Memories of Ice (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #3)

Memories of Ice (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #3) Page 174

Trotts won the fight, but we might lose the war. Get going, before you get skewered.'

'Yes, Captain.'

Taking the healer by one arm, Paran swung about and began pushing through the crowd. 'Trotts needs you,' he said as they walked. 'It's bad. A crushed throat-'

'Then how in Hood's name is he still alive?'

'Mulch opened a hole above his lungs and the bastard's breathing through that.'

Mallet frowned, then slowly nodded. 'Clever. But Captain, I may not be much use to you, or Trotts-'

Paran's head snapped around. 'You'd better be. If he dies, so do we.'

'My warren-'

'Never mind the excuses, just heal the man, damn you!'

'Yes, sir, but just so you know, it'll probably kill me.'

'Fener's balls!'

'It's a good exchange, sir. I can see that. Don't worry, I'll heal Trotts — you'll all get out of this, and that's what matters right now.'

Paran stopped. He closed his eyes, fighting the sudden waves of pain from his stomach. Through clenched teeth, he said, 'As you say, Mallet.'

'Aimless is waving us over-'

'Aye, go on, then, Healer.'

'Yes, sir.'

Mallet disengaged his arm and headed over to the squad.

Paran forced open his eyes.

Look at the bastard. Not a falter in his step. Not a blink at his fate. Who — what are these soldiers?

Mallet pushed Mulch aside, knelt next to Trotts, met the warrior's hard eyes and reached out a hand.

'Mallet!' Mulch hissed. 'Your warren-'

'Shut up,' Mallet said, eyes closing as his fingers touched the collapsed, mangled throat.

He opened his warren, and his mind shrieked as virulent power rushed into him. He felt his flesh swelling, splitting, heard the blood spurt and Mulch's shocked cry. Then the physical world vanished within a thrashing sea of pain.

Find the path, dammit! The mending way, the vein of order — gods! Stay sane, Healer. Hold on.

But he felt his sanity being torn away, devoured. His sense of self was being shredded to pieces before his mind's eye, and he could do nothing. He drew on that core of health within his own soul, drew on its power, felt it pour through his fingertips to the ravaged cartilage of Trotts's throat. But the core began to dissolve …

Hands grasped him, tore at him — a new assault. His spirit struggled, tried to pull away. Screams engulfed him from all sides, as of countless souls being destroyed. Hands fell away from his limbs, were replaced by new ones. He was being dragged, his mind yielding to the savage determination of those grasping, clawing hands.

Sudden calm. Mallet found himself kneeling in a fetid pool, shrouded in silence. Then a murmuring arose all around him. He looked up.

Take from us, a thousand voices whispered in susurrating unison. Take our power. Return to your place, and use all that we give to you. But hurry — the path we have laid is a costly one — so costly.

Mallet opened himself to the power swirling around him. He had no choice, he was helpless before its demand. His limbs, his body, felt like wet clay, moulded anew. From the bones outward, his tattered soul was being reassembled.

He lurched upright, swung round, and began walking. A lumpy, yielding ground was underfoot. He did not look down, simply pushed on. The Denul warren was all around him now, savage and deadly, yet held back from him. Unable to reclaim his soul, the poison howled.

Mallet could feel his fingers once more, still pressed against the broken throat of his friend, yet within his mind he still walked. Step by step, inexorably pushed onward. This is the journey to my flesh. Who has done this for me? Why?

The warren began to dim around him. He was almost home. Mallet looked down, to see what he knew he would see. He walked a carpet of corpses — his path through the poisoned horror of his warren. Costly — so costly …

The healer's eyes blinked open. Bruised skin beneath his fingers, yet no more than that. He blinked sweat away, met Trotts's gaze.

Two paths, it seems. One for me, and one for you, friend.

The Barghast weakly lifted his right arm. Mallet clasped it with an iron grip. 'You're back,' the healer whispered, 'you shark-toothed bastard.'

'Who?' Trotts croaked, the skin around his eyes tightening at the effort. 'Who paid?'

Mallet shook his head. 'I don't know. Not me.'

The Barghast's eyes flicked down to the split and bleeding flesh of the healer's arms.

Mallet shook his head again. 'Not me, Trotts.'

Paran could not move, dared not approach closer. All he could see was a huddle of soldiers around where Trotts lay and Mallet knelt. Gods forgive me, I ordered that healer to kill himself. If this is the true face of command, then it is a skull's grin. I want none of it. No more, Paran, you cannot steel yourself to this life, to these choices. Who are you to balance lives? To gauge worth, to measure flesh by the pound? No, this is a nightmare. I'm done with it.