Orb, Sceptre, Throne

CHAPTER XVII

Scorch’s and Leff’s boot heels echoed in the empty night-time streets of Darujhistan. They walked the Daru district, not far from the Third Tier Wall that demarked the estate district containing Majesty Hill. Scorch peered about at the closed doors and the empty walks where crowds usually discussed the latest shows, a new dancer, or a troupe of entertainers newly arrived in the city. He nervously licked his lips and peered sidelong to his partner.

‘Where is everyone?’ he murmured, suspicious.

Leff squinted his disbelief. ‘It’s the curfew, you idiot. No one’s allowed out after the tenth bell. We was there when the Legate signed the law.’

Scorch shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘Not my business. I must’ve been busy looking for threats.’

‘Threats, right,’ Leff murmured, looking skyward.

‘Well,’ Scorch went on, ‘it’s not like we’re gettin’ out much these days.’

Leff put a touch harder stamp into his step and thrust out his chest even further. ‘That’s right. Got us important work. Guardin’ the Legate and such. Busy. Can’t be loafing about.’

‘Not like the old days.’

‘Nope. No more drinking or chasing skirts for us.’

‘Can’t be doin’ none o’ that,’ Scorch sighed, and he pulled on his lower lip. ‘Leff …’ he said, tentative.

‘Yeah?’

‘What say you we sign on any trader leavin’ tonight? Head down south. Rich pickin’s down there. Everyone says so. Heard me stories of buckets of coin.’

Leff stopped. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and regarded his partner, head lowered. ‘You see — there’s our problem. Consistency. Stick-to-it-ness.’ He drove a hand through the air before him. ‘Have to hoe a straight row. See things through to the ugly bitter sticky end no matter how many tell us for gods’ sakes would you just drop it! No more o’ that listening to other people. Not for us, right?’

Brows cramped together, mouth open, Scorch nodded. ‘Right.’

‘Hey, you two!’ a new voice called out.

Both turned. A detachment of the city Wardens approached. They carried lanterns and were armed with truncheons. ‘It’s curfew, you know,’ their sergeant continued.

Leff threw out his hands, aggrieved. ‘Yeah! It’s curfew — an’ if we see anyone out we’ll arrest them, won’t we!’ The sergeant’s unshaven face screwed up as he tried to work his way through that. ‘We’re Majesty Hill guards, I’ll have you know,’ Leff continued, and he made a show of resting his hand on the grip of his shortsword.

The sergeant’s gaze followed the motion and it seemed to Leff that the man was suitably impressed. He waved them on, murmuring something that might have been: ‘Say hello to the Seguleh.’

Leff stamped off, chest thrown out. Scorch followed. ‘Imagine,’ Leff complained loudly. ‘The nerve of some.’

Scorch spotted a faded sign of a bird rising from flames, a warm yellow glow from glazed windows, a door a sliver ajar, and the noise of laughter and tankards banging tables.

‘Phoenix’s open,’ he commented.

Leff abruptly stopped again. ‘After curfew?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Leff set his hand once more on his weapon grip. ‘Have to ’vestigate. Might be curfew-breakers.’

Scorch’s wide mouth drew up in a wet grin. ‘Just doin’ our duty.’

‘That’s right.’

Inside, the noise seemed a solid barrier. Scorch and Leff peered about, blinking at the crowd. Leff scanned for a table but the floor was jammed. An older tough-looking woman glowered at them from behind the bar. ‘What do you two want?’ she demanded.

‘Friends!’ a familiar voice piped.

Leff looked round to see Kruppe gesturing them over. ‘It’s all right,’ he told the woman, ‘we’re expected.’

Kruppe was at his usual small round table hidden away near the back. He invited them to sit then clapped his hands, calling: ‘Jess! Summer ale for my friends here. They thirst!’

The two exchanged suspicious glances. ‘What’s this?’ Scorch asked.

The little man appeared offended. He pressed a hand to his stained shirt. ‘What is this? Why, nothing more than drinks among friends. Mere hospitality! Why should there be anything more to this than that? Why, there is none of this or that, I assure you.’

The heavy bulk of Jess pressed up to the table. ‘You again,’ she accused, glaring at Kruppe.

‘Yes? Me?’ Kruppe blinked winningly up at her, hands pressed together under his chin.

‘Nothing more for you until you pay your tab.’

Scorch and Leff shared knowing looks and pushed back their chairs, preparing to leave.

Kruppe clutched at them. ‘No, no! Said tab is as good as covered. I assure you I have every intention of taking care of that trivial detail. There you have it, Jess. A promissory promise. I, ah, promise. So, until such time … would you be so good as to put these drinks on the tab?’

Jess heaved a sigh and pushed back hair stuck to her sweaty face. ‘I’ll ask Meese,’ she allowed, and lumbered off, hips swaying.

Leff sat again. ‘Gotta admire your way with women there, friend.’

Sitting back, Kruppe slipped his hands under his tight crimson waistcoat looking quite satisfied with himself. ‘It’s a blessing and a curse I struggle to live with.’ He eyed them up and down. ‘And you two? How goes the search for gainful employment?’

‘Oh, we got-’ began Scorch only to break off and curse as Leff kicked him under the table.

Kruppe’s oily black brows rose. ‘Oh-ho! What is this? You have secured positions? You have an income? Ergo, you are able now to honour certain past debts that have heretofore been graciously allowed to languish, unpursued, by certain friends?’

‘We ain’t been paid yet,’ Leff said, glaring at Scorch.

Kruppe slapped a hand to the cluttered table. ‘As good as, I should say! This calls for celebration! Let us honour this coming plentitude with a drink now — for that is exactly what you will do once it arrives, yes? The difference being only one of inconsequential timing. Then, after that, then we can discuss your debt.’

Scorch sat with his typical expression of surprise compounded by incomprehension. ‘I don’t get it,’ he confessed to Leff.

‘Never mind,’ Leff sighed as tall tankards arrived with a glass of white wine, all set down by Jess.

‘Meese said it was okay.’

‘My dear,’ beamed Kruppe, ‘you are fitting in nicely here.’

She went away rolling her eyes.

‘To advances, advantage, and profitable positions,’ said Kruppe, lifting his glass.

Leff and Scorch knocked their tankards together. ‘Aye. Twins look away.’

The upper waters of the River Maiten flowed thick and heavy with silt, almost sluggish, like old blood. The wet silts even gave it a reddish hue. For a time they paced its course, heading north for Darujhistan. Eventually, they came to a nameless hamlet that hugged the river. Here the water allowed farming and animal husbandry. And the river offered some fishing, if only small bottom-dwellers.

Since neither the Seventh nor Lo appeared inclined to approach the villagers regarding hiring a boat, Yusek and Sall headed in to do the honours. Part of Yusek wondered why they were bothering with paying at all when they could just take one of the wretched battered old punts drawn up on the muddy shore. But another part of her understood that Lo and the Seventh had these conceits of honesty and honour that had to be observed.

‘They want coin,’ she told Sall. ‘You have any coin?’

The Seguleh lad drew a small pouch from beneath his cloak. ‘I have these. Our old currency.’

A clinking heap of shiny yellow bars, or wafers, fell into her cupped hands. ‘Osserc’s mercy!’ she exclaimed, pressing the pile to her chest. ‘Where did you get all this?’

