Paran watched Trotts emerge from the crowd. The tattooed Barghast wore the standard issue Malazan armour for marines: studded boiled leather with iron bands over the shoulders and hips. His half-helm had been collected from a dead officer among the soldiers of Aren, in Seven Cities. Bridge-guard and cheek-plates bore a filigreed design of inlaid silver. A chain camail protected the sides and back of his neck. A round shield was strapped to his left forearm, the hand protected by a spiked, iron-banded cestus. A straight, blunt-tipped broadsword was in his right hand.

His arrival elicited low growls from the gathered Barghast, which Trotts answered with a hard grin, revealing blue-stained, filed teeth.

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.’