Return of the Crimson Guard

CHAPTER I

Far down below Hurl's boots the river Idryn hissed as it parted around the iron bars of Heng's Outer River Gate. She squinted east, downstream, into the dead of the moonless night and held her crossbow tight, balanced on the stone crenellations of the bridge.

‘See anything?’ asked Shaky from her side.

‘’Course not. Bloody dark as the inside of your head, isn't it?’

‘Just askin’.’

Hurl bit down hard on her anger — Shaky wasn't the cause of it. ‘Sorry. No, I can't see a Lady-damned thing.’

‘Here they come.’ This from Sunny in the dark. Hurl peered down the arc of the bridge's walkway. Figures closed, not one torch or lantern among them: Storo, magistrates Ehrlann and Plengyllen, Sergeant, now Captain, Gujran — turns out the man's a Genabackan from Greydog — and a squad of garrison regulars.

‘Again,’ Ehrlann was telling Storo in a fierce strained whisper, ‘we, the Council, stand against this decision. It that not so, Plengyllen?’

The tall bearded magistrate nodded his ponderous agreement. ‘We consider it ill-advised.’

Storo simply threw his arms over the crenel. ‘Quiet?’ he asked Hurl.

‘Until now.’

‘They're going of their own free will,’ Storo said, louder.

‘You could have forbidden it.’

‘As you could have.’

The paunchy magistrate held up his hands. ‘We have no power to force anyone to do anything. We are not the coercive arm of governance.’

‘How convenient for you.’

‘That sounds sour, Sergeant — Captain. Ah, my apologies… Fist. Why be sour now that you have achieved that for which no doubt you always longed — a command of your own, yes?’

‘[didn't ask for it.’

‘Yet here you are.’

‘Just doing my duty.’

‘Oh yes — that.’

Seeing Storo's hands tighten into fists, Hurl hastily cut in, ‘Where's Jalor, ‘n’ Rell, and Silk?’

‘Out with a squad of Gujran's best on the south shore.’

‘The Council was not informed of any sortie!’ burst out Plengyllen, outraged.

‘That's because I preferred it remain a secret.’

‘How dare-’

‘Are they ready?’ Storo asked Captain Gujran.

‘Ready, sir.’

‘Raise it.’

Gujran drew his shortsword, held it high. A deep rumbling shook the stone arch. Behind them, the top of the gate ratcheted upwards. Hurl squinted to scour the ghostly shades of trees lining the shores. If the Seti youngbloods weren't out there now, they'd be there soon. Beneath her feet the first of the flotilla of rafts and boats nosed silently out carrying those refugees who had agitated to be allowed to flee the city. Hurl wished them Oponn's favour, but personally she considered their chances slim to nil.

‘Ten to one says none make it through,’ said Sunny from the dark.

‘Shut the Abyss up!’ grated Hurl. Noise brought her attention around. A sibilance such as that of many voices speaking, subdued. Movement atop the eastern walls. The populace of Heng gathering to watch. Damn the Lady! This was supposed to be secret — which meant they were probably selling Trake-damned tickets. How could any mass flight such as this have been kept secret?

‘Any takers?’

‘No one's going to take you up on that, Sunny!’

‘Yeah, I'm in,’ said Shaky.

‘Me too,’ said Gujran.

Hurl glared. ‘How can you two…’

‘Movement in the south,’ said Storo.

Everyone looked. Hurl slitted her eyes till they hurt, straining to see beyond the silhouettes of the trees to where the hillsides rose into the distance. There, swift movement of lighter greys: Seti horsemen sweeping like clouds across the hills.

‘They're using the old Pilgrim Bridge. The road to Kan,’ said Magistrate Ehrlann. ‘Why didn't you demolish that bridge?’ he demanded of Storo. ‘I told you to demolish it.’

Storo sighed. ‘The Seti can ford the Idryn wherever they want. They don't need any Burn-blasted bridge.’

‘So?’

‘So, others are coming. Forces that may need the bridge.’

‘Forces? What forces could you possibly mean?’ demanded Magistrate Plengyllen.

‘I don't know right now. We'll see who gets here first.’

‘Oh come,’ Plengyllen scoffed, ‘how could you know anyone is coming?’

‘Someone is.’

‘But how could you know this?’

‘Because Toc and Laseen both know goddamned horses can't climb walls!’

‘They're gettin’ away,’ called Shaky, his voice rising to a near squeak.

Everyone turned to the river. Jammed with refugees and citizens convinced of Heng's immediate ruin in flame and slaughter, the convoy of small boats and rafts had poled and oared their way beyond bowshot of the city walls. Now, Hurl knew, came the most dangerous time. Now was when any ambush would be sprung. Out past any hope of intervention on the part of the city defenders. Everyone watched, silent, breath held, as the vessels disappeared into the dark. Don't bunch up, she urged. Stay apart. Quiet.

The night remained still. The stars shone bright and hard. Light's Path arched as a smear of paleness across the dark vault. Hurl allowed herself a small hope that perhaps, perhaps, some of the train would escape. Misguided fools though they may be. She stiffened at a hiss from Sunny. ‘What is it?’

‘Through the trees…’

Orange lights now blinked in the far distance under cover of the trees lining the river's edge, north and south. ‘Shit…’

‘Yeah. That's a shitter all right.’

Shortly, a single arrow trailing yellow flames arched high into the night sky. It fell into the river to be snuffed out but it had done its job. Hurl hugged herself, knowing what would follow. Despite her dread she was unable to look away as a storm of flaming arrows sped up into the sky only to descend, like a cloud of falling stars, straight down over the water. Most winked out yet some remained, slammed into wood, marking the helpless vessels for more. Hurl thought, or imagined, she could just make out the panicked cries of the women and children refugees — the fools! How could they imagine they'd be allowed passage? Better, from the Seti point of view, to keep everyone bottled up behind the walls. Down on the streets food was already short.

‘Why do you do nothing?’ Ehrlann demanded of Storo. ‘You must do something…’

‘There's nothing I can do,’ Storo ground out, his voice rigid with control. ‘I told them this would happen but they went anyway.’

‘And that absolves you?’

Storo spun on the magistrate. ‘J know it damn well does not!’

Sunny stepped between the two men. He faced Storo but said to Ehrlann, ‘Get out of here before I do what should be done to you.’

Ehrlann drew himself up straight, flicked his bhederin-hair switch across his shoulders. ‘Very well. I will go. But know this, Captain, with this debacle this night you have lost all the confidence of the council. Know that. Plengyllen?’

The magistrates marched off down the bridge. Storo signalled Captain Gujran to him.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Have your men out this night at key points. There'll probably be riots. Some may even try the gates.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Saluting, the captain gestured to his detachment and marched off. Storo turned away only to face east and in the firelight playing across his features Hurl saw the pain of a man facing potential failure. A constant barrage of flame arrows now flew. The pitiful rafts and small boats burned brightly like some kind of grisly offerings as they bumped downstream with the lazy current. The glowing procession reminded Hurl of the Festival of Lights, when the citizenry of Cawn send their offerings in thanks and propitiation out upon the waters — fleets of candles and tiny lamps glimmering like stars in the night. And so to what God or Gods was this offering of blood and suffering? To Trake alone, she feared. And Hood of course. Always Hood.

Tossed rocks clattered from the arch and Hurl ducked. The citizenry of Heng now yelled their outrage. Their curses and screams mingled into an unintelligible roar. The corpse of a dead dog flew through the night sky, struck the stone arch and fell spinning into the river. Stones and offal flew, but no vegetables, these, even rotten ones, being too valuable to toss. It looked to Hurl that none of the venom was directed out against the besieging Seti — all was directed at them atop the Outer River Gate.

Ho told himself it wasn't spying or probing or prying; he was just being considerate, bringing a small selection of a recent delivery of apples. A rare enough treat worthy of sharing. That's all. Nothing more. He walked the narrow winding slits that served as tunnels here in this, one of the most isolated and distant of the galleries. Ways so narrow at times even he, an emaciated Hengan, had to slide along sideways.

As he neared the hollowed out cave he'd been told the two had moved into, he heard voices and stopped. He was sure he didn't mean to eavesdrop. He told himself he'd stopped out of mere good manners, to clear his throat, or to call ahead that he was coming. But he heard talk and so he listened.

‘Still nothing from them?’ That was Treat, the tall one.

‘I told you, nothing.’

‘Not even Fingers?’

‘No! Nothing! OK? There's nothing I can do.’

‘But I thought you lot had it all worked out that the Brethren shouldn't give a damn about the Otataral.’

A loud exasperated sigh. ‘That's right, Treat. We worked all that out. So who knows? Maybe there's another problem.’

‘I say we just go. This is a waste of time. We're late now as it is. Say, maybe it's this pack of squirrelly mages. They'd be enough to keep me away.’

So not a mage. How was that arranged?

‘These squirrelly mages are up to something. Something they think important.’

Could they know? Yath would surely kill them if he suspected.

‘So what we'll do is…’

The blackened point of a wooden spear thrust itself at Ho who flinched back completely startled, dropping his basket.

Treat faced him. ‘It's Ho.’

‘Come on in, Ho,’ called Grief.

After collecting the apples, Ho stepped forward, rounded a curve, and found himself in the men's quarters, stark as it might be. Grief sat on a ledge carved from the naked rock and strewn with rags, whittling with the smallest blade Ho had ever seen. Treat stood next to the entrance, spear still levelled. Ho slowly reached out to touch the point. ‘Fire-hardened.’

One edge of Treat's mouth quirked up. ‘Right you are. Took me forever to whittle the damned thing. Won't tell anyone, will you?’

Ho shared the smile. ‘No, of course not.’

‘What can we do for you, Ho?’ asked Grief, not looking up from his whittling.

He held out the basket. ‘Apples. A rare delivery care of the Malazans.’

‘Our thanks.’

Treat reached forward, took the basket, all the while keeping the point of the spear level. Ho watched the weapon — the first he'd seen in, well, longer than he'd care to think about. It occurred to him that Yath and Sessin had no weapons. That he knew of, in any case. He wet his lips and thought about what to say while the spear remained motionless upon him.

‘Yes?’

‘On behalf of the community I ask again that you not attempt to escape. It will bring reprisals. They'll cut off all food deliveries. They've done it before.’

Grief stopped whittling, hung his hands. ‘And I ask again, Ho… What are you mages up to here anyway? What's keeping you here?’

Ho wet his lips, found he could not hold Grief's gaze. He looked away. Grief sighed his disappointment. ‘Tell you what, Ho. I'll make me an educated guess. How about that?’ Without waiting for any reply he continued, ‘You lot are investigating the Otataral, aren't you? Researching how it deadens magic. Maybe experimenting with it. You've taken this opportunity to organize a damned academy on how the stuff works and maybe even how to circumvent it. Am I far from the truth?’

Ho stared at Grief. Definitely more than what he seemed. The man was closer — and yet so much further — from the truth than he could possibly imagine. Better by far, though, for him and for them, that he suspect it was the Otataral they were investigating. And so Ho nodded. ‘Something like that, yes.’

‘OK. Now, since we're sharing our innermost secrets and such, I'll let you in on our secret. We can get out of here any time we wish. Believe me, we can. And we can arrange it so that all of you accompany us. What do you say to that?’

The fellow must be mad. The only way that could be managed would be by Warren, which was clearly impossible. Yet Ho studied the fellow's Napan-blue features, his open expectant look and quirked brow; clearly the fellow believed what he was saying. But for the life of him Ho could not see how it could be done. He shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, but most of the inmates here would refuse to leave. The — research — is too important to be abandoned. Believe me, it is.’