The lad seemed unconcerned. ‘As I said, it is our old currency. We don’t use it any more. I keep these as mementos.’

Yusek shuffled them back into the pouch, which she then kept in her fist. ‘They’re gold,’ she hissed.

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Are we going to pay gold for a crappy old boat that can barely hold all of us?’

‘I see no alternative.’

‘Gods. The price of boats is about to go way up.’

‘Pay them — it is of no matter.’

No matter! By the Enchantress! This is part of my fortune I’m throwing away here. ‘Sall — can’t we just threaten them? Just a little?’

The mask faced her squarely. The hazel and brown eyes grew stern. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘All right, all right!’ Yusek stalked away. ‘Can’t fucking believe I’m handing gold to these stinking hamlet-dwellers,’ she muttered. ‘They won’t even know what they’ve got in their hands …’

A short time later the Seventh pushed off one of the larger of the river boats and took the stern. Lo had the bow while Sall and Yusek sat in the middle. The boat was of hide ribbed with wood. It was without seats; one merely knelt in the fetid water that sloshed within. At first Yusek held on to a thwart, refusing to let her hide trousers touch the filth. Finally Sall reached up to yank her down.

‘And what do I do?’ she asked, wincing as the cold water clasped her knees.

Sall handed her a cup carved from wood. ‘You bail — or we sink.’

Kiska walked with Tayschrenn over the featureless dunes of black sands. Soon clouds swept in from ahead, which struck her as odd, since no clouds had ever before marred the sky here at the Shores. The shadows of the clouds glided over them, obscuring her vision, and in their wake she found herself walking a night-time landscape of blasted broken rock. Suddenly it was hard going, as the ground was uneven and the sharp stones turned under her feet. She missed the smooth sands, even if they did make walking a chore.

‘Where are we?’

Tayschrenn did not answer. He was peering into the sky. Suddenly he knelt behind a larger boulder, motioning her down. ‘Trespassing,’ he murmured. She huddled under the cover of the boulder then hissed, jerking away; it was hot to the touch.

‘What is this …’ Then she saw them wheeling in the sky and she stared, astounded and terrified. Winged long-necked beasts flying off in the distance. ‘Are those …’

‘Yes.’

‘Enchantress protect us. What’s going on?’

‘A gathering. A marshalling. Call it what you will.’

‘Is that where we’re …’

‘No. All this regards the past. I prefer to look to the future.’

‘Then what are we doing here?’

The mage struck off at right-angles. ‘As I said, trespassing. This is a short cut.’

A short cut? This? Hate to see the long way round.

Not long after that — at least if you counted time in paces, as she was doing — the landscape changed to a forested verge. The ground became swampy as they entered the woods, and thick vine-laden trunks and ferns blocked all view. Tayschrenn slowed, then came to an uncertain halt.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘We’re being deflected. This is not where I intended to come.’

The very air felt charged to Kiska, vibrating and heavy with potential. ‘Something’s stirring here,’ she whispered. ‘Something awful.’

He glanced at her, surprised. ‘I’d forgotten about your natural sensitivity. Yes. I feel it too. But again, this is not what I have chosen. I could commit myself — attempt to guide things one way or the other. But would it be for the better? Would the outcome be improved by yet another set of meddling hands? No, I think not.’

Kiska used her staff to flick a snake away from the man’s sandalled feet. ‘Perhaps we should be going …’

‘Yes. Let us … no. It is too late.’ He turned to face the darkness between the roots of two immense trunks. Kiska whipped her staff crossways.

A figure arose from the dark. Kiska would have said that this person, a woman, stepped from the darkness, but that was not right. She rose as if she had been crawling. She was tall and wide, wearing layers upon layers of black cloth all dusty and festooned with cobwebs. In contrast, her long black hair hung down past her shoulders, sleek and shimmering. Her complexion was a dark nut brown, her eyes very dark.

Tayschrenn bowed to her. ‘Ardata.’

Ardata? Where had she heard that before? Some sort of sorceress.

The woman stepped forward. She was barefoot and the layers of cloth trailed behind, snagging on brush and roots, unravelling in long threads.

‘Magus,’ she greeted Tayschrenn. Her voice was surprisingly rich and musical. ‘Long have I known of you.’ She circled at a distance. ‘Your acts come to me like ripples in the skein of the Warrens.’ The dark eyes swung to Kiska. ‘And who is this?’

‘She is with me.’

The eyes flared undisguised dismissal and contempt. ‘One of her creatures, I see. The strings are plain to me.’

‘We were just going.’

‘You are? You will not stay? There is much turmoil. Much … opportunity. Who knows what the final outcome may be?’

‘My choice is made. I will lend my strength where I believe I can do the most.’

The lips twisted into a knowing sneer. ‘And not incidentally positioning yourself very neatly.’

‘Or assuring my inevitable dissolution.’

The sorceress laughed and Kiska felt almost seduced by the richness of her voice. ‘We both know you would not allow that. You would not commit fully otherwise.’

‘No. I have found purpose, Ardata. One far beyond the mere amassing and hoarding of power.’

Kiska noted that in her pacing the sorceress had left behind a trail of black threads that now completely encircled them. Halting, Ardata cocked her head to regard Tayschrenn sidelong. ‘This does not sound like the magus of whom I have heard so much.’

‘That is true. I have … changed.’

The woman darted out a hand, pointing to Kiska. ‘And does this one have something to do with that? Is she responsible?’

Tayschrenn moved to stand before Kiska. ‘She was — integral, yes.’

The sorceress held her arms wide. The black shifting cloths hung from them like cowls, spreading. ‘Then I believe you should remain.’

Darkness swallowed them. Blinded, Kiska hunched, holding her staff ready. An inhuman snarl burst around them, enraged and frustrated. It dwindled then snapped away into silence. The ground shifted beneath Kiska’s feet and she stumbled, almost falling. Then the absolute darkness brightened in stages to mere night, but not night as Kiska knew it. Brighter, with the moon larger and two other globes in the starry sky looking like child’s marbles. One tinted reddish, the other more bluish. To her relief Tayschrenn was still with her.

‘Where are we now?’

‘Closer.’

‘That sorceress … she is your enemy?’

Hands clasped behind his back once more, the mage set off through the tall grass surrounding them. Kiska struggled to catch up. A cool wind smelling of pine billowed her cloak and dried her face. ‘Enemy?’ Tayschrenn mused. ‘No, not as such. No, her hostility was directed against someone else, yes?’

‘The Enchantress.’

‘Yes.’

‘What is the Queen of Dreams to her?’

The mage laughed, startling her. The laughter was completely unguarded, open and uninflected. She’d never heard anything like it from him before. ‘What is she to …’ He laughed again, chuckling as if enjoying the sensation. ‘My dear Kiska. Who do you think held the title of Enchantress before your patron showed up? They are rivals. Bitter rivals. Ardata is ancient. The greatest power of her age. Eclipsed now in this time of Warrens and their mastery.’

‘I see. I didn’t know.’

‘No. And I didn’t expect that you should. But the mark of the Queen is upon you, so you ought to know now.’

Yes. Her ‘strings’. Kiska did not like the sound of that. She wondered whether they were knotted. She knew that she would do all she could to tear them off if that should be so.

‘So, just where are we?’ she asked.

