elbow.
    'Blood drawn,' he repeated. 'As you guessed, I am in no
shape to duel beyond that, Gorlas. We were agreed, before
a witness.'
    Gorlas glanced over at his foreman. 'Do you recall, precisely,
what you heard?'
    The old man shrugged. 'Thought there was something
about wounding . . .'
    Gorlas frowned.
    The foreman cleared his throat. '. . . but that's all. A
discussion, I think. I heard nothing, er, firmed up between
you.'
    Gorlas nodded. 'Our witness speaks.'
    A few hundred onlookers in the pit below were making
restless sounds. Murillio wondered if Harllo was among
them.
    'Ready yourself,' Gorlas said.
    So, it was to be this way. A decade past Murillio would
have been standing over this man's corpse, regretful, of
course, wishing it all could have been handled peacefully.
And that was the luxury of days gone past, that cleaner
world, while everything here, now, ever proved so . . .
messy.
    I didn't come here to die this day. I'd better do something
about that. I need to survive this. For Harllo. He resumed his
stance. Well, he was debilitated, enough to pretty much
ensure that he would fight defensively, seeking only ripostes
and perhaps a counter-attack – taking a wound to deliver a
death. All of that would be in Gorlas's mind, would shape
his tactics. Time, then, to surprise the bastard.
    His step and lunge was elegant, a fluid forward motion
rather quick for a man his age. Gorlas, caught on the
forward tilt of his rocking, was forced to jump a half-step
back, parrying hard and without precision. His riposte was
wild and inaccurate, and Murillio caught it with a high
parry of his own, following through with a second attack –
the one he had wanted to count from the very first – a fully
extended lunge straight for his opponent's chest – heart or
lungs, it didn't matter which—
    But somehow, impossibly, Gorlas had stepped close,
inside and to one side of that lunge – his half-step back
had not been accompanied by any shift in weight, simply
a repositioning of his upper body, and this time his thrust
was not at all wild.
    Murillio caught a flash along the length of Daru steel,
and then he could not breathe. Something was pouring
down the front of his chest, and spurting up into his
mouth.
    He felt part of his throat tearing from the inside out as
Gorlas slashed his blade free and stepped to the right.
    Murillio twisted round to track him, but the motion
lost all control, and he continued on, legs collapsing under
him, and now he was lying on the stony ground.
    The world darkened.
    He heard Gorlas say something, possibly regretful, but
probably not.
    Oh, Harllo, I am so sorry. So sorry—
    And the darkness closed in.
    He was rocked momentarily awake by a kick to his face,
but that pain quickly flushed away, along with everything
else.
    Gorlas Vidikas stood over Murillio's corpse. 'Get that
carter to take the body back,' he said to the foreman,
bending down to clean his blade on the threadbare silk
sleeve of his victim's weapon arm. 'Have him deliver it to
the Phoenix Inn, rapier and all.'
    From the pit below, people were cheering and clanging
their tools like some ragtag mob of barbarians. Gorlas
faced them and raised his weapon in salute. The cheering
redoubled. He turned back to the foreman. 'An extra
tankard of ale for the crews tonight.'
    'They will toast your name, Councillor!'
    'Oh, and have someone collect the boy for me.'
    'It's his shift in the tunnels, I think, but I can send someone
to get him.'
    'Good, and they don't have to be gentle about it, either.
But make sure – nothing so bad he won't recover. If they
kill him, I will personally disembowel every one of them
– make sure they understand.'
    'I will, Councillor.' The foreman hesitated. 'I never seen
such skill, I never seen such skill – I thought he had you—'
    'I'm sure he thought so, too. Go find that carter, now.'
    'On my way, Councillor.'
    'Oh, and I'll take that purse, so we're clear.'
    The foreman rushed over to deliver it. Feeling the
bag's weight for the first time, Gorlas raised his brows – a
damned year's wages for this foreman, right here – probably
all Murillio had, cleaned right out. Three times as much
as the interest this fool owed him. Then again, if the foreman
had