Night of Knives_ A Novel of the Malazan Empire - By Ian C. Esslemont Page 0,63

. . . on a crippled Dassem just beyond reach.

Sensing the end was near, the Seven City regulars drew back to give Surgen room. He pressed forward confidently, contemptuously even, and that made Temper all the more stubborn. The blows rained down. He simply hunched low like a shack in an avalanche, determined to remain, no matter what was thrown at him.

Surgen punished him for his temerity. Yet, Temper hung on. Surgen was incredibly skilled, almost as strong as Temper, and far quicker. Facing the champion’s ferocious eyes, his mouth open as if already tasting Dassem’s blood, Temper abandoned any hope of surviving. He gave himself up as dead already and determined to remain standing merely long enough to deny Surgen the satisfaction of victory. He parried the man, using his bull strength to bear Surgen back whenever possible. Thrust through the stomach, Temper merely grunted and swung for Surgen’s head. But such was warrior’s speed that Surgen simply snapped back his head, taking only a cut across the bridge of his nose. Surgen pulled away then for an instant, stunned Temper hoped, for he could no longer see clearly through the pink mist of sweat and blood fogging his eyes.

He waited, gasping in air, still giving ground while Ferrule, bellowing, thrust everywhere, surrendering to blind battle lust. Dassem staggered, parrying like a drunk, yet still able to defend himself against the common soldiery.

Surgen howled holy outrage and lunged at Temper again. The attacking blade was a blur. Temper could only wait to see what the man intended for the damage was done: he could feel his life leaking down his legs in a warm wet tide. His shield shattered under Surgen’s punishment and Temper released his sword, grappling the man’s wrist. The champion spat into his face, ‘Die! Die!’

Temper smiled blearily at him. ‘Fast as I’m able, friend.’

Enraged, Surgen swung at him again, fought to tear loose his arm, but no one, not even Dassem himself, could break Temper’s iron grip.

Surgen glared past him: his eyes widened; he yelled incoherently. Temper, his vision blackening, felt his grip weaken. Surgen wrenched free, backed away. A tide of Malazan regulars swept over them. Arms took Temper and lifted him from the field. He let himself go then into that darkness, knowing he’d won his last battle – that once again he’d stood long enough . . .

Temper waited for the old nightmare to end. He always woke after that moment, his heart hammering, short of breath. But this time the darkness didn’t come. Surgen still tore at him, workmanlike, as if butchering a slab of meat. And now, instead of a gilded bronze helm, he wore a grey hood. The certainty of death clutched Temper’s throat. The hooded form leaned over him, smothered him in a different sort of darkness. Temper couldn’t breathe. Death pressed down upon him like a vast weight, crushing his ribs, heavier, till he felt nothing of himself was left. Still he struggled to fight. If only to twitch a finger, to spit into the face inside that hood.

Temper inhaled. Cold air jarred his teeth. His chest expanded, fell, rose again. Light returned to his vision, blurred at first then clearing: once more he watched clouds massed before the frigid stars of a night sky.

Someone spoke from beyond his vision, saying dryly: ‘You’re a very stubborn man.’

Groaning, he turned his head. A man hooded in ash-pale robes sat above him on a stone block. Temper wet his lips, croaked, ‘Who in Fener’s own shit are you?’

‘I would ask you the same question but believe I have my answer.’ The man hefted an object: Temper’s helmet. He turned it in his gloved hands as if critiquing the workmanship.

Temper moaned, let his head fall back.

‘My people saw your duel with Rood. They were impressed. They, ah, intervened and fetched you here.’

Temper experimentally raised his right arm. He studied the hand, rubbed his eyes. ‘Rood?’

‘The Hound of Shadow. You surprised him. Too much easy prey recently, I should think.’

Temper attempted to sit up, groaned again. He wondered: how does one intervene against a demon like that?

‘I had them heal you – after I saw this.’ He tapped the helmet. ‘A very unusual design.’

The helmet thumped onto his stomach. With a gasp, Temper sat up.

The man stood. ‘You should get rid of it. Too distinctive.’

Temper grimaced. ‘It’s the only damned one I’ve got. And the question still stands: who are you?’

The man ignored him. He studied something in the distance then