Grief almost threw the short wand, or baton, he was whittling. ‘Damn it to damned Fener! What is the matter with you people? Don't you want a chance to strike back against the Malazans?’

‘Certainly there are many here who would jump at the chance for revenge — if they can win free of the contamination — which I am not sure is possible now that we have been eating and breathing the dust for so long.’

‘In its raw unrefined form, yes…’

Ho waved that aside. ‘I know the arguments. All academic, in any case.’

Grief appeared ready to say more then decided against it. He dismissed Ho. ‘Thanks for the fruit. Think on the offer. It may be your only chance to get out of this place before you die.’

Ho bowed his head in acknowledgment, stepped away. Returning to the main tunnels, he tried to make sense of what he'd learned. Could these two really escape whenever they wished? Even get everyone out as they promised? Seemed utterly fantastic. Why would they do such a thing? Who were they to them? And that word he'd overheard, Brethren. He'd heard it before, he was sure. Somewhere and in some strange context. He'd have to think about it.

For the near future, though, he would have to work on keeping Yath and Sessin away. They mustn't suspect that these two had ideas that fell uncomfortably close to the truth of just what their community had discovered buried so far down within the Otataral-bearing formations.

Ghelel found the raft trip down the Idryn not nearly the ordeal she feared. In fact, it proved rather pleasant, what with the non-appearance of Molk. After the third day she relaxed into her role of pampered sightseer, served by her maid-in-waiting — only one servant? she'd chided Amaron — in a tent on her own river barge.

She spent the days watching the treed shore pass, the distant rolling hills of the Seti plain, grassed but dotted with copses of trees. Seti outriders escorted the convoy from the north shore, yelling and yipping as they thundered past. Among them swooped the fetishes and pennants of the various soldier societies: wolf, dog, plains lion and jackal.

It seemed to her that, as promised by Choss, the fleet moved with preternatural speed. A foaming wake actually curled from the bow of her barge. She had not spent much time around water, but even she knew that was unnatural. On the rafts around her Talian and allied soldiery talked and laughed. Fires burned in upturned shields and metal braziers to cook meals as the convoy did not once pull in to stop, even at night. Through the day soldiers, male and female, stripped down to linen tunics and loincloths and dived in, splashing and washing, and, hidden away on a few sheltered raft-sides, held on tight and made love in the warm water.

On the seventh day they reached the falls. The great legendary falls of the Idryn. Broke Earth Falls. Ghelel had never been to it before. Soldiers and boatmen manoeuvred her raft to the shore and a tent was raised. For the meantime she continued to play along with her role as figurehead of the ‘Talian League’. She spent the day and night heavily guarded, but with a view of the falls and the equally amazing spectacle of the great convoy of rafts being unloaded, disassembled and carted down the trader road around the falls to be reassembled downstream. A masterpiece of logistical and administrative organization to which she supposed they owed Choss's decades of experience.

In the morning she was carried by palanquin down to her awaiting raft for the rest of the river trip, which she understood to be the matter of only a few more days.

The second evening on the river after that she was beginning to worry. She understood that they were supposed to leave the flotilla before they reached Heng; and Heng was close now. Very close. What had happened to this fellow Molk? Had he deserted? Part of her was glad to be rid of him. Another part was concerned; the man knew too much. When she entered her tent that night she found him sitting in her folding camp chair, his legs out before him.

‘I'll thank you to ask permission to enter next time.’

‘That would work against sneakin’ about, m'Lady.’ He leaned aside to spit but she jabbed a finger-

‘No! Don't you dare!’

Mouth full, the man searched helplessly about. He picked up a crystal goblet and discharged a stream of dark red saliva that curled viscid in its depths. He set it back on to the table.

‘Gods, man!’ She picked up the goblet by the stem, opened the tent flap, and tossed it out into the dark.

He scratched his tangled black hair. ‘Well, one way to clean the tableware, I suppose. Surprised you have any left.’

‘What do you want?’

He fingered the white silk tablecloth. ‘Thought you'd be pleased. Time to slip away.’ He raised his arms to gesture about the tent. ‘You do want to leave all this behind, don't you?’

‘Well, yes. I do. Just not with you.’

He stood, sighing. ‘Well, life's just one vile chore after another, isn't it? Least that's what / think.’

Ghelel eyed the rumpled greasy fellow. What was that supposed to mean? She looked him up and down again — he seemed dressed appropriately in his dirty quilted jacket, mud-spattered trousers and sandals. But what of her white dress? Not what Amaron had in mind, surely. She waved to her clothes. ‘Do I go out as this?’

The man appeared ready to give one response but caught himself, swallowing and grimacing. ‘No, m'Lady. Strip.’

‘I'm sorry?’

‘Strip down to your royal undies.’

She was still for a good few minutes, almost asked, what for? but managed to quell that — no sense giving the man any more openings. ‘Where's Heroul?’

‘She's keepin’ watch.’

‘I need her help.’

‘Nope. What she don't know she can't tell.’

‘Fine.’ Ghelel took a knife from the table, reached behind to her back and slit the lacing. His face flat, Molk turned away to open one of the broad wood travelling chests.

‘Looking for the silverware?’

Rummaging, he didn't answer. Ghelel stripped down to a silk shirt and shorts.

‘Here we go!’ Molk pulled a heavy canvas bag from deep within the chest.

‘What's that?’

‘Your gear. Armour, weapons ‘n’ suchlike.’

‘I see. Won't that sink?’

Molk hefted the bag. ‘Yeah. We'll have a moment or two.’

‘We?’

He gave her a sideways, wall-eyed look. ‘Can't you swim?’

‘No.’

‘Sweet Hood on his Bony Horse! I was told you were raised a regular tomboy ‘n’ such.’

‘Well, had I known I'd be jumping off rafts I'd have corrected the deficit!’

Wincing, Molk raised a hand. ‘OK, OK! Quiet, please, your ladyship. OK. I'll manage.’

‘Fine.’

‘Now, we just slip off the back, right? Think you can manage that?’

‘I can't swim at all.’

Shoulders slumping even further in his slouch, Molk rolled his eyes to the tent ceiling. ‘Gods. I'll find something for you to hold on to. OK?’

‘If you don't want me to drown, you'll have to.’

‘I'll find something,’ he grumbled as he pulled the bag to the rear of the tent.

Spluttering, flailing, Ghelel attempted to contain the panic that had risen to clench her chest like the hand of a possessing demon the instant she let go of the barge. Never had she known such helplessness and fear. She gripped the broad upturned pot so tightly to her she was afraid she might shatter it. The wake of the barge sent her spinning; the dark shores bobbed in her vision in a sickening way. Just hold on to this, Molk had told her, and the next raft will come to you. Grab hold!

She almost laughed aloud thinking of the chance of her releasing one hand from the only thing keeping her alive. Where was the man, Hood take him! Taken straight to the bottom? Thinking of the bottom brought to mind images of the gigantic whiskered fish, chodren they're called, larger than any man, which the soldiers had been pulling from the Idryn. Ate anything that moved, she'd heard.

The panic was rising near to the point where she could call out for help any moment. She kicked frantically to try to turn around. Or was she already turned around? Who could tell amid the darkness, the splashing grey-green waves? Something loomed, large and, from her vantage up to her chin in the river, impossibly tall above her: the cut timbers of a raft as they emerged from the dark. Come to her? It was about to plough over her!

As the timbers neared, Ghelel threw up one hand to grab hold. She banged her head, her body and legs being sucked under. The object that had supported her across the gap of open river was pulled away and run over, tumbling — an upturned chamberpot. Ha! Very funny, Molk.

She held for a time, washed by the churning waves, gathered her strength. After this she managed to pull herself up then sat, trailed her legs in water that felt warm now that the cold night air brushed her. Eventually, her breathing returned to normal. Movement, and a dripping wet Molk sat next to her and pulled the bag on to his lap. ‘Have a good dip, Captain?’

Ghelel blinked at the man. Captain? ‘Oh, yes. Thank you, Molk.’ Lower, she murmured, ‘I was almost killed. And that's Captain Alil.’

‘Alil? Very good, Captain.’ He sliced the rope sealing the bag. ‘Let's see what we've got here for you.’

The lack of personal space among the regulars was the first thing that struck Ghelel. That and the stink. Sitting on piled sacks, she was jammed shoulder to shoulder with Talian soldiery. One fellow even fell against her asleep until Molk straight-armed him down to the sodden logs; all much to the amusement of his squadmates. It was very confusing for Ghelel: these men and women were this fellow's friends yet they found it humorous when some stranger dumped him into the drink.

And the language! If she heard one more time how much some fellow was looking forward to catching some Hengan snatch she'd scream. The farting, belching and spitting were all rather much as well. Every time she almost threw herself to her feet to abandon the whole thing she'd catch Molk's watchful amused gaze and she'd subside: there was no way she'd give the man the satisfaction.

As it was she stayed awake the entire night and did not know what fed her tense muscles and the sharp sensory images from her surroundings: a soldier lighting a pipe from a lantern, a couple, a man and a woman, making out with only a plain camp blanket over their shoulders, a fight stopped by friends pulling the two men apart, the moon reflected bright silver from the rippling surface of the river. Was it excitement at doing what she'd always dreamed, or was it a plain and simple fear coming from the certainty that somewhere knives were being readied for her? She couldn't tell. In any case, she took some satisfaction from the knowledge that Molk also spent a sleepless night; every time she glanced to the man she'd found him watching the surroundings, his eyes scanning, watchful, glittering in the dark.

She pulled at the hauberk of overlapping metal scales over leather, not the best fit. Her sword though — her old one! How did they get hold of it? She almost pulled off the helmet but remembered Molk's comment: the best place to carry that is on your damned head.

The pre-dawn yellow and pink light gathered over the eastern horizon. It brought a strange optical illusion. A mountain rising all alone on the relatively flat plain. Ghelel squinted into the glow. She caught Molk's eye, gestured ahead. ‘What's that?’

Again, that amused knowing look. ‘Li Heng.’

‘But that's impossible. Those walls must be enormous!’

Wincing, Molk glanced around. Ghelel followed his gaze; soldiers nearby glared. Evidently she'd stuck her foot in it. He sidled closer, lowered his voice. ‘Yes. Strongest fortified city on the continent. Those walls have never been breached. Haven't you studied your histories?’

‘Yes!’

‘Well then, you know they were built to keep out more than just humans.’

Something in Ghelel shuddered. Of course! How could they possibly hope to succeed! Those walls were raised against the ancient enemy of the central plains, the rampaging demon — some said God — the man-jackal, brother of Treach, Ryllandaras, the man-eater. And they had never been overcome. Many say they would even have held against Kellanved's continent-sweeping armies. That is, without his dreaded undying T'lan Imass warriors. With their help Dancer assassinated the city's titular Goddess, the Protectress. Assassinated. Ghelel held Molk's gaze to let him know she understood his message. He nodded his slow acknowledgement.

Towards midday it was their raft's turn to unload. Ghelel grabbed for a handhold as it bumped up against its neighbours. Poles banged wood, soldiers cursed. The sun glared down with a heat and weight exhausting to her; it was never this hot on the coast. Downriver, the walls of Heng loomed like a distant layered plateau.

‘How will we find the Sentries?’ she asked Molk.

By way of answer Molk turned to a nearby soldier. ‘The Marchland Sentries?’ he asked.

‘How the Abyss should I know?’ the woman snorted.

Surprising Ghelel, Molk simply shrugged. He invited Ghelel to try. She crossed to the woman. ‘The Sentries?’ she asked loudly.

‘I said-’ the woman turned, her gaze flicked to the silver gorget at Ghelel's neck. She straightened. ‘Sorry, sir. The quartermaster on shore, perhaps, sir.’