‘This is Tellann. We should be safe here — for a time.’

‘Tellann? But that is Imass! How can we be here?’

The mage glanced at her, startled. ‘You keep surprising me with your knowledge of these things. Why is it you never pursued magery? You could have. Thyr, perhaps?’

Kiska shrugged off the suggestion, uncomfortable. ‘Too much effort.’ She slung her staff over her shoulders as she walked.

‘Too much effort? Yet you put yourself through rigorous physical training little different from torture …’

‘I prefer to act.’

‘You prefer to act,’ the mage echoed again, musing. ‘Impetuous still. Not wise.’

She shrugged beneath the staff, flexed her wrists, feeling the bones cracking. ‘That’s how it is.’

Ahead, a rumbling filled the plain. Beneath the night sky a darker cloud of dust approached from one side. As it closed Kiska heard animal snorting penetrating the din of countless hooves hammering the hardpan prairie. A herd thundered across their path. Great woolly front-heavy beasts, some boasting wicked-looking curved horns.

Movement brushed among the tall grass nearby and Kiska whipped her staff to the side to stand hunched, ready, staff levelled, facing two low eyes across a long narrow muzzle. She stared, fascinated, as those frost-blue eyes bored into her and through her. Then they released her, snapping aside as the beast dodged, loping off through the grass. She almost fell when the gaze abandoned her. She felt exhausted, her heart hammering as if she had been running all evening. Is this the fear of the prey in the face of the hunter? Or an invitation?

Tayschrenn’s gaze followed the wolf as it bounded after the herd. He murmured as if reciting: ‘And what are the gods but need writ large?’

‘What was that?’ Kiska asked, still panting. She pressed the back of a glove to her hot forehead.

‘Just some philosopher’s musings. The wolves, Kiska. The wolves. The gods are restless. They are charging now to their destiny, for that is their role. I sense in this a welcome. Come, let us follow. I recognize the old scent now and I accept. It is time for a long overdue reunion.’

He led the way on to the churned-up trail. Kiska followed, waving the dust and drifting chaff from her face.

Picker was on watch at the front of K’rul’s bar when a knock on the barricaded door made her jump, so startled that she dropped the crossbow. Spindle jerked up from where he napped on one of the benches. Glaring at him to say anything, just one thing, she picked up the weapon then peered out through the boards.

‘Who’re you?’ she called. A low voice murmured something. ‘Yeah, he’s here,’ Picker answered. She looked at Spindle. ‘Someone’s got a message for ya.’

He pushed through to peep. He was a tall fellow, lean, hooded. The evening light made his lined face look even more harsh. Spindle raised his crossbow. ‘What d’ya want?’

‘I have a message that I think is for the sapper here,’ he answered.

‘All’s we got is this fella,’ Picker said.

‘I’m trained!’

‘Barely,’ she grumbled beneath her breath.

‘What is it?’

‘The message is — you should consider the peculiar qualities of the white stone. That’s it. The qualities of the stone.’

Spindle raised a fist. ‘Yes! The stones! I knew it.’ He punched Picker’s shoulder. ‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re on to something, I’m sure!’

She gave him an angry stare then turned to the front. ‘Yeah? Who says … damn.’

‘What?’ Spindle looked: gone. He pushed himself from the barricade and heaved up the crossbow to his shoulder. ‘The stones,’ he murmured, musing. ‘I need to take another look.’

‘All buried now, ain’t they?’ Picker said.

Spindle snapped his fingers. ‘I bet there’s still some down by the mole. I’m gonna go.’

‘I’ll go with you,’ Duiker said from where he sat towards the back.

‘What? Why?’

‘You’re only partially trained,’ the old scholar muttered as he eased himself up.

‘You mean partially house-trained,’ Picker sneered. ‘Anyway — you’re not going anywhere.’

‘Why not?’

‘What if those Seguleh return? And us shorthanded?’

‘Faugh.’ Spindle waved that aside. ‘If they was going to come back they’d have done it already.’ He went for the door but stopped short, staring at the nailed boards and heaped benches. He glanced to Duiker. ‘I guess we’ll go out the back.’

Out on the streets Spindle felt naked armed only with his little pigsticker. He was grateful to Duiker, though, for remembering and stopping him at the door. They’d both set aside all their weapons — no sense risking a meeting with the Seguleh.

Nervous, Spindle rubbed his shirt as he walked the street. Anyway, he reflected, he was never entirely helpless. Always had his magics. Not that it ever amounted to much. What use was the ability to drive animals insane? It was just embarrassing, though it seemed to have helped now and then. Saved his life, if only by accident. Like that time the camp was attacked by riders and he raised his Warren, or whatever the Abyss it was, and all the animals went crazy.

Maybe, the thought just struck, it was chaos. Maybe that was the force he raised. Kind of a mental chaos. Now that sounded a lot more proper and menacing, that did. Not just Spindle, the guy who scares rats and cats. And goats and stoats. And horses and … Damn, what rhymes with horses?

At his side Duiker cleared his throat, hands hooked in his belt as he walked along. The late-afternoon sun shone golden on the walls of the taller buildings. Inns and cafes were doing a brisk early dinner trade with the curfew in force. ‘So what happened down south anyway?’ the old soldier asked.

Spindle waved all that aside. ‘Ach, you don’t want to know. Gates and Warrens and power up for grabs. It was ugly but it came out all right in the end. I don’t rightly know exactly all what happened myself.’

‘Had enough of it down there, though, did you?’

‘Actually I’m thinking of heading back.’

They reached the waterfront close to the paved walk and open green where the mole began. Here the wreckage of the construction site lay abandoned like a demolished building. Spindle was surprised to see that people had moved in, putting up shacks and hanging awnings; the sort who normally would do so outside the city walls at Maiten town or Raven. Usually, he imagined, the city Wardens would’ve rousted them along. Things seemed to have ground down to a standstill all over the city. He searched among the shanty town for any sign of the stone blocks but saw none.

‘There was a bunch of ’em,’ he told Duiker.

The old man frowned at the disheartening sight of the families crouched under canopies. ‘Reminds me of Seven Cities,’ he said to himself.

‘Here we are!’ He’d found a shard. A piece of a broken block about the size of a keg.

Duiker knelt next to him to run a hand over what Spindle knew to be the smooth, almost flesh-like surface. ‘Amazing,’ the man murmured.

‘You recognize it?’

‘Yes. In fact I do. Among my studies were writings of the ancient natural philosophers.’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind. But I know this stone. It’s not marble at all, in truth. It’s a rare mineral. Usually you see it only as small statuettes or figurines. Where did anyone find so much of it?’

‘Don’t know. So, what is it?’

The old scholar sat back on his thin haunches, scratched his beard. ‘Well — there’re many names for it, of course. The name I know is Alabaster.’

Spindle repeated the name, trying it out. It meant nothing to him. Damn. I thought this would be it. That we’d crack it. Hood — maybe it’s nothing after all. Just a dry hunch.

‘Who would use this for construction, though?’ the old man went on. ‘It’s useless for that. It’s much too soft. Among the softest of all stones …’

Spindle threw down a handful of dirt to pace next to the kneeling historian. Dammit! I’m supposed to know my materials. But this is no granite, no limestone. I never studied the rarer minerals.

