A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 4

who did,
Gruntle, who always looked down at him with sad eyes, he
was dead now, too, and it was this fact that eased Harllo's
mind. He was happy to go where Gruntle had gone. He
would take hold of that giant scarred hand and know that,
finally, he was safe.
    'I got you! I got you!'
    A hand snagged at the back of his shirt, missed.
    Harllo threw himself forward – maybe one last spurt
– away, fast as he could—
    The hand caught a handful of tunic, and Harllo
stumbled, and then a thin sweaty arm wrapped tight round
his neck, lifting him from his feet.
    The forearm pressed against his throat. He could not
breathe. And all at once Harllo did not want to die.
    He flailed, but Venaz was too big, too strong.
    Harllo was forced down to the stony surface of the road,
then pushed over on his back as Venaz straddled him and
closed both hands round his neck.
    The face glaring down at him was flushed with triumph.
Sweat ran muddy streaks down it; something had cut one
cheek and white threads of cave-worms clustered round the
wound – they'd lay eggs and that cut would become a huge
welt, until it burst and the grubs crawled out, and the scar
left behind would never go away and Venaz would be ugly
for the rest of his life.
    'Got you got you got you,' Venaz whispered, his eyes
bright. 'And now you die. Now you die. Got you and now
you die.'
    Those hands squeezed with savage strength.
    He fought, he scratched, he kicked, but it was hopeless.
He felt his face swell, grow hot. The darkness flushed
red.
    Something cracked hard and Venaz was reeling back, his
grip torn loose. Hands closed on Harllo's upper arms and
dragged him a short distance away. Gasping, he stared up at
a strange face – another boy – who now stepped past him,
advancing on Venaz.
    Who had scrambled upright, nose streaming blood.
    'Who the shit are—'
    The stranger flung himself at Venaz, and both went
down.
    Coughing, tears streaming, Harllo forced himself on to
his hands and knees. The two boys were about the same
size, and they were of that age when a real fight had a
deadly edge. They fought as would rabid dogs. Clawing
into faces, seeking eye sockets, or inside the mouth to tear
aside one entire cheek. They bit, gouged, used their elbows
and knees as they rolled about on the roadside.
    Something snapped, like a green sapling, and someone
howled in terrible pain.
    Harllo climbed to his feet, and he found he was holding
a large round stone in his hands.
    Venaz had broken the stranger's left arm, and he was
now working himself on top, fists raining down into the
other boy's face – who did what he could to protect it with
his one working arm, but half of those fists got through,
smashing into the face beneath.
    Harllo stepped up behind Venaz, who was straddling the
stranger. He looked down, seeing him as the stranger must
have done when Harllo was the one lying on the ground,
being murdered. He raised the rock, and then drove it
down on to the top of Venaz's skull.
    The impact made him lose his grip on the stone and he
saw it roll off to one side, leaving a shallow dent in Venaz's
head.
    Venaz seemed to be in the midst of a coughing fit, a
barely human stuttering sound bursting from his throat. He
pushed himself off the other boy and rose wobbling to his
feet. When he turned to stare at Harllo, he was smiling, the
teeth bright shards between gushing streams of blood from
his nose. His eyes had filled and were now opaque. He lost
his balance and reeled to one side, only to lose his footing
on the edge of the road and plunge into the grassy ditch.
    Harllo went to stare down at him. Venaz was still
smiling, lying on his back, his cut and bruised hands
making strange circular motions. He had soiled himself
and the stench made Harllo step back, away, to walk over
and kneel down beside the other boy.
    Who was sitting up, cradling his broken arm, hair hanging
over his face.
    'Hello,' said Harllo, 'who are you?'
    Hanut Orr stood in the shadows behind the Phoenix Inn,
waiting for the first of the cowardly bastards to come rushing
out from the kitchen door. His man must be inside by
now, stirring things up. Not long, then.
    He ducked at the sound of ferocious howls echoing
through the city, and then a thundering concussion somewhere
to the south – but close – and he stepped out to the
centre of the alley. Some shambling figure walking past had
to shift quickly to one side to avoid colliding with him.
    'Watch it,' Hanut snapped, and then he looked up into
the