‘Thank you, soldier.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Molk gave Ghelel a small secretive nod. The gorget also worked wonders in getting them ashore. Ghelel merely stepped forward and everyone slipped from her path. Molk picked up a set of saddle-bags that at some time in the night he'd switched for the bag.

Ghelel decided that she might come to like being an officer. Amid the chaos of the rafts and barges being unloaded she merely had to catch a soldier's eye, ask, ‘The quartermaster?’ and be pointed on her way. By the time she neared the quartermaster's tent she found she was staring down everyone she met.

The tent possessed a floor of lain boards. Ghelel stamped the mud from the tall leather boots — the last item out of Molk's miraculous bag — and entered. Molk waited outside. Within, a man sat studying a slate in his hands amid piled crates and sacks that reached the tent's tall ceiling. Ghelel cleared her throat.

‘Yes, sir?’ the man replied without looking up.

Well. So much for the talisman of rank. ‘The Marchland Sentries?’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘I didn't ask whether you'd heard of them — I asked to locate them.’

‘Don't know where they are. Sorry, sir.’

‘Well, then, pray tell who might?’

He looked up, blinked at her bleary-eyed, like a mole. ‘Try the Day Officer, Captain Leen.’

‘Thank you, soldier.’

The man returned his attention to the slate, scratched at it with a small nubbin of chalk. Ghelel sighed, counted to ten, then asked the damned question. ‘And where might I find this Captain Leen?’

The man slowly looked up again and said in a carefully neutral tone, ‘I would try the command tent… sir.’

Ghelel was clenching her jaws so tight she could not respond. With a fierce nod she turned and stamped from the tent. Outside she sucked in long deep breaths of the hot prairie air. ‘Where,’ she said aloud, ‘is the command tent?’

‘My guess would be that big one up on the hill,’ Molk offered from behind.

‘Thank you so much.’

‘Here to serve, Captain.’

She started up the shallow rise of trampled brown grass.

‘I'd say you're doing pretty good so far,’ Molk said as they walked.

‘Well, I haven't stabbed anyone yet.’

That got a laugh.

Guards at the wide entrance of opened flaps nodded Ghelel in. Molk waited outside. She was met by a young man at a table cluttered with reports who stood, bowing. ‘Lieutenant Tahl, aide to Captain Leen. Sorry about the mess — we'll soon be moving to a new location closer to the city. May I be of service?’

‘Yes. I'm looking for the Marchland Sentries. Where are they bivouacked?’

Tahl's browrs rose and he quickly looked her up and down.

‘Yes?’

‘Ah! Sorry, it's just that I was unaware they were due… a replacement.’

‘A replacement?’

‘Yes. Well, something of a cock-up you being here. Wrong shore. You should've disembarked to the south.’ And he opened his arms, shrugging.

‘Silly me.’

He smiled stiffly, sat. ‘Good luck, sir. You should find them in a village to the south.’

‘Thank you.’

Walking back down the hill she let out a long hard sigh. ‘What are they doing here anyway?’

‘Special assignment,’ Molk replied. ‘They were sent in early. They're doing scouting and, ah, intelligence gathering.’

She caught her step but kept walking. ‘Thought so.’ Amaron, the scheming rat! ‘Let me guess — they're working for Amaron.’

Molk rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘They're doing their job — guarding a frontier.’

She turned on Molk. ‘Burn take it! Amaron's touch will make that the first place anyone will look for me, dammitall!’

He glanced around, motioned for her to lower her voice. ‘No they won't. In the first place no one knows what I just told you. And secondly, as far as anyone knows you're still on that barge right now and will soon be disembarking into your wagon to be taken to the Seti camp.’

‘Really? You've got someone playing me?’

‘Of course! Gods, woman… honestly. Sometimes I wonder.’

‘I'm new to all this.’

‘That's for sure.’

She commandeered a small riverboat to take them across the river while a hundred yards downstream the broad royal barge wallowed in reed-choked shallows and the heavy wagon driven down to meet it looked to be sunk in the mud. On board the barge dozens of men pushed on poles while drovers cracked their whips over the pitiful lowing oxen. Molk sat at the bow of the punt, watching. ‘Too bad we missed all the speeches,’ he said.

Ghelel sat next to him, lowered her voice. This is stupid, me arriving at the unit the same day the barge arrives here at Heng. Shouldn't I have come ahead or something?’

Molk shrugged. ‘Down south they've got no idea what's happening here. And I don't think they much care either.’

‘Someone will piece it together.’

He sighed. They'll all piece something or other together — that's how they are in the unit. The important thing is that if they accept you, they'll defend you.’

She turned to study the man. ‘What do you mean // they accept me…?’

‘Don't worry. Just, ah, don't give any silly orders and you'll be fine.’

‘I've never given an order in all my life!’

‘Really? I find that difficult to believe.’

Ghelel let that pass. ‘How am I supposed to know what's silly and what's not?’

He pulled a hand through his tangle of unruly black hair. ‘Well, don't give any then.’

‘None? But I'm supposed to command!’

The nose of the boat stuck into the mud of the shore. Molk jumped down. ‘Our thanks,’ he called to the fellow who'd paddled them across.

‘Yes, thanks,’ Ghelel called.

Throwing the saddle-bags across one shoulder, Molk immediately climbed the steep embankment. He pulled himself up by tree roots and handholds of brush. Ghelel followed. Past the screen of trees, she emerged once more on to the prairie of thick stiff grass. The sharp blades slashed at her mailed sleeves and leather greaves, hissed in the wind. Eastward, past the curve of the Idryn, the walls of Heng reared through a haze of smoke from the countless fires within. Ghelel took the opportunity to study the walls; they appeared to run in three ranks, the outermost the lowest, each rank increasing in height as one moved inward, so that even if one were to capture the outermost defences, one would still be subject to fire from further in. The gates too, she'd heard, ran in staggered openings around the circumferences of the various encircling walls — there was no straight run into the heart of the city. She was no student of siegecraft, but the prospect of investing this city seemed a chancy thing. What if they exhausted themselves taking Heng and had nothing left for Unta?

Couldn't they have simply ignored it? Let the Seti continue to isolate it? She had all these questions for Choss and Amaron after they'd gotten rid of her. How convenient for them. She hurried to catch up to Molk. ‘Is this it?’ she called.

He stopped. ‘What?’

She waved hungry wasps from her face. ‘Is this it? No escort or mounts or directions — just the two of us wandering across a blasted plain that goes on for thousands of leagues?’

The man made a show of turning full circle to peer in all directions. ‘Seems so.’ He started off again.

She threw her arms in the air. ‘This is ridiculous!’

‘Why?’ he called back.

‘Because…’ She refused to move another step, watched him walk away. ‘Because we'll get lost!’

He turned around, walking backwards. ‘No, we won't. I know exactly where I'm headed.’

‘Oh? Where's that?’

Molk pointed over his shoulder. ‘That way.’

Ghelel glared about the open expanse of wind-swept grasslands — if only to find some sort of alternative, any at all. Completely alone, it seemed the only thing she could do was jog after the crazed fool whom Amaron, in his senile idiocy, had actually set to guard her.

‘They say Burn sleeps beneath us,’ Molk was saying while Ghelel had been thinking of her youth, the dinners at Sellath House in Quon. What she had then taken as such selfless generosity — raising her as a ward from some distantly related family — seemed poisoned by what she now knew. Damn these noble families and their ambitions; not only had they stolen her future, they'd twisted her past as well.

‘Have you heard that?’ Molk asked.

‘Heard what?’ she said absently.

‘That Burn sleeps beneath us.’

‘She sleeps beneath all of us,’ she recited, bored.

‘No, I mean right here, beneath the Seti Plains. That's the local legend.’

‘No, I hadn't heard that. No doubt every tribe and community has similar myths. All of them equally true.’

Molk stopped short, gestured aside. ‘If you don't mind, Captain, I'd like to have a moment in the brush there. Call of nature.’

‘What? All of sudden you're all shy? What happened to the cursing, spitting lout I'd come to know? You're all just show after all, hey?’ She crossed her arms, waiting.

Molk had ducked into the brush. Invisible, he answered: ‘No female officer would allow that kind of behaviour from her servant. Don't you think?’

Ghelel threw her arms wide once more. ‘Gods, man! Who in the Abyss is going to know! We're in the middle of an empty wasteland if you haven't noticed.’

Molk appeared, doing up the tie of his trousers. ‘You know, that's a false assumption.’

‘What is?’

He shouldered the bags. ‘That the land of others is a wasteland. Just because they don't use the land in a way familiar to you doesn't make it useless or wasted.’

Ghelel started off. ‘I don't know what in Hood's name you're talking about.’

‘Obviously. For instance — this is prairie lion pasturage we're trespassing on right now.’

She laughed her scorn. ‘How in the Abyss would you know that?’

‘Didn't see the markers? I thought they were rather obvious. Anyway, it takes a lot more land to raise animals to support a family than it does tilled land. To a society such as ours based on tillage any open pasture's gonna look like wasteland. And I shouldn't say open either — that's misleading. Grazing rights are very carefully controlled and apportioned, you can be sure of that.’

Ghelel just rolled her eyes. ‘Why are you going on about all this horseshit?’

Molk nodded. ‘Good point. I just thought you might want to know a few things about the Seti riders who've been shadowing us since we left the river.’

Ghelel spun, scanned the shadow-swept hillsides. ‘I don't see anything.’

‘They're good at what they do.’

‘Pardon me for saying this, but as I heard the soldiers say — you're shitting me.’

‘Now who's the foul-mouthed lout?’

‘I'd rather be a foul-mouthed lout than a gullible fool.’

‘You said it.’

Though fuming, Ghelel walked on in silence. Perhaps she should just keep going south — walk away from all this. Clearly the only thing this fool could accomplish was get her killed. Didn't he realize this was serious? Still, at least no one was going to find her out here in the middle of nowhere! That was for certain. She stopped, drew off her scaled gauntlets, tucked them into her belt. ‘Did you at least bring water?’

‘Of course.’ Kneeling, he rummaged in the bags, pulled out a waterskin.

‘Thank you,’ she allowed, grudgingly. She took a deep pull then gagged, spitting. ‘Gods! What's this?’

River water, laced with a distillation of juniper berries. Makes it healthy.’

Distilled juniper berry? That's strong stuff.’

I find it has a calming effect.’

She tossed the skin back. ‘You can keep it. So, what happens tonight?’

Molk, who was drinking at the moment, gagged and spluttered out his own mouthful.

‘Touch too much distillate?’

Coughing, he wiped his mouth. ‘Ah, the Captain should be more careful with her language in the future, I think.’

She eyed the hunched, goggle-eyed hireling — what did Amaron possibly see in this fellow? ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘More's the pity — well, I've brought food, blankets. We'll bivouac under the stars this one night. That is, if we have any say in the matter…’

‘Any say?’

He raised his chin to indicate behind her. ‘Our friends — they've made up their minds about us.’

Ghelel spun. Five horsemen were lazily angling in upon them, single-file. Where in Hood's Paths had they come from? Grey and brown fur pennants dangled from their lances. Recurved bows stood tall at their backs. They rode on thin leather saddles, no more than blankets, with thin leather strap stirrups and reins.

‘Wolf Soldiers,’ Molk said.

‘Like I give a damn.’

The Seti encircled them while one kneed his mount closer.

‘Greetings, friend,’ Molk called loudly in the Hengan dialect.

‘Trespassers are no friends of ours,’ answered the spokesman in kind — a young warrior, his kinky black hair tied in a multitude of tails, a leather jerkin painted in umber and yellow streaks and swirls, the dusting of a moustache at his lip.