‘In fact,’ the historian continued, musing, ‘it shouldn’t have even survived submersion in the lake. Some forms of it dissolve in water, you know. It must be inured to it — to all sorts of things.’ He peered up at Spindle. ‘They claim it survived the blast of a cusser. It shouldn’t have at all. Must be hardened to that as well. Through magics and alchemical treatments, perhaps. Yet some forms of it are reputed to be particularly … particularly …’ The old man shot to his feet. ‘Queen forgive me!’ Spindle yelped as the historian suddenly clutched his wrist. ‘The Alchemist!’ he yelled. ‘We have to go to his tower!’

Spindle peered anxiously around, hissing, ‘Quiet.’

‘Do you think it will be safe?’ Duiker demanded, low and urgent.

‘I don’t know. He’s kinda busy elsewhere, ain’t he.’

‘We’ll have to chance it. Now, collect all the pieces you can.’ He stared his insistence and gestured to the ground. ‘Right now, man!’

Spindle led the way through the darkening streets. The sun was setting. A deep burnished bronze light shone over the city, marred only by the glowing arc of jade already visible in the still bright sky. He carried his cloak under his arm in a bundle wrapped around a great load of the Alabaster chips. The historian followed, walking at a much slower pace, his shirt stuffed with the shards.

He led the man to the small wrought-iron gate into the grounds of the tower of the High Alchemist, Baruk. The place looked completely neglected. Brown dry stalks stood in the various planting beds. Dirt had blown across the paving stones. Spindle noted that it revealed no recent tracks.

‘This is his tower?’ Duiker said, dubious.

‘Yeah.’

‘Won’t there be wards? Protections? Guardians?’

Spindle directed the historian’s attention ahead. ‘Look.’

The door stood a touch open. ‘Ah,’ Duiker said, straightening. ‘Togg take it. Probably not a thing’s left.’

‘Well,’ Spindle sighed, ‘let’s see.’ He crossed the grounds, climbed the short set of steps and tried to peer in round the door. All he saw was dust, blown leaves and litter. ‘Looks like no one’s home,’ he said over his shoulder. He started pushing open the door, then reconsidered; he set down his bundle and reached for his long-knife only to close his hand on empty air. His shoulders fell. Mother of Hood! How do you like that. Should I raise my Warren? Yeah — an’ bring all those fiends down on me in an instant! No, thank you.

Instead, he rubbed his chest. What say you, Ma? What should I do? Should I go in? What’s waitin’ in there for your little boy?

No answer. Nothing.

Fair enough. No news is good news.

He pushed open the door and stepped in to give Duiker room. The historian quickly closed the door behind him. It was dark; the day’s fading light barely reached from distant windows. From what Spindle could see from the entrance foyer Duiker’s prediction was correct: the place was a mess. Looted and wrecked. He set down the bundle. ‘Well, maybe there’s still-’

A demon jumped out of a doorway, waving its arms and snarling.

Spindle swung the bundle of stones, knocking the creature flying back up the hall, where it lay groaning. He exchanged glances of surprise and disbelief with the historian. ‘Smallest demon I’ve ever seen,’ Duiker murmured.

The little pot-bellied fiend climbed unsteadily to its feet. It held its head and weaved from side to side. It felt at its mouth. ‘My toof! You broke toof!’

Spindle marched up to it. ‘I’ll do more than that, you wretched excuse for a guardian. Now — take us to your master’s workroom.’

The creature stilled, a hand over its jagged teeth. ‘Worroom? You wan’ worroom?’

‘Yes! Workroom! Where he keeps his chemicals and stuff.’

The guardian eyed the bundle. ‘Wha in tere?’

‘Why in Fener’s arse does that matter?’

The red-skinned fiend touched at its mouth and groaned. ‘Prife. Is prife. Show me.’

‘I think he means “price”,’ Duiker said.

‘Oh, for …’ Spindle threw down the bundle and undid it. He held out one of the chips. The little beast snapped it up and eagerly licked and bit, tasting it. It smiled, revealing needle teeth, then popped the chip in and munched happily.

Spindle and Duiker shared another amazed glance.

The fiend flinched, wincing, and hopped in circles, clawed hands clapped to its mouth. ‘Arrgh! Toof! Oh, foor toof! Foor me!’

‘Well?’ Spindle said.

It waved them forward. ‘Yef, yef. Fis way. Fome!’

As soon as the vessel bumped up against the sagging pier Aragan and Captain Dreshen led their uneasy mounts by short reins across the gangway and up the pier. They saddled the horses then set off westward for the foothills of the Moranth mountains. They rode for two days, angling south. Early on the second night Captain Dreshen woke Aragan and nodded towards a large band of riders approaching under the bright jade light of the Scimitar.

The Rhivi band encircled them, peering down expressionless from their mounts.

‘Yes?’ Aragan challenged, belting on his sword.

One dipped his spear to urge his mount a few steps closer. ‘Come with us, Malazan,’ was all he would say.

Aragan and Dreshen shared a resigned look and set to readying their mounts. Almost immediately after heading further west they encountered more Rhivi outriders. An ever enlarging band of horsemen gathered around them as the night deepened. They were guided to a fresh encampment where elders, horsewives and shouldermen tended wounded laid out in the bloodstained grass. The sight of so many slashed and crippled tore at Aragan’s heart and he had a difficult time finding his voice.

‘So, I’m too late,’ he said to a nearby old woman. ‘I’m your prisoner.’

She rose and came to him. A blood-spattered hand clutched his leg. The horror of what she had seen was still in her gaze and he had to look away. ‘No, Malazan,’ she said. ‘We hope there is still time. See to your people. Even now the Seguleh hunt them.’

‘The Seguleh! They did this?’

‘No one else is so … precise. Few are killed, most are sorely wounded. So they would burden us.’

‘I see … I am sorry.’

‘Save your pity for your own.’

‘Yes. You will ride north, then?’

The woman flinched away as if slapped. ‘No! We will answer this insult. How little they know us. We are not to be brushed aside.’

‘Yet … they are Seguleh.’

‘Irrelevant. We must be who we are. That is what has been thrown down here before us. And we will answer it!’

‘I understand. I should ride, then.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ She raised her blood-wet arms to shout: ‘All who would bring the spear to our enemies ride now! Go! Bring blood and terror! Ride them down!’

Answering ululations and shouts grew to an enraged roar that engulfed Aragan. The ambassador rose tall in his saddle, circling an arm in the air. Kicking, he reared his mount even taller and charged off, throwing dirt high behind. The Rhivi warriors all around them, men and women, old and young, ran for their mounts. He, the captain and their escort rode on, knowing that all who wished to follow would soon catch up.

‘Takin’ their own sweet time about it, ain’t they?’ Bendan complained.

Sergeant Hektar chuckled and motioned to all the soldiers surrounding them in line, some twenty soldiers deep, across the narrow valley mouth. ‘Butcher’s back with us,’ he laughed. ‘Brave as a mouse in his bolthole now, hey?’

‘What d’ya mean?’

‘I mean you was runnin’ just as fast as the rest of us last night!’ and he chortled again.

Bendan rolled his neck to crack the bones stiff from his constant watching. ‘I just mean they ain’t showin’ us the proper respect. They’re actin’ like we don’t matter.’

‘Like they can take their time,’ Corporal Little added.

‘They got that right,’ Bone muttered darkly.

