Assail (Malazan Empire, #6)(160)

Reuth hacked at the timber in near-blind panicked desperation. The man closed and swung. Reuth parried the awkward blow and realized that the man was swinging with his off-hand. Thank the gods for that. Snarling, Jands swung again, and Reuth, completely unfamiliar with knife-fighting, or any other sort of fighting for that matter, barely managed to deflect the blow, which struck him high in the head and sent a white-hot spike of pain across his mind.

Through a pink haze he saw Jands pulling the weapon back for a straight killing thrust. He remembered then, almost giddy, that Gren always carried two dirks. No sooner had he thought that, or imagined it, then he threw with all his might, falling forward to the wet decking as he loosed the blade.

Some time later, perhaps a mere heartbeat or two, he blinked to wakefulness. He could only see out of one eye. Something slick and hot coated the other. Jands lay a short distance off, awkwardly, one leg twisted back beneath him. He was holding the grip of the dirk where it protruded from his lower stomach, just above his crotch. He was groaning and babbling.

Blinking, shaking with shock and pent-up panicked energy, Reuth used the ship’s side to lever himself to his feet. He pulled the second dirk free and set to hacking at the timber once more.

Jands turned his head to him. ‘You’ve done for me, you damned piece of worthless shit.’

Reuth kept hacking. Every blow sent shockwaves of agony through his head. Black spots danced across his vision – including his gummed-shut eye. A loud roaring came and went in his hearing, as if the vessel were approaching an immense waterfall, or raging surf.

‘Me! Poor Jands, who never hurt no one!’

Reuth kept swinging. Gods! Would he have to cut the ship in half?

‘You’re a useless sneaking backstabbing snivelling spoiled rat! That’s what you are.’ Jands panted to gather breath for another rant. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done for me!’

Leaning forward – which took some doing without blacking out – Reuth took hold of the iron pin and tried to yank it back and forth. It gave … a little. He returned to bashing at the wood.

Jands was crying now. ‘It’s just not fair! That’s what it is. How could you have killed me? It just ain’t fair!’

Reuth had to pause to gather his own breath. He reached down for the pin – and couldn’t find it. In a sudden horror he fell to his knees, pawing at the cleft where it had been. Where was it? How could he have lost it? What a fool!

Then he spotted it on the deck where it lay amid the curled chips, still driven through its link of chain. Relief surged through him. Thank Ruse! He thought he’d lost it. He picked it up, or tried to, as when he raised the thing it was yanked from his hand.

Reuth stood blinking at the clattering loose end of chain for some time. Then he realized – oh yes.

He went to the anchor stanchion, found the storm release, and pulled it free. The length of anchor chain went rattling and slithering free like a hound released from its leash.

The next thing would require him to make it to the bows. And that would mean … Jands lay in his way. He edged as close as he dared. The man was still alive. He was panting as if running, his lower torso, crotch and thighs a wet mess of blood. His eyes were open and glaring murder and hatred upon Reuth’s head.

Reuth gingerly raised his leg and stepped over the man.

A wet slick hand snapped up to grip his sailcloth trousers. Reuth almost screamed his horror. ‘Save poor Jands,’ the man begged. ‘Please … be a good lad and bring help for your old friend … poor Jands.’

Smothering his terror, Reuth reached down and brushed the hand from its clutching grip the way one might remove a clinging piece of dirt or mud.

The hand fell to the deck timbers with a heavy thud. ‘Heartless murdering piece of shit!’

Reuth then did the hardest thing. He walked away from a man who would soon be dead. A man he had killed. The first – well, the second – man he had killed. He felt diminished as a person as he limped away. But he also felt a childish sort of surge of triumph and energy.

What followed was so much easer: the plain setting of the small foresail, the return to tie off the rudder. Only then did he dare allow himself to relax. He sat in a small stool the steersman was sometimes allowed to pull out, and leaned upon the arm.

The night seemed somehow darker. He blinked, jerked his head up. Then he slid from the stool and banged his head on the deck. He couldn’t stop the spinning after that and he was unable to get up.

Voice roused him to wakefulness. Someone spoke: ‘Hasn’t pulled free. Been a fight.’ A heavy step sounded close by. ‘Look at this.’

Another voice: ‘Mutineer?’

Chain rattled. Someone yanked his leg. ‘An escaped prisoner. Or a slave.’

Reuth forced open his eyes, or tried to: one was glued shut. He saw a giant towering over him. A bearded soldier in a long mail coat that hung to his knees. Over his armour the man wore a pale cloth surcoat.

‘You are safe now, lad,’ he said. ‘We offer you sanctuary. And we among the Blue Shields take such offers very seriously.’

Reuth let his head fall back to the decking. Sanctuary? The word troubled him; sounded too much like the pious mouthings of the Stormguard. Was he no better off? After all that … The idea was just too much for him and he had to choose between weeping or slipping away into darkness.

He chose the easier of the two.