‘Trespassers?’ Molk laughed. ‘No, friend. We are Talian — allies.’

The youth frowned, considering. He pointed north. ‘Last I saw, Heng was that way.’

Molk laughed again. ‘Yes, yes. We're meeting our squadmates in a village south of here.’

‘We've burned down all the villages. Killed all the men and…’ he bared his teeth to Ghelel, ‘raped all the women. There's no one alive to the south. That was the last of our fun. Now, we just ride in circles around Heng while they squat in their city. It's dull. Our only fun is riding down Hengans who flee the city.’

‘Ah, well, we're Talians. We're wearing blue, as you see.’

The youth nodded. ‘Oh yes, you wear blue. But it strikes me, there must be blue cloth in Heng.’

Ghelel had had enough of this adolescent baiting, ‘Look here, you Hood-cursed-’

Molk clenched her arm. ‘My employer wishes to remind you that your warlord is an ally of our commander, Choss.’

With a squeeze of his knees the warrior began backing his mount. ‘The warlord, it seems to me,’ he said, ‘is very far away.’ With a touch of the reins the mount turned aside and the five wheeled, galloping off.

Ghelel watched them go. Damned thugs! She faced Molk. ‘Now what?’

He adjusted the saddlebags at his shoulder. ‘Well, seems to me, they mean to have themselves some fun. Let's move.’

Twilight gathered while they jogged through the tall grass. A whoop or the thump of hooves from the dark announced their pursuers. Occasionally an arrow would slash the grasses next to her and Ghelel would clench her teeth, Bastards. Molk, jogging ahead of her, suddenly disappeared. At first she thought it a trick of the late afternoon light but after a few more steps it became clear that the man was gone. Had an arrow from the ingrate ambushing Seti taken him? She involuntarily slowed, wondering, should she throw herself down? Hide? But to what end? They'd just trample her. Walking, her next step kept descending and she found herself falling forward tumbling head over toes and she managed one yell before slamming down on to stone bottom-first. ‘Ow!’

‘How expressive.’

Wincing, she leaned aside to rub her buttocks. ‘What in the Abyss?’

‘Just my thought as well.’

‘I'm sure. What's this? She gestured to the flat shadowed road running low between twin rows of tall grasses.

Molk, his head cocked listening to the night, whispered, ‘The Imperial road to Dal Hon. Thank the Malazan engineers for it.’

‘Quon Talian, you mean,’ Ghelel countered. ‘The only thing that island produces is pirates — not engineers.’

‘It produced the will to employ them.’

‘Which?’

‘Both.’

Sighing her irritation, Ghelel rearranged her armour and belts. ‘Now what? On this road the Seti would run us down in an instant.’

‘True. And that wouldn't be much fun.’

‘No, it wouldn't!’

‘I was talking about them.’

‘I was talking about both of us.’

Molk grinned crookedly, winked. ‘Now you've got the hang of it.’ He raised his chin to the north-east, up the road. ‘This way… there should be a hostelry close by, if memory serves.’ He started off and Ghelel followed.

‘The Seti said they burned everything down.’

‘I'm willing to bet they didn't burn this one down.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, as the youth said, the warlord is far away… Anyway, you'll see.’

Twilight deepened, transforming the road into a slash of darkness. Ghelel thought she heard the movement of something large through the grasses parallel to the road. After a long hike a curve in the flagged way revealed the burnt remains of a building. It resolved into the piled stones of a foundation supporting standing blackened timbers. A field of knee-high weeds surrounded the sacked structure. Ghelel stopped short, set her hands to her belt. Molk stopped beside her. ‘Oh,’ he said, and scratched his chin.

She was about to loose upon the incompetent fool the full torrent of the day's frustration when a man straightened from beside the road. He was almost indistinguishable in the dark, wearing blackened studded leather armour. He held a cocked crossbow and a long curved sabre hung at his side. A wide black moustache completely hid his mouth. ‘Who in cursed Fener's own entrails are you?’ he demanded in the Talian dialect.

Molk nodded to the man. ‘You're of the Sentries?’

‘Who's askin'?’

Molk gestured to Ghelel. ‘May I introduce Prevost Alil — a new officer.’

The man looked her up and down. ‘Really?’

Ghelel opened her mouth to answer that but the man raised a hand for silence. ‘Just a minute,’ he said, and walked out on to the road. He faced the darkness, listening, then raised his chin. ‘Cut it out!’

A moment later a horse leapt through the grass and thumped to the road, snorting and stamping. Its rider, the same Seti youth, twisted the reins around one hand, grinning his delight at them as the animal pranced in circles.

‘Toven,’ the man greeted him.

‘Just having some fun,’ and he directed the wide grin to Ghelel.

The soldier waved him off. ‘Yeah, well. Fun's over.’

Toven raised himself high on his mount and offered a bow. A kick and the mount reared and leapt up, pushing its way through the thick stands of grasses.

Grinning bastard. Ghelel watched the Sentry while he took the bolt from his crossbow and snapped the trigger. He swung the heavy weapon up on to his shoulder. ‘And who're you?’ he asked Molk.

Molk bowed. ‘The Prevost's servant.’

‘Oh-ho… So, you're the Lady's servant, are you? C'mon. This way.’

‘And what is your name, soldier?’ Ghelel demanded.

‘Shepherd,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Shepherd.’

They walked a good way into the night, the sergeant content to be silent, Ghelel determined not to ask him a blasted thing, and Molk apparently enjoying the cool night air. Eventually, Ghelel smelled smoke from cookfires, caught snatches of wind-carried conversation. The glow of fires and lanterns brightened the night ahead. ‘And just what are your numbers currently, sergeant?’

The man turned his head to eye her and Ghelel wondered if she'd made a mistake but worked to keep all such doubt from her face. She cocked a brow. He shrugged. ‘Well, at a guess we number about five hundred now. About four hundred medium cavalry and a hundred mounted heavies.’

Ghelel shot a hard look to Molk who appeared oblivious, peering into the darkness, whistling softly to himself. The road opened up on both sides to trampled fields dotted by tents and horse corrals. Shepherd escorted them through two pickets. Ahead, lights blazed from the windows of a three-storey brick building fronting a square of outbuildings including a large stable. Soldiers, men and women, came and went, laughing and talking, many drinking from leather tankards. Across the front of the house was the legend ‘House of Pleasant Welcome’.

Ghelel stopped short. ‘A brothel? A Poliel-damned brothel?’

Molk coughed into his fist, head lowered. Shepherd winced as if only now becoming aware of the fact. ‘Ah, yes, Ma'am — that is,

Prevost, sir. It's our temporary headquarters. The troopers are only allowed in off-duty.’

‘I see. And is this where you're taking me?’

Taking you to the Marquis, Prevost. He's inside.’

Off duty, is he?’

Another coughing fit took Molk. Obviously happy to pass this one on to his superior officer, Sergeant Shepherd waved an ‘after-you’ to the door. Inside, Ghelel winced at the sudden light. The main floor was crowded with tables. Soldiers ate and drank, laughing. The heat brought a sudden sweat to her; it also brought a wave of drowsiness. Her knees suddenly felt weak. No one, it seemed, paid them the least attention. Shepherd led the way to a table next to an open window where a man sat smoking a pipe, talking to a seated female soldier. The man was older, heavyset with short grey hair. He wore a leather vest over a linen shirt. The woman was slim, her brown hair hacked short. The scar of a sword cut drew her lips down into a permanent frown. Sergeant Shepherd leaned close and spoke into the man's ear. He nodded and stood. The tables nearby quieted. The man eyed Ghelel expectantly. She stared back then suddenly remembered and snapped a salute. The man slowly answered the salute. ‘Marquis Jhardin at your service, Prevost.’ He indicated the woman, ‘Prevost Razala. She commands the heavies.’

Ghelel bowed to the Marquis.

‘I would offer you a room but I imagine you wouldn't want to stay here.’

‘In that you are quite correct.’

‘Sergeant, ready quarters for the Prevost. No doubt you would like to freshen up after your journey. Afterwards we could see to the briefing.’

‘My thanks, Marquis.’

‘Commander will do.’

Sergeant Shepherd saluted and hurried out. Jhardin came out from the table and invited Ghelel to follow him. Lieutenant Razala bowed, ‘Welcome,’ she said, her voice hoarse — perhaps from the wound.

All eyes now followed as the two made their way through the tables. Ghelel thought their gazes held reserve mixed with open contempt. Molk followed at a distance. On the steps she asked, ‘You have been here for some time, Commander?’

He nodded, knocked the embers from his pipe. ‘Yes. We were sent ahead by Choss.’ He indicated a turn to a row of tents.

‘And you knew I was coming?’ He sent a questioning look. ‘One hardly would put a sergeant on picket duty.’ He smiled ruefully.

‘Yes. Word was sent.’

Ghelel did not have to ask how. The Warrens. So. She eyed the fellow as he walked along, nodding to salutes from soldiers, salutes which she again belatedly remembered to acknowledge. It seemed to her that he was far too accepting, far too relaxed for an experienced commander who had just been saddled with a young, inexperienced, officer — and female to boot. He must know who she was; or had been directly ordered by Choss or Amaron to watch over her. In either case, she wasn't going to call him on it. Not yet.

Ahead, Sergeant Shepherd waited at a tent. ‘Your quarters, Prevost.’

‘Thank you.’

Jhardin indicated Molk. ‘Send your man when you're ready.’

Ghelel nodded her agreement. Cursing herself, she belatedly saluted once more. The Marquis answered; an easy smile seemed to tell her that he did not set much by such formalities. She was startled as Molk opened the tent flap for her, then ducked within after. The long tent was divided into a general purpose room in front furnished with folding camp stools and a table set with an assortment of fruits, cheeses, bread and decanters of wine. The rear was her private sleeping chamber. Molk dropped the saddlebags and went straight to the table. ‘I am famished.’

‘Hood-damned nannies,’ Ghelel said, keeping her voice low.

He turned, his mouth full of bread. ‘What?’

‘This fighting force. Babysitters. Choss or Amaron has turned them into nothing more than babysitters. They must hate me for it.’

‘I think the word you're looking for is “bodyguard”.’

‘Bodyguard? Five hundred veteran men and women?’

Molk poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Think of it as a measure of your importance to our commander.’

Ghelel took the glass from him, downed it in one gulp. ‘It's a waste of fighting power. This force is needed at the siege.’

‘Five hundred would make no difference in any siege, believe me.’

She glared but could resist the scent of the fresh food no longer and she turned to the cold meats. ‘How much do they know?’

‘Jhardin certainly knows a lot. Razala less.’

‘How open should I be with them?’

‘That's up to you.’

She sat heavily in a stool, stretched her legs out before her. It didn't strike her at all as odd when Molk knelt and pulled off her boots. She hadn't slept a wink the night before and had alternately walked and jogged all the day through. She'd never been so drained. ‘T'm wrung out, Molk. I don't think I can face them tonight.’

‘First thing in the morning then,’ he said, standing. ‘I'll let them know.’

Feeling the need for distraction from the monotony of the long voyage, Bars took a spot at a sweep. He pulled gently at first, testing the limits of his chest wound. The deep ones always healed the slowest. As he pulled he was barely aware of the awed, even frightened, glances his fellow oarsmen cast his way. He was busy trying to avoid thinking of what was to come. But their return, their eventual return, made that impossible. Failure. How it galled him — it burned in his chest even worse than the wound. Even more humiliating, he must deliver news of the probable annihilation of the 4th Company of the Guard. And worst of all, he was worried: would further men then be sent to investigate that end? Cal's last instructions argued flat against that. And Bars agreed. The Guard had lost enough resources to that unforgiving Abyss in Assail. Corlo appeared at his side, tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Jemain wants you.’

