Humbrall Taur eyed him for a moment, as if disapproving of Trotts's choice of Malazan weapons over those of the Barghast, then he swung in the opposite direction and gestured once more with the mace.
His youngest son emerged from the circle.
Paran had not known what to expect, but the sight of this scrawny, grinning youth — wearing only leathers, with a single short hook-knife in his right hand — did not match any of the images he had fashioned. What is this? Some kind of twisted insult? Does Taur want to ensure his own defeat? At the cost of his youngest son's life?
The warriors on all sides began thumping their feet on the hard earth, raising a rhythmic drumbeat that echoed its way across the valley.
The unnamed youth sauntered into the Circle to stand opposite Trotts, five paces between them. Eyeing the Bridgeburner from head to toe, the boy's smile broadened.
'Captain,' a voice hissed beside Paran.
He turned. 'Corporal Aimless, isn't it? What can I do for you? And be quick.'
The lean, stooped soldier's habitually dour expression was even bleaker than usual. 'We were just wondering, sir … If this scrap goes bad, I mean, well, me and a few others, we been hoarding some Moranth munitions. Cussers too, sir, we got five of those at hand. We could open something of a path — see that knoll over there, a good place, we figured, to withdraw to and hold up. Those steep sides-'
'Stow it, Corporal,' Paran growled under his breath. 'My orders haven't changed. Everyone sits tight.'
'Sure he's a runt, sir, but what if-'
'You heard me, soldier.'
Aimless bobbed his head. 'Yes, sir. It's just that, uh, some — nine, maybe ten — well, they're muttering about maybe doing whatever they please and to Hood with you … sir.'
Paran pulled his gaze away from the two motionless warriors in the Circle and met the corporal's watery eyes. 'And you are their spokesman, Aimless?'
'No! Not me, sir! I ain't got no opinion, I never did. Never do, in fact, Captain. No, not me. I'm just here telling you what's going on among the squads right now, that's all.'
'And there they all are, watching you and me having this conversation, which is how they wanted it. You're the mouth, Corporal, whether you like it or not. This is one instance where I probably should kill the messenger, if only to rid myself of his stupidity.'
Aimless's dour expression clouded. 'I wouldn't try that, sir,' he said slowly. 'The last captain that drew his sword on me I broke his neck.'
Paran raised an eyebrow. Beru fend me, I underestimate even the true idiots in this company. 'Try showing some restraint this time, Corporal,' he said. 'Go back and tell your comrades to hold tight until I give the signal. Tell them there's no way we're going down without a fight, but trying a break-out when the Barghast most expect it will see us die fast.'
'You want me to say all that, sir?'
'In your own words, if you like.'
Aimless sighed. 'That's easy, then. I'll go now, Captain.'
'You do that, Corporal.'
Returning his attention to the Circle, Paran saw that Humbrall Taur had moved to stand directly between the two contestants. If he addressed them it was brief and under his breath, for he then stepped back, once more raising the mace overhead. The thumping dance of the massed warriors ceased. Trotts swung his shield to the ready, dropping his left leg back and positioning his sword in a tight guard position. The youth's sloppy stance did not change, the knife held loosely at his side.
Humbrall Taur reached one edge of the ring. He waved the mace one final time over his head, then lowered it.
The duel had begun.
Trotts stepped back, crouching low with the shield rim just under his eyes. The blunt tip of his broadsword edged outward as he half extended his arm.
The youth pivoted to face him, the knife in his hand making slight bobbing, snake-head motions. At some unseen shift in weight from Trotts he danced lithely to the left, blade wavering in a haphazard, desultory defence, but the big Bridgeburner did not come forward. Ten paces still remained between them.
Every move the lad makes tells Trotts more, fills out the tactical map. What the boy reacts to, what makes him hesitate, tauten, withdraw. Every shift in weight, the play over the ground and the balls of his feet. and Trotts has yet to move.
The youth edged closer, approaching at an angle that Trotts matched only with his shield. Another step. The Bridgeburner's sword slid out to the side. The lad skittered back, then he neared again, sharpening the angle.
Like a stolid infantryman, Trotts swung round to replant his feet — and the Barghast attacked.
A snort gusted from Paran as the Bridgeburner's heavy-footedness vanished. Negating his own advantage in height, Trotts met the lashing assault from low behind his shield, surging forward unexpectedly into the lad's high-bladed attack. Hook-knife glanced without strength off Trotts's helm, then the heavy round shield hammered into the boy's chest, throwing him back.
The youth struck the ground, skidding, raising a cloud of dust as he tumbled and rolled.
A fool would have pursued, only to find the lad's knife slashing through the sunlit cloud — but Trotts simply settled back behind his shield. The youth emerged from the swirling dust, face powdered, knife wavering. His smile remained.
Not a style the lad's used to. Trotts could well be standing front-line in a phalanx, shoulder to shield with hard-eyed Malazan infantry. More than one barbaric horde has been deflowered and cut to pieces against that deadly human wall. These White Faces have never experienced an Imperial engagement.
The lithe Barghast began a swift, darting dance, circling Trotts, edging in then back out, playing with the bright sunlight and flashes on weapon and armour, kicking up clouds of dust. In answer, the Bridgeburner simply pivoted into one of four facings — he had become his own square — and waited, again and again seeming to hold a position too long before shifting, each time stamping the methodical steps of the Malazan infantry drill like a thick-skulled recruit. He ignored every feint, would not be pulled forward by the lad's moments of imbalance and awkwardness — which were themselves illusory.
The ring of warriors had begun shouting their frustration. This was not a duel as they knew duels. Trotts would not play the lad's game. He is now a soldier of the Empire, and that is the addendum to his tale.
The youth launched another attack, his blade blurring in a wild skein of feints, then slashing low, seeking the Bridgeburner's right knee — the hinge in the armour's joint. Shield came down, driving the knife away. Broadsword slashed horizontally for the boy's head. He ducked lower, hook-blade dropping down to slash ineffectually across the toe-cap of Trotts's boot. The Bridgeburner snapped his shield into the boy's face.
The youth reeled, blood spraying from his nose. Yet his knife rose unerringly, skirting the rim of the shield as if following a hissing guide to dig deep into the armour's joint hinge of Trotts's left arm, the hook biting, then tearing through ligaments and veins.
The Malazan chopped down with his broadsword, severing the lad's knife-hand at the wrist.
Blood poured from the two warriors, yet the close-in engagement was not yet complete. Paran watched in amazement as the youth's left hand shot up, stiff-fingered, beneath the chin-guard of Trotts's helmet. A strange popping sound came from Trotts's throat. Shield-arm falling senseless in a welter of blood, knees buckling, the Bridgeburner sank to the ground.
Trotts's final gesture was a lightning-quick sweep of his broadsword across the lad's stomach. Sleek flesh parted and the youth looked down in time to see his intestines tumble into view in a gush of fluids. He convulsed around them, pitched to the ground.