Bendan laughed at the suggestion. ‘C’mon, man. There’s near ten thousand of us!’

‘And a good four hundred of them.’

‘Malazan iron will stop them,’ Hektar said loudly and shouts arose from nearby in the ranks affirming that.

‘Aye, aye, Sarge,’ Bone assented, sighing.

‘Here come our playmates now, anyway,’ Hektar said, pointing one great paw of a hand.

The lines grew quiet as the Seguleh came jogging up out of the morning mist. Ghostly silent, they spread out to right and left in a line. That line, only a single body deep, faced a fraction of the Malazan numbers. Seeing this, Bendan nudged Bone. ‘We should encircle them, hey?’

The old saboteur looked astonished. ‘Are you an idiot? We want them to run away.’

Bendan studied those slim figures. He’d thought them blowhards good at milking a reputation. Then he heard veterans tell of the Pannion campaign. Then he saw them rout the entire Rhivi army. He now had the sick feeling that he was facing the top dogs and he was the trespasser. They stood immobile; couldn’t even be seen to be drawing breath. They could have been statues but for the steaming plumes leaving their masks. None had even drawn a weapon yet.

‘Prepare arms!’ the call went up and down the ranks. The scraping of iron on leather and wood hissed preternaturally loud in the cold morning air. Shields rattled as the ranks tightened. Far down the Seguleh line Bendan spotted one whose mask appeared much plainer than the rest. He recalled the rumours that had been flying around the camp. That’s him. Third best among ’em all. For a moment he fantasized about bringing that one down. What a coup! He’d get some kinda medal for sure. Be famous.

What he’d get is his head cut off.

He noted how many of the warriors seemed to be peering far off into the distance past the Malazan shield wall. Perhaps studying the rising mountain slopes. Or perhaps the sky. What were they damned well lookin’ at? The fucking weather?

Even squat Corporal Little shifted uncomfortably, stamping her feet to warm them. ‘What’re they waiting for?’ she muttered under her breath.

The two lines faced one another, each motionless, watchful. The light brightened, burning off the mist. The sun was behind the Seguleh, more or less, but Fist K’ess had chosen high ground and so the Malazans were slightly above them.

None of this might have factored into the thoughts of the Third as he stood unmoving, masked head slightly tilted, his gaze seeming to search the western sky. Finally, as the morning warmed, he brought his hand up in a cutting motion and all four hundred suddenly charged.

Bendan was almost caught off guard. His attention had wandered to fix on the weight of the shield dragging down his arm. Damned fucking pain, it was. Whoever made these monstrosities certainly never had to hump them cross-country. Then he flinched with everyone as the Seguleh seemed to erase the distance between them in just a few quick paces. They closed utterly silent without bellow or howl. Only the whispered hiss of swords unsheathing sounded before the first slashes clashed against shields. And the screams. Immediate shrieks of wounded howling. And sergeants bellowing: ‘Close up! Close up!’

Bendan shuffled over with everyone. The lines shrank towards the short front of the few Seguleh as if it were a maw sucking down all the men before it. Wounded came staggering back, slipping between shields. He glimpsed severed wrists, faces slashed to the bone, hands pressed to throats with blood pulsing between the fingers.

Ye gods! They’re chewin’ us up!

Still the call rose up on all sides: ‘Close up! Tighten ranks!’

Then his turn came. He hunched behind the shield, shortsword blade straight, ready to thrust. To one side Sergeant Hektar grunted as he reached the front line. The ground was soft and wet beneath Bendan’s sandals. The noise was nowhere near what it had been in any of his earlier battles. Just clattering shields, hissed breaths and the fierce outraged screams of the wounded. Something slashed his shield yet was hardly a blow at all. More like a snake slithering across the surface hunting for a gap. He poked his head up for a look and something flashed across his vision and his helmet flew off over the lines. He ducked, thrusting. Wet warmth soaked his neck and front. Cut me — the bastard! And he thrust again, pushing with his shield. Bastard! The bright tongue licked around the lip of his shield, grating against the bone of his arm, and he snarled. His neck and side were now cold and numb.

Hands grasped him, pulling him back. Fuck! No! I’ll have that bastard. I swear!

‘Easy, lad,’ someone soothed, urging him backwards. ‘You’re a right mess.’

‘What?’ Bendan glanced to his side. Bright wet blood soaked his armour down to his legs. ‘Damn!’ He touched the side of his head and barked a yell at the pain. His shield arm hung numb, blood dripping from his fingertips. ‘Damn.’

He reached the rear and slumped down in the grass with the other wounded waiting for one of the bonesetters. When the cutter came alongside him she shook her head as if disgusted. ‘Sliced half your scalp right off. Ear’s gone, too. All I can do is stop the bleeding and wrap you up.’

‘Good enough. I want back in there.’

‘If there’s time.’ The young squad healer’s gaze skittered aside as she unwound a rag.

A short while later Bendan felt the reverberation of many hooves through the ground and calls went up: ‘Rhivi! Cav!’

He staggered upright and did his best to see over the heads of the shifting jostling lines. Rhivi cavalry were sweeping across the fields behind the Seguleh. Some lowered lances, others fired their short-bows. The Seguleh responded by doubling up to face both ways. The slaughter was appalling: horses’ necks and stomachs slit, riders spilling right and left.

Bendan spotted Hektar standing to one side and hobbled over. ‘Sarge.’

‘What’s going on?’ the big man asked.

‘You got a better view than I.’

‘No, I don’t.’

Bendan looked up: blood and gore crossed the man’s face in a slit where the bridge of his nose and his eyes once lay. His front was smeared in blood as well where it had been roughly wiped. Bendan quickly turned away, his gorge rising. Ye gods!

‘Healers stopped the bleeding,’ Hektar said. ‘Other than this nick I’m fit.’

Bendan swallowed to steady his stomach and to ease a burning that was tightening across his chest. ‘Yeah. Me too.’ Shouting pulled his attention to the lines. The Seguleh had broken contact and were now chasing the Rhivi from the field. ‘They’re after the Rhivi,’ he told Hektar. He saw a mounted lad hardly no more than a boy charge a Seguleh and the warrior sidestep the lance and swing and the lad topple from his saddle, his leg hanging from a few ligaments as he tumbled limp. Bendan flinched and winced his own pain at the sheer cold exactness of it.

The quorl carrying Torvald and the Silver Galene set down just behind a sharp mountain ridge. What Torvald had glimpsed in the next valley over drove him to immediately scramble the last few feet up the slope to peer down. Watching the slaughter below, he felt as if he would vomit. ‘Do something — now!’ he begged Galene, behind him. ‘They’re being torn to pieces … can’t you see?’

‘Not yet,’ she answered. ‘They’re too close together.’

‘Too close together? What do you mean? Well, I’m not waiting.’ He lurched forward to descend. An armoured hand yanked him back.

‘Do not alert them.’

He pointed back to the ranks of landed quorl and the waiting Black and Red among the rocks. ‘Join them! Together you can-’

‘Together we would likewise be cut down by the Seguleh,’ she interrupted, harsh. ‘As we were before. But that was long ago. We are not the people we once were. Now we have much less … patience for all this. Ah — look.’ She raised her helmed head to the valley. ‘Good. Yes.’