Grunting, Bars relinquished the oar. ‘Keep pulling, men,’ he said, trying out his South Genabackan Confederacy vocabulary, ‘we'll get out: of this eventually,’

‘Aye, Captain.’

On the way aft Corlo leaned close. ‘How's the chest?’

‘Hurts like Hood's own pincers. It always hurts just as much, don't it.’

‘You're only spared the dying part.’

‘Not even that.’ Bars watched as Corlo's round face pulled down. ‘Don't worry, we'll get there.’

Corlo gave his wry assent.

Jemain waited at the stern, peering into the dense fog that had enveloped the ship more than a week ago. ‘You'll go blind if you keep that up,’ Bars called to him.

‘Shhh,’ he hissed. ‘Please.’

‘What is it?’

‘Something's out there.’

‘Un-huh…’

‘Yes. I think so. Someone becalmed. Just like us. But shadowing us.’

‘Really? Corlo?’

‘I've quested. Someone. Can't do any better than that.’

‘Un-huh. So? What can we do about it? Maybe they just hope we know where we're going.’

Jemain's face glistened, sweaty and pale; he was clearly unhappy with what he was about to suggest. ‘We should stop oars, listen. Perhaps we'll lose them.’

Or not.’

Jemain shrugged his agreement.

‘What's our position?’

‘North. Far north of where we want to be.’

Bars turned to Corlo. ‘Anything from the Brethren?’

‘Whispers. They are, ah, agitated. Hints of movement. Continued movement.’

‘Hunh. Very well, Jemain. Orders by word of mouth only. Corlo, you and Lamb take the bow. I'll hold the stern. Stop oars. Arm everyone willing.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Soon, the oars stilled, slid gently into their ports. Bars pulled on the largest set of leather armour available. With hand signals he dispersed his eight remaining regular Guardsmen. He signalled for missile fire first. The men readied what bows and crossbows they'd dug up from the holds and neglected innards of the trader scow. Sailors and oarsmen took the deck as well, indifferently armed.

Jemain followed Bars to the port side; both squinted into the thick creamy curtains of fog. ‘Where do you think we are?’ Bars whispered.

‘Perhaps near the middle of Menigal Waters.’

‘Hmph. Reacher's Ocean, maybe.’

Jemain pointed. ‘There.’

Bars strained to see, then he caught it — movement. A low dark shape slowly closing on them, coming in at an angle. A single row of sweeps, open-decked. A war-galley, lateen-rigged, the sail reefed now in the dead air. Bars searched the waters at the bow for any hint of a ram but saw no wake or frothing. Strange that, usually a war-galley would have a ram. Shields lined the sides of the vessel. He raised his arm to signal firing the first volley. Oddly, however, no similar volley flew up to meet them now that they could see each other.

Then Jemain lurched back from the side as if struck by an arrow. He snatched Bars’ raised arm. Bars searched the man's stricken face, ‘What is it?

‘Don't fire,’ he managed, his voice strangled. ‘Please. No firing.’

Scanning the decks of the war-galley, Bars could see no movement — he relented. ‘Very well.’ He signalled a switch to hand-to-hand weaponry. ‘Why?’

The Genabackan first mate appeared terrified beyond words. He could only point. ‘The shields — don't you see…?’

‘Gods, what is it, man?’ What Bars saw now was what he had taken for shields appeared to be that, but oddly shaped, each painted to resemble a mask. The first mate was no longer listening; he glared about as if seeking escape. The man actually appeared to be considering jumping overboard. Bars grabbed a handful of his ratty sailor's jerkin, bodily lifted him by his front and shook him. ‘Who is this?

‘There are legends but no one's ever actually seen…’

‘Who? Hood curse you…’

‘It's a Seguleh vessel,’ he gasped.

Bars dropped him. ‘The Seguleh? Who in Togg's tits are they?’

‘You don't know?’

‘No.’ To his men Bars signalled a stand-by. ‘Tell me.’

‘You must order your men to drop their weapons. Quickly. All weapons. Please.’

Bars stared at the man. ‘Really?’

Yes. Allow me to speak to the crew.’

Feeling almost like laughing, Bars waved for Jemain to go ahead. Meanwhile, the vessel was taking its time manoeuvring to come aside as if this were a rendezvous arranged long ago. Slim straight figures stood motionless, calm and silent. They were behaving as if they fully expected to simply come aboard, Bars reflected. Like they were conducting some kind of damned harbour inspection or something.

jemain called down to the deck where the sailors watched, their faces tense. ‘It is a Seguleh vessel! Yes, that's right! Drop your weapons and you won't be hurt.’

To Bars’ amazement, as one, the sailors and even the freed slaves and oarsmen complied. Jemain dropped his own small sailor's knife. Bars caught Corlo watching from the bow. He raised his shoulders in a question. The mage cocked his head, thinking, then signed agreement.

Bars sighed his utter disbelief. Gods! The things they have to go through to make it back to Stratem. ‘OK, lads. Drop them — but keep ‘em close. Just in case.’ He watched while reluctantly, one by one, his men set down their weapons. All but one who stared back, defiant. The vessel bumped up against theirs. Tossed grapnels took hold at the rail. A few trailed rope ladders. ‘Dammit, Tillin! I ordered you to drop them!’

‘What's come over you, Bars? I'm not gonna just surrender-’

‘Damn you to Hood! I didn't order anyone to surrender! I just ordered you to drop your weapons. Now!’

His face dark with fury, Tillin threw his sword to the deck.

‘And the other,’ called Bars. The sticker.’

Tillin pulled a long-knife from the rear of his belt, threw it down.

A rope ladder jerked, straining. Bars took hold of the railing; he had to admit he was damned curious to see who it was that put the fear of Night into these Genabackans. A masked face appeared at the side. Jup grunted his surprise. Well, what d'you know. Just like the shields promised. Then in one swift fluid motion the man was on deck, erect, hands at a broad waist sash where two swords hung, thrust through. Bars grunted again: damned fast these fellows, whoever they were. Seven more joined the man, all medium-height, whip-lean in light leather armour and cloth trousers, and, surprisingly, barefoot. All wore intricately painted masks.

The appearance of each of the masked fellows drew a whimper from Jemain. Finally, with the last, he clenched the shoulder of Bars’ leather hauberk as if to keep from fainting. ‘There's eight of them! Eight!’

‘I can count,’ Bars grumbled. He motioned to the deck of the galley. ‘There's still more on the ship.’

The sailors remained motionless, allowing the intruders to wander at will; the Guardsmen took their cue from that. The Seguleh walked about the deck, opening casks, poking into piled equipment. ‘What's going on…’ Bars asked of Jemain.

‘I'm not sure. I think-’

A blur of motion, one foot thumping the deck, then a man falling. Bars ran to the mid-deck, pushed aside sailors. There lay Tillin, face up. Bars knelt, felt for a pulse. The man was dead. Bars faced the nearest Seguleh, ‘What's the meaning of this!’

‘He was armed,’ another Seguleh called from across the deck in the dialect of the South Confederacies. The one facing Bars slowly turned his back — pointedly, Bars thought — and walked away.

Bars blinked his surprise. Jemain, who had also come, turned the body over. A sheathed long-knife remained tucked at his belt. He snorted. He'd forgotten Tillin always carried two. He looked up, but the Seguleh who'd spoken had moved. ‘Where'd he go?’

‘I'm not sure I can find him,’ Jemain said.

‘Just ask!’

Jemain's laugh sounded a touch crazed. ‘No. You don't understand. The one who spoke is the only one who will. He's actually forced to speak to us because he's the lowest ranked here. It is shameful for him to have to.’

‘Well, find him!’

Jemain raised his hands helplessly. ‘I'll try, but I can't read their masks.’

Read their masks? What was the man on about? Bars scanned the deck. Six. Two had gone below. Hood take them — what had he just done to his men? Lamb, he saw, had not moved from where he'd dropped his swords. Bars gave him a wait. Lamb responded with ‘extreme impatience’. Bars caught Corlo's eye, nodded. Corlo edged his hands up to his shirt-front, took a deep breath, then froze. A gleaming sword-blade had appeared at his neck.

‘Who speaks for this vessel?’ called out the Seguleh who'd spoken before.

Bars pushed his way forward. ‘I do.’

‘You have a mage among you. Either he refrains from his arts or he will be slain. Is this clear?’

‘Yeah — That is, yes, that's clear.’ Bars closed upon the spokesman until he stood face to face, or mask. He studied the mask in a furious effort to memorize the identity. For now he understood Jemain's comment: everything was there on the mask for all to see — provided you could understand the signs. Dark vermillion curls, he noted, low on the cheeks.

The spokesman turned away to face other Seguleh. Some subtle signs or body language was exchanged between them — neither said a word. The spokesman returned his attention to Bars. ‘We require your stores of food and drinkable water,’ he said in his curious high voice. ‘You will provide the labour to move the requisite cargo. Further, our oarsmen are tired. We will take the strongest among you to replace them.’

Bars just stared at the mask, the dark-brown eyes almost hidden wkhin. ‘You'll do what?’

The mask tilted fractionally to one side. ‘Our instructions are not clear? Perhaps we should speak to another? One capable of understanding?’

Jemain appeared at Bars’ side. ‘Yes, honoured sir. We understand. We will comply.’ With an effort, he pulled a disbelieving Bars aside. ‘We have no choice now,’ he whispered. ‘At least they'll let us live.’

‘To die!’ Bars snarled, glaring, but he needn't have made the effort. The spokesman now ignored him as thoroughly as if he'd disappeared. Furious, Bars snapped a hand around Jemain's throat. ‘I got my men into this and I will get them outl Give me an option, anything… something.’

The first mate pulled at Bars’ fingers, his eyes bulging. ‘There is only one thing,’ he gasped, ‘but it will just get you killed!’

Bars released him. ‘What? Name it.’

Falling to his knees, Jemain panted to regain his breath. ‘Challenge the spokesman.’

Bars grunted his understanding; something had told him it would come down to that. ‘How?’

‘Pick up a weapon — but you must keep your eyes on the spokesman! Do not look at anyone else. He is the one you are challenging.’

‘Right.’ Bars cast about the deck for the nearest weapon, found a straight Free City sword and a sturdy sailor's dirk. These he picked up, then, keeping his head down, turned to the Seguleh spokesman. Everyone, he noted from the edges of his vision, had gone quite still. One Seguleh happened to stand in the way. As Bars approached this one drew a weapon, touched it to Bars’ chest. Head resolutely held down, Bars paused, then pushed on. He watched the blade's keen edge slice a gash in his leather hauberk as he edged past. Moving with deliberate care, he approached the spokesman and stopped before the man, who had gone immobile. He raised his gaze, travelling up the leather hauberk, the neckscarf, to his mask and the eyes behind. The instant their gazes met the mask inclined minutely — acceptance?

As quick as a hunting cat the man stepped back, his bare foot lightly touching the deck, and hurtled forward attacking. Bars immediately gave ground parrying frantically. The attacks came so swift and unrelenting there was no time to think, no time to plan. He retreated fully half the length of the vessel before he succeeded in wrenching a fraction of a second for a counter-attack to find his own footing and forestall the man's advance. He was appalled; no one had ever done such a thing to him before.

