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'You are not well, Captain.'

Paran glanced over at Twist. Reflected firelight glimmered on the Moranth's midnight armour, played like the illusion of eyes across the planes of his helm. The only proof that a flesh and blood man was beneath that chitinous shell was the mangled hand that dangled lifeless from his right arm. Withered and crushed by the necromantic grasp of a Rhivi spirit. that entire arm hangs dead. Slow, but inevitable, the lifelessness will continue its climb. to shoulder, then into his chest. In a year this man will be dead — he'd need a god's healing touch to save him, and how likely is that? 'I've an unsettled stomach,' the captain replied.Advertisement

'You deceive by understatement,' Twist said. Then he shrugged. 'As you wish. I will pry no further.'

'I need you to do something,' Paran said after a moment, his eyes narrowed on yet another duel before the hearth-ring. 'Unless you and your quorl are too weary-'

'We are rested enough,' the Black Moranth said. 'Request, and it shall be done.'

The captain drew a deep breath, then sighed and nodded. 'Good. I thank you.'

A bruise of colour showed on the eastern horizon, spreading through the clefts in the ridge of hills just south of the Barghast Mountains. Red-eyed and shivering in the chill, Paran drew his quilted cloak tighter as he surveyed the first stirrings in the massive, smoke-wreathed encampment filling the valley. He was able to pick out various clans by the barbaric standards rising above the seemingly haphazard layout of tents — Whiskeyjack's briefing had been thorough — and held most of his attention on those that the commander had cited as being potential trouble-makers.

To one side of the Challenge Clearing, where Trotts and Humbrall Taur's champion would fight in a short while, was the thousand-strong camp of the Ahkrata. Distinguished by their characteristic nose-plugs, lone braids and multi-toned armour fashioned from Moranth victims — including Green, Black, Red and, here and there, Gold Clans — they were the smallest contingent, having travelled farthest, yet reputedly the meanest. Avowed enemies of the Ilgres Clan — who now fought for Brood — they could prove difficult in the fashioning of an alliance.

Humbrall Taur's closest rival was the warchief Maral Eb, whose own Barahn Clan had arrived in strength — over ten thousand weapon-bearers, painted in red ochre and wearing bronze brigandine armour, their hair spiked and bristling with porcupine quills. There was the risk that Maral might contest Humbrall's position if an opportunity arose, and the night just past had seen over fifty duels between the Barahn and Humbrall Taur's own Senan warriors. Such a challenge could trigger an all-out war between the clans.

Perhaps the strangest group of warriors Paran had seen was the Gilk. Their hair was cut in stiff, narrow wedges and they wore armour assembled from the plates of some kind of tortoise. Distinctively short and stout for Barghast, they looked to the captain to be a match for any heavy infantry they might face.

Scores of minor tribes contributed to the confused mix that made up the White Face nation. Mutually antagonistic and with longstanding feuds and rivalries, it was a wonder that Humbrall Taur had managed to draw them all together, and more or less keep the peace for four days and counting.

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And today is the crux. Even if Trotts wins the duel, full acceptance is not guaranteed. Bloody eruptions could follow. And if he loses. Paran pulled his thoughts away from that possibility.

A voice wailed to greet the dawn, and suddenly the camps were alive with silent, rising figures. The muted clank of weapons and armour followed, amidst the barking of dogs and nasal bellowing of geese. As if the Challenge Clearing drew an invisible breath, warriors began converging towards it.

Paran glanced over to see his Bridgeburners slowly gathering themselves, like quarry pricked alert by a hunter's horn. Thirty-odd Malazans — the captain knew they were determined to put up a fight if things went wrong; knew as well that the struggle would be shortlived. He scanned the lightening sky, eyes narrowing to the southwest in the hopes that he would see a dark speck — Twist and his quorl, fast approaching — but there was nothing to mar the silver-blue vastness.

A deeper silence among the Barghast alerted Paran. He turned to see Humbrall Taur striding through the press to take position in the centre of the clearing. This was the closest the captain had come to the man since their arrival. The warrior was huge, bestial, bedecked in the withered, hair-matted skins of deboned human heads. His hauberk of overlapping coins glittered in the morning light: the horde of ancient, unknown money that the Senan stumbled across some time in the past must have been huge, for every warrior in the tribe wore such armour. There must have been shiploads of the damned things. That, or an entire temple filled to its ceiling. pqdm.com