Aragan kicked his lathered mount right up to the Malazan shield wall then threw himself from the saddle. He slapped the horse to send it off and pushed his way through the troopers. He realized he had no idea who was in charge, and grabbed a trooper, shouting, ‘Who’s ranking officer here?’

‘You, sir,’ the man drawled.

‘Other than fucking me!’

The regular smiled as he wrapped bloodied rags over a hand that was no more than a fingerless stump. ‘You must be that Aragan fellow. It’s Fist K’ess.’ He inclined his head to indicate further along the lines.

Aragan nodded. ‘Oponn favour you, man.’ He waved Captain Dreshen to follow.

When he found K’ess, the Fist stared his disbelief before belatedly saluting. ‘Ambassador — you shouldn’t be here. I suggest you withdraw-’

‘None of us should be here, Fist. What’s the butcher’s bill?’

The Fist exchanged bleak glances with the aides and staff surrounding him. ‘First estimate is forty per cent incapacitated,’ he reported, his voice hoarse. ‘Wounded or otherwise.’

Aragan’s chest constricted like an iron band. He couldn’t draw breath. Burn deliver them! Forty per cent! This was … unimaginable. What were these Seguleh? The noise of the nearby fighting faded to a dull roar. He blinked away the darkness that seemed to be clawing at him from the edges of his vision and forced in a deep steadying breath. ‘Fist. The Rhivi have bought us time. We no longer have the troops to hold this line. I suggest we withdraw to the head of the valley, among the rocks.’

Fist K’ess saluted. The man’s face was a lifeless mask, shocked beyond expression, beyond feeling. ‘Yes, Ambassador.’

Then a bellowed call came: ‘Retreat! Move out! Up valley!’

‘Damn,’ Hektar murmured, stricken. ‘I can’t see nothing.’

Though feeling strangely weak and a touch dizzy Bendan took the man’s elbow with his one good hand. ‘I’ll guide you, Sarge. Don’t you worry. C’mon, this way.’

After the scramble higher up the slope, Bendan found himself and Hektar among the front ranks. Not believing his terrible luck, he glanced to the slashed limping and crippled troopers on his left and right and swallowed his outrage. A gimp and a blind man — best the Empire can muster! What a Twins-cursed joke. ‘Get back, Sarge. You’re no use.’

‘I can still fill a slot. Hold the line.’

‘You can’t see a thing!’

The beaming smile returned. ‘We’re all just hidin’ behind our shields anyways, ain’t we?’

Bendan squinted down the valley to where the Seguleh had assembled. What in the name of the Queen of Mysteries were they waiting for?

‘Still not comin’?’ Hektar asked.

‘Yeah. They’re just … standin’ there. Like they was waitin’ for us to run away or somethin’.’

Someone came scrambling among the rocks. It was Bone, the old saboteur. ‘Hey, Sarge! I …’ His voice trailed away when Hektar turned to the sound of his voice. ‘Damn! I’m sorry, Sarge.’

‘I’m still standing. Seen Little?’

‘Yeah … up the lines.’

‘Good.’

‘What’re they waitin’ for?’ Bendan complained yet again.

‘They do not pursue,’ K’ess muttered where he stood with Aragan at the centre of the Malazan lines.

‘No,’ Aragan answered, distracted. ‘They may be giving us time to have a good think about this. And frankly, the troops deserve that … In fact, they deserve better than that …’

Bracing himself, he stepped out among the rocks before the lines and turned to face the troops. He raised his arms for their attention. ‘Rankers! You know me. Some of you knew me as Fist Aragan, some as Captain Aragan. Abyss — some of you old dogs even knew me as Sergeant Aragan! And what’s my point?’ He swept an arm behind to the Seguleh, now forming up in column. ‘You’ve all heard the stories about how these Seguleh have never been beaten. How they’ve slaughtered everyone who’s ever faced them. Well, look around … We’re still here! And now — now they’re offerin’ you a choice! All you have to do is drop your swords to surrender. That’s all. But if you do that I can promise you one thing … You ain’t gonna get another shot at the bastards! So what’s it going to be? Hey? What’s your answer?’

Silence. Aragan glared right and left, his heart hammering, gulping his breaths. Then at the far end of the line a hulking Dal Honese trooper drew his blade, held it out saluting, and bashed it to his shield twice. Hands went to sword-grips all up and down the lines. Swords hissed, drawing to clash in a great thunderous roar against shields, once, twice, then extending in the formal salute.

There’s your Malazan answer. Aragan’s vision blurred and he blinked to clear it. To all appearances the man was overcome. Inwardly he unclenched a nightmare of dread. Thank the gods they didn’t tell me to piss off.

He rejoined Fist K’ess in the lines.

‘Well done, sir,’ K’ess murmured. ‘Still not coming.’

Aragan squinted down on the gathered Seguleh, then up the mountain slope behind, sweeping on above to the distant snow-touched peaks, then back again. ‘They’re waiting …’ He cursed and slammed a fist to his armoured thigh.

K’ess glanced at him. ‘What?’

Aragan raised his hands as if clutching at the air. ‘We’re bait! Nothing more than Hood-damned bait!’

‘Bait? What do you mean?’

‘They don’t want us, man! They’ve never wanted us.’ He pointed to the mountains. ‘It’s the Moranth! They’re calling out the Moranth!’

K’ess rubbed his chin, nodding. Then he muttered darkly, ‘Knew we should’ve stayed at Dhavran.’

Shouts of alarm sounded and Bendan glanced up. The Seguleh had started up the valley. They came on at a slow jog, double-file. ‘Would ya look at that,’ Bone murmured from nearby. ‘Beautiful. Done for the Rhivi and now comin’ to finish us off.’

‘Shut up,’ Bendan snapped.

‘What’s that?’ Bone answered, grinning. ‘Thought you was all for butchery.’

‘Not like this.’

‘Aw. Not so pleasant when it’s you gettin’ pummelled, hey?’

‘I mean not like this!’ He thrust a hand behind them. ‘What’re we doin’ here? There’s nothing here but rocks. What’s the point?’

‘Point is we stood up,’ Hektar answered. Then he tilted his head, listening. ‘Swear I hear somethin’.’

Torvald held on for his life as the Silver sent her quorl stooping down the mountain slope, scudding over trees and stone outcroppings with barely an arm’s length to spare. They turned and the valley came into his sight ahead. The Seguleh were advancing in column on the Malazans, who had formed a new line, a much thinner line, along higher rough ground.

‘Open the satchel,’ Galene shouted over the wind tearing at them.

Arms wrapped in the leather strapping, his hands free, Tor reached for the heavy-duty leather pack tied to the saddle between them. He undid the metal clasps and opened the mouth of the pack. What he saw nestled within made him jump and the quorl jerked in answer, weaving unsteadily in its flight.

‘Careful!’ Galene called loudly, her voice pitched rather higher.

His gaze slit, Torvald peered down at the valley swooping up to meet them, the diminutive figures moving there, and he shook his head. ‘No. I won’t do it,’ he shouted.

Galene turned awkwardly in the saddle to glance back at him. ‘Take it out!’ she ordered, fierce.

‘No! How can you even consider-’ and he choked, his heart strangling him, as the quorl curved sideways, turning and diving as if meaning to smash into the valley floor below. Behind them, flight after flight of burdened quorl followed, all flitting downslope in a careering, rushing stream.