But his relief did not last long. Parrying an elegant series of ripostes overextended him and he saw it even as it came: a thrust high in the thigh. He twisted just in time for the blade to fail its flensing withdrawal. An unfamiliar chill of cold dread took Bars, something he thought Assail had squeezed entirely out of him. This man was not simply trying for a kill — he was choosing his targets! That had been a precise attempt at the femoral artery. If he did not do something right away he would be cut to pieces. All he could think of was his friend Jup's laughter — Iron Bars, finally beaten by some masked jackass!

Less than six of his heartbeats had passed.

Yet while the attacks came as swiftly as Blues’- the Guard's preeminent finesse swordsman — they lacked power. More like surgical touches than blows. Having gathered himself — and he suspected few ever remained alive long enough to do so — he leaned in using all his fury to counter-attack with full strength. Batting aside one blade he surprised the man and got inside to rake the dirk across the forearm. The man's other blade sliced his face in a disengaging move but Bars bore on regardless, backhanding the dirk to the hilt through the man's light leather armour just above the heart. The power of the thrust threw the Seguleh backwards off his feet but even as he fell he flicked his other blade up to kiss Bars’ neck. It sawed deep under his chin. Bars lurched away, bellowing his pain.

He fell to his knees, wet warmth pulsed between his fingers. A hand clasped tightly over his. ‘Let me see. Let me see.’ Corlo. Bars relaxed. A cloth wrapped his neck. ‘OK,’ Corlo said. ‘It's OK. You'll live.’

Panting, Bars choked, could not speak.

Corlo took his arm and he straightened, weaving. He saw Jemain staring at him, incredulous. He waved him close. He tried to speak, failed. He glanced down to see how his front glistened in a red wash. ‘Now what?’ he croaked to Jemain.

Swallowing, the first mate remained motionless. ‘They said it could never be done…’ he breathed, awed.

‘It almost wasn't,’ Bars said, speaking as softly as he could.

Jemain motioned to another Seguleh who was now bent over the dead spokesman. Hood on his dead horse. Not another one! Do I have to duel every last blasted one?

This Seguleh straightened, faced Bars. ‘What is your name that we may enter it among the Agatii.’

The Agatii?’

‘The Thousand,’ the Seguleh said.

Bars could only stare. There's a thousand of these swordsmen? ‘Bars. Iron Bars, Fourth Company, Second Blade, Avowed of the Crimson Guard.’

All remaining Seguleh turned to stare. Bars returned the glances then remembered Jemain's warning and looked away. The one Seguleh who had kept the most apart from everyone, standing far at the bow, walked back to face him. His mask was far less decorated than the others, marked by just a few lines. But of course Bars could not make any sense of its design. Then he again recalled Jemain's words and he quickly pulled his gaze from the man's face. ‘Word of you Avowed have reached us,’ this one said. ‘Why did you not identify yourself before?’

Bars shrugged. ‘I saw no reason to.’

The Seguleh seemed to understand such reasoning. ‘You are a stranger to our ways, so I will be plain. I challenge you.’

‘Don't accept!’ Jemain blurted.

Bars gently touched the wet dressing at his neck, wiped his forearm across his mouth to come away with a slick of drying blood from the gash down his face. The pain of his pierced leg was a roar in his ears. It twitched, hardly able to support him. ‘I, ah, respectfully decline,’ he murmured, his voice a gurgle.

The Seguleh inclined his mask fractionally. ‘Another time, then.’ He glanced to his men and as one they moved to the ship's side. ‘We go now.’

Bars stared again. Gods, these people. They were constantly wrong-footing him. ‘Wait. Where are you going? What're you doing out here? Twin's Turning, man. Why're you even talking to me now?’

As the others carried the dead spokesman to the side, their leader, so Bars assumed, faced him again. ‘You have standing now. I am named Oru. I am now your, how is it… Yovenai…’

‘Patron, or commander — something like teacher, too,’ Jemain supplied.

Oru did not dispute Jemain's translation.

Bars gestured to the dead Seguleh. ‘And his name?’

‘Leal. Her name was Leal.’

‘Her? Her!’

‘Yes.’

Gods Below. He'd no idea. But he would remember her name; he'd rarely come so close to being overborne. Oru had jumped down lithely to the galley. Bars leaned over the side. Holding his neck he croaked, ‘What are you doing out here? Why are you just going like this?’

‘You are of the Agatii. You have your mission. We have ours. We search for something… something that was stolen from us long ago.’

‘Well… may the Gods go with you.’

‘Not with us,’ Oru replied flatly.

Crewmen pushed off with poles. As the oars were readied, Bars did a quick head-count and came up with fifteen. Burn's Mercy, fifteen of them. Then the fog swallowed the vessel leaving only the echoes of wood banging wood and the splash of water.

Turning from the side Bars found Jemain studying him once more. ‘What?’

‘I would never have believed it.’

‘Yeah. Well, the Lady favoured me.’

‘The Seguleh don't believe in luck.’

‘There you go. Now, let's get to rowing. You give the orders, first mate. I can hardly speak.’

‘Aye, Captain. And Captain…?’

‘Yes?’

‘I tried to get a good look at Oru's mask. If I'm right, he's ranked among the top twenty.’

On the second day of their flight from the fallen Border Fort, Rillish awoke to find five Wickan children staring down at him with the runny noses and direct unfiltered curiosity of youths. Rillish sat up on his elbows and stared back. The children did not blink.

‘Yes? Are you going to help me up, or not?’ The gruelling demands of their escape had worsened Rillish's leg wound. Yesterday soldiers took turns carrying him. His dressings stank and were stained yellow-green.

‘No,’ said the eldest, their guide, a girl who might just be into puberty.

‘No?’ Rillish gave a thoughtful frown. Then you're planning to put me out of my misery they way you do your wounded.’

The girl's disdain was total. ‘A townsman lie. We do no such thing.’

‘No,’ Rillish echoed. It occurred to him that he was now being studied by what passed for the ruling council of the band of youths he'd rescued — the five eldest. ‘May I ask your name?’

‘Mane,’ said the girl. A sheathed, antler-handled long-knife stood tall from the rope of woven horsehair that served as the belt holding the girl's rags together — all of which amounted to nothing more than a frayed blanket pulled over her head. The blade would have been laughable had the girl's face not carried the tempered edge to match it. It also occurred to Rillish that he knew that blade.

Then may I ask the purpose of this council meeting?’

‘This is not one of your townsman council meetings, the girl sneered. This is a command meeting. I command.’

‘You command? No, I think I-’

‘Think as you like. Here on the plains if you wish to live you'll do as I say…’

‘Mane, I command the soldiers who guard you and who rescued you and your-’

‘Rescued us?’ the girl barked. ‘No, Malazan. From where I stand we rescued you…’

It occurred to Rillish that he was arguing with a ten-year-old girl; and that the girl was right. He glanced up to study the shading branches of their copse of trees. ‘Very well. So, I will do you the courtesy of assuming all this is leading somewhere…’

‘Good. He said you would.’

‘Who?’

A grimace of self-castigation. ‘Never mind. The point is that we've decided you will ride in a travois from now on.’

‘A travois. How kind of you.’

‘It's not kindness. You're slowing us down.’

I see. The party already burdened by one — a young boy, no more than a toddler, wrapped in blankets and doted on by the children. ‘I'll get my men-’

‘Your men will not pull it. They are needed to fight. Three of our strongest boys will pull it.’

‘Now wait a minute-’

Mane waved him silent. ‘It has been decided.’ She and the four youths abruptly walked off.

Well. He'd just been dismissed by a gang of brats. ‘Sergeant Chord!’

A touch at his shoulder woke him to a golden afternoon light. Sergeant Chord was there jog-trotting beside the travois. The tall grass shushed as it parted to either side and Rillish had the dislocating impression of being drawn through shallow water. ‘Lieutenant, sir?’

‘Yes, Sergeant?’

‘Trouble ahead, sir. Small band of armed settlers. The scouts say we have to take them. Strong chance they'll spot us.’

For some reason Rillish found it difficult to speak. ‘Scouts, Sergeant?’

A blush. ‘Ah, the lads and lasses, sir.’

Their movement slowed, halted. Sergeant Chord crouched low. Rillish squinted at him, trying to focus; there was something wrong with his vision. ‘Very well, Sergeant. Surround the party, a volley, then move in. None must escape.’

‘Yes, sir. That's just what she ordered as well.’

‘She, Sergeant?’

Another blush. ‘Mane, sir.’

‘Isn't that your knife at her belt?’

‘It is, sir.’

‘Doesn't that have some kind of significance here among the Wickans?’

His sergeant was looking away, distracted. ‘Ah, yes, it does, sir. Didn't know at the time. Have to go now, sir.’

‘Very well, Sergeant,’ but the man was already gone. He felt a vague sort of annoyance but already wasn't certain why. Behind him, the other travois sat disguised in the tall grass, its band of carriers kneeling all around it, anxious. Rillish had the distinct impression the older youths, boys and girls, were guarding the travois. While he watched, youths appeared as if by magic from the grass, talked with the toddler on the travois, then sped away. It appeared as if they were relaying information and receiving orders from the child. He chuckled at the image. The hand of one of his youthful carriers rocked his shoulder. ‘Quiet, Malazan,’ the boy said.

Quiet! How dare he! Rillish struggled to sit up; he would show him the proper use of respect. A lance of lightning shot up his leg. The pain blackened his vision to tunnels, roared in his ears like a landslide, and he felt nothing more.

‘Lieutenant, sir? Lieutenant!’

Someone was calling him. He was on board a troop transport north-east of Fist in a rainstorm. Giant swells rocked the awkward tub. He felt like a flea holding on to a rabid dog. The captain was yelling, pointing starboard. Out of the dark sped a long Mare war-galley, black-hulled, riding down upon them like Hood's own wrath. Its ram shot a curl of spray taller than the sleek galley's own freeboard.

‘Hard starboard!’ the captain roared.

Rillish scanned the deck jammed full of standing Malazan regulars — reinforcements on the way to the stranded 6th. He spotted a sergeant bellowing at his men to form ranks. ‘Ready crossbows!’ he shouted down.

‘Aye, sir!’ the sergeant called.

Before he could turn back, the Mare war-galley struck. The stern-castle deck punched up to smack the breath from him. Men screamed, wood tore with a crunching slow grinding. A split mast struck the deck.

Entangled beneath fallen rigging, Rillish simply bellowed, ‘Fire! Fire at will!’

‘Aye, sir!’ came the answering yell. Rillish imagined the punishment of rank after rank of Malazan crossbowmen firing down into the low open galley. He hacked his way free, one eye blinded by blood streaming from a head cut. ‘Where's the cadre mage, damn her!’

‘Dead, sir,’ someone called from the dark.

The deck canted to larboard as a swell lifted the two vessels. With an anguished grinding of wood they parted. The ram emerged, gashed and raining pulverized timbers. The war-galley back-oared. Hood take this Mare blockade! The only allies of the Korelri worth a damn. He wondered if one out of any five Malazan ships made it through. The vessel disappeared into the dark, satisfied it had accomplished its mission; Rillish was inclined to agree. The transport refused to right itself, riding the swells and troughs like a dead thing. He picked his way through the ruins of the stern-castle, found the sergeant. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

The sergeant grimaced, spat. ‘I'm thinking the water's damned cold.’

‘I agree. Have the men drop their gear. We'll have to swim for shore or hope another of the convoy is nearby.’

A'ye aye, sir.’

‘Lieutenant? Sir?’

Rillish opened his eyes. It was night. The stars were out, but they were behaving oddly, they had tails that swept behind them whenever he looked about. Sergeant Chord was peering down at him. He felt hot, slick with sweat. He tried to speak but couldn't part his lips.

‘You've taken a fever, sir. Infection.’

Rillish tore his lips apart. ‘I was thinking of the day we met, Chord.’

‘That so, sir? A bad day, that one. Lost a lot of good men and women.’

A young Wickan boy appeared alongside Chord. Mane was there as well. ‘This lad,’ Chord said, ‘is a Talent — touched with Denul, so Mane says. He's gonna have a look.’ The boy ducked his head shyly.

Just a child! ‘No.’

‘No, sir?’

‘No. Too young. No training. Dangerous.’

Chord and Mane exchanged looks; Chord gave a told-you-so shrug.

‘It's been ordered,’ Mane said.

‘Who?’

Mane glanced to the other travois, bit her lip. ‘Ordered. That's all. We're going ahead.’

‘No, I-’

Chord took hold of him. Other hands grasped his shoulders, arms and legs. Folded leather was forced into his mouth. Rillish strained, fighting, panted and yelled through the bit. The youth touched his leg and closed his eyes. Darkness took him.

He awoke alone in a grass-bordered clearing under the stars exactly like the one he'd last seen. In fact, so similar was it all that Rillish suspected that perhaps Chord and the others had simply decided it most expedient to abandon him. He found he could raise his head. He saw the youth sitting cross-legged opposite a dead campfire, head bowed. ‘Hello?’

‘Don't bother yourself, outlander,’ growled a low voice from the grasses. ‘He won't answer.’

Rillish scanned the wall of rippling brown blades. ‘Who's there?’

Harsh laughter all around. ‘Not for you, outlander. You shouldn't wander lost, you know. Even here.’

He felt at his sides for a blade, found none. Harsh panted laughter again. ‘What's going on?’

‘We're deciding…’

Shapes swept past the wall of grass — long and lithe. ‘Deciding… what?’

‘How to kill you.’

The shapes froze; all hints of movement stopped. Even the air seemed to still. Something shook the ground of the clearing, huge and rippling slow. Rillish was reminded of the times he'd felt the ground shake. Burn's Pain, some called it.

‘Enough…’

The shapes fled.

A presence entered the clearing — at least that was all Rillish's senses could discern. He could not directly see it; his eyes seemed incapable of processing what they saw. A moving blind spot was all he could make out. The rich scent of fresh-turned earth enveloped him, warm and moist. He was reminded of his youth helping the labourers on his family orchards. The presence went to the boy, seemed to envelop him.

‘Such innocence’ The aching desolation within the voice wrenched Rillish, brought tears to his eyes. ‘Must it be punished?’ The entity turned its attention upon him and Rillish found he had to look away. He could not face this thing; it was too much.

‘Rillish Jal Keth,’ the thing spoke, and the profound weight of a grief behind the voice was heartbreaking. ‘In these young times my ways are named old and harsh, I know. But even yet they hold efficacy. Guidance was requested and guidance shall be given. My children needs must now take a step into that other world from which you come. I ask that you help guide that step.’

‘You… askr

‘Subservience and obedience can be coerced. Understanding and acceptance cannot.’

Rillish struggled to find his voice. ‘I understand — that is, I don't understand. I-’

‘It is not expected that you do so. All that is expected is that you strive to do so.’

‘But how will I know-’

The presence withdrew. ‘Enough…’

Rillish awoke to a slanting late afternoon light. The female soldier who had helped him escape the fort was holding a cool wet cloth to his face as she walked along beside the travois. He gave her a smile that she returned, then she jogged off. Wait, he tried to call, what's your name? Shortly afterwards Sergeant Chord appeared at his side. ‘Sergeant,’ he managed to whisper.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The boy. Where's the boy?’

Chord held a rigid grin of encouragement. ‘Never you mind anything. You just rest now, sir.’

‘Sergeant!’ But he was gone.

The next morning Rillish could sit up. He asked for water and food. The most difficult thing to endure was his own smell; he'd shat himself in the night. He asked for Sergeant Chord and waited. It seemed the sergeant was reluctant to come. Eventually, he appeared. Rillish now saw that the man had a good start on a beard and his surcoat of grey was tattered and dirt-smeared. He appeared to be sporting a few new cuts and gashes as well. Rillish imagined he must look worse, he certainly smelled far worse. ‘I need to get cleaned up. Is there water enough for that?’

The sergeant seemed relieved. ‘Yes, sir.’

Mane came walking up; she now wore settler's gear of soft leather armour over an oversized tunic, trousers and even boots.

‘The boy?’ Rillish demanded. ‘The healer?’

Sergeant Chord lips clenched and he looked away, squinting.

‘Dead,’ Mane said with her habitual glower. ‘He died saving you. Though why I do not know, you being a cursed Malazan. That's a lot of Wickan blood spilled saving you…’

‘That's enough,’ Chord murmured.

Rillish let his gaze fall. She was right, and had a right to her anger. But he had not asked to be healed. He looked up. ‘You said something. Something about orders. What did you mean?‘ Mane bared her teeth in defiance. ‘Not for you, Malazan.’ Her answer chilled Rillish.

He found he could walk part of the next day. The boys with his travois followed along with the other at the centre of their ragged column of some seventy children — a good third of whom were always out ranging far beyond the column at any given time — and the thirty regulars who walked in a van, a rearguard and side-pickets. The more Rillish studied the other travois and the twelve youths who constantly surrounded it, the more he saw it as the true heart of their band. Who was this child to inspire such devotion? The self-styled guards interposed themselves whenever he tried to approach. The youth ignored him, wrapped in horse blankets, his eyes shut most of the time. The scion of some important chieftain's family, Rillish had come to suppose.

Walking just behind the van, he paused to draw off his helmet and wipe his face. Damn this heat! The sun seemed to glare from every blade of grass. Insects hummed around him, flew at his eyes. He was a mass of welts, his lips were cracked and sunburnt and his shit had the consistency of soup. From a satchel he pulled out a balled cloth, unfolded it and eyed the dark matter within. Food, was it? It looked more like dried bhederin shit to him. He tried to tear a bite from an edge and after gnawing for a time managed to pull away a sliver. He waved Sergeant Chord to him.

Sweat stained the flapping remains of the sergeant's grey surcoat. Two crow feathers fluttered at the man's helmet. Studying them, Rillish raised a brow. Chord winced, ducking. ‘In case we get separated from the column, sir. Safe passage ‘n’ all, so I'm told.’

‘I see.’ Rillish lifted his chin to the west where hazy brown hills humped the horizon. ‘Our destination?’

‘Yes, sir. The Golden Hills. Some kind of sacred lands for the Wickans, sir.’

‘So Mane is reasonably confident on finding other refugees there.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very good. And… well done, Sergeant.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Chord saluted, went off.

Sighing, Rillish drew his helmet on again, began walking. That being the case, he now had to give thought to what to do once he'd discharged his responsibilities. Return his command to his regional superior in Unta? Face summary court-martial, execution? Would Fist D'Ebbin be satisfied with just his head, or would he imprison the men as mutineers? He could always appeal to High Fist Anand; the man had a reputation for fairness. Perhaps he should disband his command and return alone. Or not at all. Presumed dead would be the official conclusion. He thought of his family estate hard up by the Gris border; the sweetgourds should be ripening now.

The images of his fever-induced hallucinations returned to him and he snorted at the ridiculous self-aggrandizement of it. His command at Korel had been decimated, his command here at the Wickan frontier had been decimated; it would seem to be best for all if he just threw down his helmet. Yet the face of Tajin would not go away. Tajin had been the boy's name. He could not shut his eyes without seeing Tajin.

Later that afternoon outrunners came scrambling in from the south. They threw themselves down next to the boy's travois. Mane ran up and a fierce argument raged over the seated child until Mane ducked her head with a curt bow. Chord had come to Rillish's side. ‘Riders closing from the south,’ he said aside.

‘Not Wickan, I gather.’

‘Lad, no.’

Mane ran up to Rillish, a hand tight on the grip of her long-knife. She stopped before him, but her face was turned away, glaring back to the travois. ‘I have been ordered — that is, we are to place ourselves under your command.’ She would not raise her gaze.

‘Have they spotted us yet?’

‘We don't believe so.’

Rillish cast about, pointed to the nearest hillock. ‘Retreat to that hill. Lie low, maybe they'll miss us.’

‘As you order.’ She passed on low commands.

Chord raised a hand, signing to the men and women regulars. Everyone jogged for the rise.

A dry wash cut the rear of the rise allowing for no approach, but eliminating any retreat as well. The regulars crouched in the grass in a double arc around the base. Rillish knelt with a relief of six near the top next to the travois. The guard of youths surrounded the boy; the rest had spread themselves out. Everyone waited, silent, while the pounding of horses’ hooves closed upon them. Riders stormed past, pell-mell; armed citizenry without uniform or order, a kind of self-authorized militia. Some eighty men. Their route brought them curving past the rise and on, north-west. It pleased Rillish to see a paucity of bows and crossbows at their backs. He gestured a runner to him. ‘Give them time,’ he whispered. The girl scrambled down among the grasses on all fours.

Rillish waited, listening. The dull drone of insects and the hiss of the lazy afternoon breeze through the grass returned. The sun was nearing the uneven western horizon — the reason behind the Golden hills? Then a return of hooves. Two mounted figures, heads lowered, studying the ground as they walked their mounts south. Both Wickan in their torn deer-hide shirts, long matted black hair.

‘Renegade scouts,’ Mane hissed, suddenly at Rillish's side.

The two straightened, galvanized; they'd realized they were being watched. Rillish knew he'd now lost all his options. ‘Fire!’

Crossbow bolts and arrows whipped from the grass like angry insects. One scout fell, thrown backwards by the blows of four missiles. The other had rolled from his mount. Figures rose from the grasses around the man, threw themselves upon him. A quick high yell; silence. One mount, hit by several crossbow bolts reared its pain, squealing, then fell kicking. Damn, The other stood motionless until a youth rose next to it to send it running with a slap at its flank.

The ground thrummed with the return of the main column, but slower, cantering. They rounded the rise bunched up, the van conferring, their words lost in the din. Closing, they spotted the fallen mount. They milled their confusion, peered about at the surrounding hillsides. Men dismounted. Shit. ‘Fire at will!’ Rillish yelled.

A volley of missiles took down mounted and dismounted alike. The rest spurred their horses up the hill, swords flashing from their sheaths.

Rillish's command rose from the grasses to meet them. They slashed mounts, engaged riders. A Wickan girl pulled herself up on to the back of a mount behind one fellow and sank her knife into him then rolled off taking him with her. Most of the invader militia fared better, however, slashing down with their longer weapons, raking the youths from their sides, advancing. Rillish pulled out his twinned Untan duelling swords and raced down the slope.

He engaged the nearest, parrying the down-stroke, thrust the groin, and allowed the man to pass; he'd be faint with shock and blood loss in moments. Another attempted to ride him down but he threw himself aside, rolling. Regaining his feet he turned, expecting to be trampled, but the rider was preoccupied; he was swiping at his face bellowing his frustration. Yells that turned to pain, even terror. The sword flew from his grip, his hands pressed themselves to his face. A dark cloud of insects surrounded the man. Screaming, he fell from the mount that raced off, unnerved. Rillish crossed to the flailing and gurgling figure in the grasses. All about the hillside the men were falling, clutching at themselves, screaming their pain and blood-chilling horror.

The figure at Rillish's feet stilled. A cloud of insects spiralled from it, dispersing. In their wake was revealed the glistening pink and white curve of fresh bone where the man's face had been. Like an explosion, a mass of chiggers, wasps and deer flies as large as roaches vomited up from between the corpse's gaping teeth like an exhalation of pestilence. Rillish flinched away and puked up the thin contents of his own stomach.