‘Night-damned arm,’ Bendan snarled, as he tried to raise his shield higher.

‘What’s that?’ Hektar asked.

‘Ach — took a slash on the shield arm. Now I can’t get it high enough!’

‘Use your belt. Strap it and tie it off.’

Bendan grunted. ‘Right. But then … what am I gonna do after?’

The big Dal Hon turned in his direction as if staring though his eyes were gone. Bendan ducked his head. ‘Ah. Right.’ Then he jerked, surprised. ‘Would ya look at that!’ He rose from his crouch pointing skyward where curve after curve of Moranth quorls came arching down the valley. They appeared to be swooping in on the closing Seguleh.

Bone straightened, shading his gaze. ‘Oh, no …’ he whispered.

‘What is it?’ Hektar asked, peering wildly about, his sword ready.

‘Moranth flyin’ in on their monster mounts,’ Bendan told him. ‘Gonna land and rush the Seguleh!’ He threw up his one good arm, shouting: ‘Yah!’

‘No, they aren’t,’ Bone said, his voice shaky. ‘Burn forgive us … The poor bastards …’

Bendan eyed him, frowning. ‘What’s that?’

The grizzled saboteur was hugging himself, backing away among the tall boulders. ‘Slaughter … Hood-damned slaughter!’

‘What’s the matter, man?’

The saboteur pointed to him. ‘Take cover,’ he ordered. ‘All o’ you take cover.’ He ran off up the lines, shouting as he went: ‘Get cover now, damn you all!’

Yet the lines were stirring, readying shields, regripping weapons. For the Seguleh were close now.

Galene reached behind herself one-handed to pull the fat oblong from its pack. Ducking from the driving wind, Tor grasped it in both hands, hugging it. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘It’s murder!’

‘Let go, fool!’ The quorl weaved drunkenly. Treetops slashed by beneath, almost striking Tor’s boots. The impossible storm of wind threatened to sweep him from the saddle. ‘This is war,’ she grated. ‘Our survival!’

‘But they stand no chance!’

She yanked the cusser free. ‘Then they should not have taken up the sword.’

The quorl dived even lower now. Tor rose off his seat in the descent. Just ahead the Seguleh column was spreading out. They now appeared so close, and he was rushing in upon them at such a ferocious speed, it seemed to him that they would collide. Before him the valley head rose rocky and steep, thin streams darkening the stone wall here and there. At its foot the Malazan line stood firm in their black surcoats, shields overlapping. Tor spared one quick glance back: line after line of quorl followed, their Silver drivers hunched forward as if racing, Red and Black passengers behind cradling the fat munitions in their arms.

Galene raised the cusser in both hands. The slashing wind snapped her flying jesses and straps about her armoured form.

Sword in hand, Aragan turned from the panting veteran saboteur to stare down into the valley. He took in the jogging Seguleh. Then, above, the swooping Moranth. And he felt as if he would faint. Oh, Hood, no … So close … He staggered forward, threw his arms out, bellowing: ‘Take cover now! Cover!’

Bendan felt himself bending backwards further and further as the Moranth quorl seemed to be coming straight for him personally. He saw riders throwing and dark objects tumbling through the air as the quorl tore overhead, so low it seemed he could stretch up and touch their delicate thrumming wingtips. He yanked Hektar — the only man still standing — down among the rearing jumbled boulders and bellowed in his ear over the roaring: ‘Shield!’

An enormous invisible wall struck Bendan, smashing him down into the rocks. His shield bashed him in the face, stunning him. Stones and dirt and thick choking clouds of dust came billowing over him and he coughed, spitting, and shaking his ringing pummelled head. Multiple blasts punished him, driving him down into the surrounding broken rocks, punching the breath from him.

He didn’t know if he lost consciousness, but at some point he realized that it seemed to be over. He’d been waiting, tensed, curled into a ball beneath his shield, for yet another concussion that never came. He dared to raise his head. Dirt and gravel tumbled from his back. He shook it from his hair and staggered up. All was obscured in hanging drifting smoke and swirling dust. He could hear nothing over the punishing ringing in his ears. He spat again, blinking, holding his chest where his ribs ached from the concussive waves that had battered him.

A huge shape shambled upright nearby, dirt sifting from him: Hektar, arms out, blindly searching about the rocks. Bendan clasped his arm. ‘I’m here,’ he croaked.

The Dal Hon wiped his face where a clear wetness had cut through the dirt caked beneath his bloodied wrappings. ‘Poor bastards,’ he was saying. ‘Poor fucking bastards.’

It occurred to Bendan that the man was crying.

Torvald had pressed himself to Galene’s back, one arm around her, the other clasping one of the saddle grips. He squeezed his eyes closed to miss their dizzying near vertical climb scudding over the naked rock face of the valley head. He felt the pressure wave of the multiple eruptions behind him. It was like a hand pressing him into the Moranth Silver and rushing the quorl along like a great tidal push.

Cold wetness chilled his cheeks in the slashing wind and he knew that he was weeping. Galene shifted in the saddle and adjusted the jesses and the quorl tilted, arching backwards. It seemed that they were turning round.

While the smoke and dust swirled and hung in curtains over the blasted slope Bendan patted Hektar’s arm. ‘It’s all right, man. They woulda done for us.’

‘Ain’t right,’ the sergeant was saying over and over. ‘What was done here. Ain’t right. It’s a fucking tragedy is what it is.’

Horrified shouts sounded from the lines and Bendan turned, squinting into the clouds of settling dust. He almost fell then, his knees weakening, a hand going to his throat. ‘Oh no … Hood, no … Don’t do this …’

‘What is it?’ Hektar demanded, peering blindly about.

They came out of the hanging smoke and dust. Some limped, some staggered. Others stayed upright only by virtue of their swords dragging along over the rocks. Still they came onward, advancing.

All around, troopers retreated, backing up the rising slope, edging past boulders. ‘Stop!’ Bendan shouted to one tattered figure making for him. ‘Please — stop!’

It was a woman, one arm shattered, bone glistening white through the flesh. Her mask was broken, half gone, that side of her face a blackened red ruin. Still she raised her sword, pointing.

Bendan backed away, a hand on Hektar’s arm.

‘Where is he?’ the Dal Hon whispered.

‘She’s on your left.’

The Seguleh came on. A trooper scrambled down to her, hunched, sword in one hand, reaching out with the other. ‘Let’s put it down, lass,’ he urged, gently. ‘Drop your sword. It’s all over now.’

Lunging, she slashed one-handed and he fell, eviscerated in a great gout of splashing innards. She straightened again, weaving slightly, blade pointing straight at Bendan.

‘Tell me when she’s close,’ Hektar ground out.

Two more regulars charged her, swinging. Both were weeping as they attacked. She sidestepped, parrying, her sword sliding easily over the first to slash his throat then quickly blocking the other, twisting in a blur round and under his shield, taking the man’s leg off at the knee. He fell shrieking.

It seemed to Bendan that the woman would have fallen at that moment but for leaning her weight on a stab into the crippled man’s chest. She recovered then, her mouth writhing in agony beneath its caked dirt and blood. The sword snapped up again, the point inhumanly steady.

He let go Hektar’s arm. ‘Ready now,’ he whispered beneath his breath, crouching, shortsword raised.