Coughing, wiping his mouth, he straightened to see new riders closing upon them. A column of Wickan cavalry. They encircled the base of the rise. Two riders launched themselves from their tall painted mounts to run up the hill. Both wore black crow-feather capes, both also youths themselves. Rillish cleaned his swords on the grasses then slowly made his way up to the travois. His thigh ached as if broken.

Atop the rise he found the two riders had thrown themselves down at the side of the travois and were both kissing the boy, squeezing his hand, holding his chin, studying his face in wonder, babbling in Wickan. Tears streamed down their faces unnoticed.

Chord came to Rillish's side. ‘Trake's Wonder, sir,’ he breathed, awed. ‘Do you know who those two are?’

‘Aye, Sergeant. I know.’

‘There'll be blood and Hood's own butcher's bill to pay on the frontier now, I think.’

‘Yes, Sergeant. I think you're right.’ Rillish sat, pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his face. He took a mouthful of water, swished it around his mouth.

Eventually, as the evening gathered, the two — twins, a young man and a young woman — came to stand before Rillish. He roused himself to stand as well, bowed an acknowledgment that the two waved aside.

‘We owe you more than we can repay, Lieutenant,’ the boy said.

‘Just doing my duty.’

‘In truth?’ the girl said sharply, her eyes dark and glittering like a crow's own. ‘Counter to your duty it would seem.’

‘My duty to the Empire.’

The two shared a glance, an unspoken communication. ‘Our thanks in any case,’ the boy said, and he turned to go. ‘We will escort you to the Golden Hills.’

Rillish almost spoke a reflexive, yes sir. He watched them go while they spoke to Mane and the others who crowded around, touching them reverently and pulling at their leathers. Grown now into gangly long-limbed adolescents but with the weathered faces and distant evaluative gaze of seasoned veterans who have come through Hood's own trials — Nil and Nether. Living legends of the Seven Cities campaign. Possibly the most dangerous mages alive on the continent, and angry, damned angry it seemed to him. And rightfully so, too.

Kyle awoke to a light kick of his heel. Keeping himself still he glanced over to see Stalker silently wave him up. Awkward, he pushed himself up by his off-hand, his right wrapped tight in a sling. The night was bright, the mottled moon low and glowing. Unaccountably, Kyle thought of ancient legends from the youth of his people when multiple moons of many sizes and hues painted the nights in multicoloured shadow. Even this one had been discoloured as of late. And the nights have been lit by far more falling stars than when he was a child. He glanced to the glittering arc of stars demarking Father's Cast where his people's Skyfather first tossed the handful of bright dirt that would be Creation. As glowing and dense as ever despite his fears.

Stalker brought his head close. ‘We have a problem.’ In answer to Kyle's querying look he motioned to Coots waiting at the dark tree-edge.

As Kyle approached, Coots adjusted his armoured hauberk of iron rings sewn to leather and checked his sheathed long-knives. His mouth was his habitual sour grimace behind his thickening moustache and beard. ‘We've spotted the boat's owner. He's a Togg-damned giant of a fellow. Bigger than any I ever heard of. Bigger'n any Thelomen.’

A shiver of dread ran through Kyle; giants, Jhogen, were creatures from the nightmares of his people. ‘A Jhogen?’

‘What's that? Jhogen?’ Comprehension dawned on Coots with a quiet humourless smile. ‘No. Not one of them.’

‘I heard talk in the Guard about giants who live in Stratem. In the East. Toblakai.’

Coots grunted. ‘No, not like them.’

‘The bigger they are, the slower,’ Stalker said, urging them on.

‘That from personal experience, there, Stalk?’ asked Coots, arching a brow. Stalker signed for silence. Making his way through the woods, Kyle wanted to ask Coots more of this giant but the time for that had passed. They moved silent through the trees, reached tended fields cut from the forest edge that led down to a loosely scattered collection of huts and pens that in turn straggled down to a strand of black rock and the grey choppy waters of the White Sea beyond. A biting landward wind stole through Kyle's armour, quilted padding and linen shirts. He pulled his cloak tighter. The gusts seemed to carry the sharpness of the ice that had given birth to it somewhere far out past the western horizon.

Hunched, Coots jogged down between the open ground of the fields. Kyle scanned the scattered huts; not one fire or lamp showed, though white tendrils climbed from some roof smoke-holes. Stalker followed, Kyle brought up the rear. Amid the huts Badlands emerged from behind a stick-pen holding goats. The four of them jogged down to the dark strand where the boat rested slightly aslant, bright against the black water-worn gravel, its single mast tall and gracefully slim.

Badlands pressed a shoulder to the raised stern, feet scraping amid the rocks. He pushed again, gasping. ‘Lad take it! Here's a complication.’

‘Keep watch,’ Stalker told Kyle. The three bent their shoulders to the boat. They strained, breathing in sharp gasps. Their sandalled feet dug into the gravel. Keening loudly, the boat scraped forward a hand's breadth on its log bedding.

Glancing away from their efforts, Kyle was shocked to see two men already approaching. One stunned him by his size, nearly twice the height of a normal man, carrying a spear fully half again as tall as him. The man at the side of this giant of a being, Jhogen or not, was somehow not in the least diminished. Dark, muscular, he moved with an easy grace that captured Kyle's attention. ‘Here they come,’ he murmured, aside. The three cousins straightened from their efforts. The boat had moved a bare arm's span.

As the two closed, Kyle found that he did not feel fear so much as an unaccountable chagrin and embarrassment — as if he were a common thief caught in the act — which, he reflected, was pretty much the truth of it. ‘You surprise me,’ the man said in Talian, motioning to the boat. ‘I didn't think anyone but my friend here could move it.’

‘Yeah, well, we're just full of surprises,’ Stalker ground out, a hand close to his sword.

The man's bright gaze moved to Kyle. ‘Young for the Crimson Guard, aren't you?’

Kyle glanced down; he still wore his sigil. ‘We quit.’

One dark brow rose. ‘Really? I did not think that possible.’

Through this exchange the giant stood straight, arms crossed, though a smile played at his mouth. His startling golden eyes held something like wonder as his gaze roved about them.

‘We need your boat,’ Stalker said.

‘If the Guard is after you, no wonder,’ the man observed dryly.

‘How much do you want for it?’ Kyle asked, surprising himself.

‘It's not for sale.’ The man's eyes were flat though his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. ‘But it is for hire.’

Stalker grunted something that sounded like a long curse of all the meddling Gods.

‘Where are you headed?’ the giant fellow asked in flowing musical Talian. His voice was taut, expectant, almost febrile in its intensity. It was a question Kyle had been giving much thought of late. Where could he possibly head in all the open world? Back to home, Bael lands? Or off to a new land, this Genabackis of which he heard so much among the Guard? But in the end he did not need to wonder; one place, one name, haunted him since overheard accidentally while he hid in the woods. A locale, and a possible mission as well. He addressed the two, ‘Have either of you heard of the “Dolmans”?’

Their reaction startled Kyle. To the man the name clearly meant nothing; his gaze remained flat, though it shifted to his companion. The giant flinched as if gut-punched. A shiver took him like the swaying of a tree trunk and he expended a hissed breath in a long murmuring supplication. ‘Yes,’ he managed, his voice thick with emotion. ‘I know it well. The Dolmans of Tien. It is of my homeland, Jacuruku.’

‘What fee, then, to take us there?’ asked Stalker, his gaze narrow on Kyle.

The man had already half-turned away. He said over his shoulder, ‘You've just paid it. We'll get our supplies then we will leave immediately.’

Though clearly unhappy, Stalker nodded. ‘What's your name?’

‘Traveller. This is Ereko.’

Stalker gave their names. Ereko inclined his head in greetings. ‘Well met, comrades,’ he said grinning now, having regained his composure. ‘We sail shortly into the maw of the Ice Dancer. It is a sea I know well, and judging from this frigid wind, it is readying itself for us.’ The two walked back up the strand.

While Stalker eyed Kyle, Badlands let out a long thankful breath. ‘Payment might still have to be made…’

‘Don't know if I'm looking forward to that scrap,’ said Coots.

Stalker refused to release Kyle. The Dolmans… that the place Skinner mentioned?’

‘Yes.’

‘And his contact. It was in Jacuruku, wasn't it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And now this Thelomen fellow, or whatever he is, says he's of Jacuruku.’

‘Yeah.’

Stalker spun away, disgusted. ‘Dark Lady, someone's meddling here. I don't like it. Too overt. There's going to be trouble. Push-back. I know it.’

‘What do you mean?’

He rubbed his hands on the planks of the boat. ‘A slapping down. A dispersal. Lad,’ he said, turning back, ‘the Gods are just scheming children. One is attempting to build a castle in the sand here. Soon the others will see this, or they have seen it. They'll come and kick it down.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they can't let the schemes of others succeed, Kyle. They each of them only want their own to succeed.’

‘I don't know if I agree with that.’

The tall scout shrugged. ‘Agree or not, that is how it is. In any case, seems we're still working for the Guard after all.’

‘One direction is as good as any other,’ said Coots with a dismissive wave.

‘Except home,’ said Badlands, hawking up a great throatful of phlegm and spitting on to the rocks.

Coots nodded. ‘Yeah. That would be the worst.’

Traveller and Ereko returned quite quickly. Kyle had to kick the cousins awake; they'd lain down on their cloaks and gone right to sleep. The two tossed their bundles in then Traveller waved everyone to the boat. One-armed, Kyle had barely touched the overlapping planks of the sides when the boat took off sliding down the logs; Ereko had merely leant his shoulder to the stern and it fairly flew down the strand. It gave a nerve-grating screech of wood-against-wood then charged prow-first into the grey water. Ereko had continued on with it and now stood in what for him was waist-deep water; Kyle, short himself, suspected it would come up near his shoulders. Traveller pointed to a row of sealed earthenware pots. ‘Those hold sweet-water. Get them aboard.’

Stalker didn't move, but after an ‘Aye, Captain’ from Coots the brothers bent to the task.

‘Those bundles of charcoal,’ Traveller told Kyle, indicating a ready-made pile.

‘Aye,’ Kyle responded without thought. Eventually, Stalker lent a hand to the loading of wrapped dried fish and roots.

Ereko had manoeuvred the boat closer to shore. They climbed aboard, getting wet only to the knees. Ereko pushed off then pulled himself in over the gunwale. He took the side-tiller while Traveller sat at the high prow.

‘Raise sail,’ Ereko called. The brothers set to, pulling on ropes. A patchwork square sail rose, luffed full in the strong wind. Ereko steered them north, parallel to the shore and slightly seaward. Already a false dawn brightened the east. They'd worked all night preparing the craft.

Kyle sat close to the stern, wrapped himself in his cloak. ‘What's the boat's name?’ he asked the giant.

‘We call her the Kite,’ he answered with an easy and pleased smile. ‘Let's hope she flies just as swift, hey?’

Kyle could only nod his uncertain agreement. Why must they hurry? Were they afraid the Guard might give chase? Or, more likely, the fellow had his own reasons for speed. The one who'd given his name as Traveller — what an odd choice! — had installed himself at the very prow, looking ahead past the tall spit. Stalker, Badlands and Coots sat amidships, wrapped themselves in cloaks, and promptly went to sleep. Kyle tried to sleep but found that while he was exhausted by the night's work, he was too excited. He was on his way — but to what? Would it prove to be the meeting or the discovery he hoped? But it was too late now for second thoughts. It seemed to him that the splash of the Kite's prow into the water had set a tumble of events into motion that could not be stopped. Not by men nor even these meddling Gods who may have — foolishly! — interfered. They had set off on a chosen path. One path among many that like any in hindsight becomes Fated. And their destination, their future, awaited them.