Two quick paces from the woman closed the gap. Bendan hunched even further, eyes barely peeping over his shield. Her blade slashed across the top and he flinched. Warmth ran down his nose. Behind his shield Hektar cocked his head as if listening; then he suddenly launched himself forward with a roar, throwing his arms out.

The woman slashed and a forearm flew but the man’s enormous weight bulled her over and they fell together. Her slim blade somehow licked up between them even as they crashed among the rocks and Bendan jumped after them. He stabbed at the woman, piercing her hip, his blade grating down the pelvis bone. Lancing burning pain erupted in his leg and he glanced down to see the woman’s blade twist free from high in his thigh. Then more troopers crowded him, all thrusting, crying, cursing, weeping. He slumped down against a rock, his leg completely numb. He sat in a cold shaky sweat of pain, shock and panic.

One of the troopers turned Hektar over to reveal the man’s chest slashed open. Pink foam blew at his mouth as he laboured to breathe. Bendan slid down to cradle the man’s head on his lap. Hektar’s wide smile returned but the teeth were bright red with blood now. ‘Got one,’ the big man murmured.

‘Yeah. You got one.’

‘All … done … now.’

‘Yeah, Sarge. All done now.’

Bendan sat for a long time holding the dead man. Squad cutters came and tied off his cuts and stopped the bleeding. When they gently pulled at the corpse he batted them away. Having seen it before, the healers moved off without objecting. The hot sun beat down and still Bendan rocked him. Carrion birds gathered, circling over the blasted field of kicked-up dirt and scattered torn bodies. A shadow occluded the sun over Bendan and he looked up, squinting. It was Corporal Little.

She crouched on her haunches at his side, rested a hand on Hektar, then looked to him.

‘Don’t you say it,’ he croaked. ‘Don’t you fucking say anything.’

She looked away, blinking back tears. ‘No,’ she managed, her voice barely audible. ‘I guess not.’

‘Sir?’ Fist K’ess said, clearing his throat. Ambassador Aragan did not turn away from where he had stood since the attack, his gaze steady on the shattered field. K’ess himself was not insensate to the horror: the drifting smoke, the broken bodies lying in droves around craters blasted into the loose talus of the slope. He almost turned away, imagining that firestorm of blasts and the fragmented rock chips lancing like shrapnel through unprotected flesh. What disturbed him the most, however, was the silence. How eerie it was; nothing like any of the many fields of battle he’d known. No cries or moans of wounded echoed over the slopes. No calls for water. No outbursts or hopeless cursing.

Indeed, all the murmured sounds of stricken awe, all the curses, the moans and quiet weeping came now from the Malazan troops behind him. And he wondered: what was worse? To have died in that ill-fated charge, or to have to live now having witnessed it?

It took a strong effort of will to tear his gaze from that appalling field of slaughter and he glanced back to Captain Fal-ej, the woman’s arm and chest bloodied and wrapped in stiff drying cloth. She signed to him to speak again. ‘Sir,’ he repeated, a touch louder. ‘The Moranth have landed. A contingent awaits.’

The ambassador appeared to gather himself. He turned, blinking and wiping at his eyes. He cleared his throat against the back of his hand. ‘Yes. The Moranth,’ he said, his voice shaking with emotion. ‘Thank you, Fist. Let’s go and see what they want, shall we?’

As they clambered down the rocks K’ess was surprised to see a man alongside a Moranth Silver and a battered Red. What was more, the ambassador and the Red actually embraced.

‘Fist K’ess, Captain Fal-ej,’ said Aragan, ‘may I introduce Torn, our attache.’

Torn gestured to the Silver. ‘Galene, an Elect. What you might call a priestess. And this is Torvald, Nom of Nom, member of the Darujhistan Council.’

K’ess and Fal-ej bowed. ‘Councillor, an honour.’

The Darujhistani aristocrat grimaced. He looked shaky and sickly pale. ‘Well, it would seem the Council has been suspended.’

‘None the less,’ Aragan murmured. He gestured aside to another officer, calling, ‘Captain Dreshen!’

The young officer jogged up, bowing. Aragan held out a hand and the man dug in his shoulder bag to pull out an object about the size of a mace, wrapped in black silk. He handed it to Aragan who held it in both hands, studying it, lips pursed in thought. He looked up. ‘Attache Torn, Councillor Nom. I believe we need to negotiate.’ He gestured towards the woods. The Moranth Red bowed.

‘Yes, Ambassador.’ He turned to Torvald. ‘Councillor …’

The three walked off into the forest. Fist K’ess faced the Silver, Galene. ‘What of the prisoners?’

The Moranth female tilted her bright helm. ‘Prisoners?’

‘Some of the Seguleh survived. Badly wounded, but alive. Some few threw down their swords.’

‘Surprising, that.’

K’ess rubbed an arm as if cold. ‘Well — it might just have been the shock.’

‘Perhaps. What of it?’

‘Well … we could hold them until such time as they can be repatriated.’

‘I doubt they will be, Fist. But, yes, if you wish. We have no interest in them.’

‘Very good.’ He bowed. Elect, Torn named her — one of those who guide their people?

When the Silver had gone K’ess introduced the two captains, then eyed the woods. Negotiate? Aragan, you’ve got balls.

Captain Fal-ej cleared her throat. ‘Fist. Forgive me … but we’re in no position to negotiate anything.’

‘Yes, Captain.’

‘Then …?’

K’ess raised his chin to the blasted field of craters and thrown dirt. ‘Look …’

Malazan rankers were silently spreading out among the fallen torn bodies, collecting around the mangled corpses. Out came cloaks and blankets and other odds and ends to wrap the bodies. Then out came saboteur shovels and picks to hack individual shallow graves out of the thin rocky soil. Some even took advantage of the craters the munitions had blasted to site their pits.

Then one by one, respectful hands clenching the tied-off cloth at head and feet and sides, the bodies were laid in their graves. Only the noise of shovels clattering from stones sounded from the valley. Each pit was covered and the troopers stood still for a long moment, heads bowed.

Watching and observing his own silence, K’ess thought back to that wrenching moan of pain that had swept through the massed ranks as realization came of what was about to strike. It had beed an awful, hopeless sound. The one that soldiers give when they see unavoidable death descending over a compatriot, for, in that instant, the Seguleh had become — if not friends — then brothers and sisters of the battlefield.

Now he did not have to wonder at their thoughts. Once they may have been, Thank the gods that ain’t me. Or, Damn you to Hood’s lost Abyss. Now he knew they shared what he himself felt as a knife point in his heart: No one should die like that. If this is war then I want no more to do with it.

To one side the captured Seguleh, a bare handful out of the four hundred, sat or stood, unarmed, still masked, watching while their dead were buried. K’ess could not even imagine what was going through their minds.

Clearing his throat, he turned to the officers. ‘Captain Fal-ej … I believe what Aragan is hoping to do is stop the Moranth from doing to Darujhistan what they just did here in this valley. Reducing the entire city to smoking rubble.’

‘By the Seven,’ Fal-ej murmured, falling back on her old faith. ‘That would be unforgivable. We cannot allow that.’

K’ess let out a long pained breath. ‘It looks as though we no longer have much say in the matter.’

‘But, Fist … over a half-million live there.’

‘Yes, Captain … Yes.’