Return of the Crimson Guard

CHAPTER III

And so the soldier of light has delivered himself. But just what does he herald? A hand gentle on the Kite's tiller, Ereko looked down at the calm face of the sleeping lad. His gaze travelled to the sword at his side wrapped in its sheath and belt. Even hidden away its power appalled him. A blade too great to be wielded by any being cognizant of its potential. And so an innocent youth carries it — or perhaps it only allows itself to be carried by such a one. Ereko knew only that he dared not touch it. Thinking back to that delicate meeting on the beach he breathed again a prayer of thanks to Goddess Mother that violence had not visited them. That blade is a match for Traveller's — if only in its singleness of purpose. And these clansmen from Assail, they carry secrets that should never have left that land. Rising, his eyes met the bright steady gaze of Traveller across the length of the vessel. And what of you, my friend? Why do I fear for you even more with every passing league? I suspect the full dregs of what you must endure yet await you. So why such a fell gathering of power and pregnant histories? Are we all here to escort you, my friend, or do you escort us? Who is to know save the Enchantress and Queen of Dreams, T'riss, in the arc of whose vision we all act?

The lad shifted, stretched and awoke blinking in the early light. ‘Sleep yet,’ Ereko told him.

Kyle rubbed his eyes. ‘It's all I seem to do these days, sleep.’ He rubbed his arm where Ereko's High Denul had mended torn ligament and ruptured flesh. ‘What of you? You man that tiller day and night. Won't you rest?’

Ereko lightly laughed the suggestion aside. ‘No, lad. I am so old now that sleeping and waking have melded together into one and I know not which I inhabit.’

Watching the lad struggle through that, Ereko shifted course slightly to avoid a looming ice-spire.

Truly? So old? As old as the mountains?’

Ereko raised his brows. ‘Goodness, no. Not that old. Only half so old, I should think.’

The lad pulled his blanket closer, eyed him sidelong as if gauging the degree of his sincerity. Unsure, he raised his chin to the ice-dotted waves. ‘What is that light to the south?’

Ereko did not turn his gaze. Even yet the power of that ritual bruises! ‘That pale bluish light?’

‘Yes.’

‘A great field of ice, Kyle. Quite perilous. To travel there is to risk wandering accidentally into another Realm. A place of eternal cold. The home of another race.’

‘And these ice mountains?’ Kyle indicated the largest one nearest them: a towering peak of deep sapphire blue, wind and water sculpted into sweeping arcs and blade-like curves.

‘Yes. Children of the ice field. They break off and wander the seas. Some say they each carry some small part of the power that binds the ice here in the world. And so does it diminish over the ages.’

‘Well, it's a good thing we have all this ice.’

‘Why?’

‘We're getting low on water.’

‘Burn Forefend, lad! We mustn't touch this ice.’

‘No? Why ever not?’

‘Why ever-’ Ereko ducked his head. Lowering his voice, he continued, ‘Haven't you been listening? Have your people forgotten everything, lad? Don't you know that such ice is the feat of the Jaghut?’

The lad looked away. ‘We know of them.’

‘Yes. Your people are their enemy though they are not yours. In any case, such ice fields on land and at sea are the highest accomplishment of their arts. Omtose Phellack crystallized here upon the world. Your people spread in great migrations over land and sea. Such fields of ice were raised as barriers against your expansion. We skirt now the remnants of one such.’

‘And how do you know this?’ the lad asked with the bluntness of youth.

‘Because I saw it happen.’

A snort confirmed the lad's disbelief. Ereko fully expected the reaction. He shifted into a more comfortable position, crossed his arms on the tiller. ‘I will tell you a story.’ Kyle said nothing but Ereko noted the Assail native, Stalker, shift to turn an ear to the stern. ‘Know you not that Elder Night, Kurald Galain, possesses its children, the Tiste Andii? Well, what of the world and its many races and beings? Who are its children? Are they what some name the “Founding Races”? Or can some other kind lay claim to being the true children of the earth? Myself, I believe the term “founding” refers to those races that established civilizations or societies complete with writing and tools, either flint knives or the complex mechanisms of the K'Chain Che'Malle. In any case, the question is, were any of those the children of the earth? Well, of course, all are to one degree or another. Any beings of bone, muscle and blood partake of Mother Earth. Only those of the Eldest, those of most ancient lineage, entities born of pure energy such as some believe the Elder Gods, or the Eleint, what you call “dragons”, may stand apart in that. Aside from such beings, what of the Thelomen, the Toblakai, the Teblor or Trell? What of their many kinds? Well, these are the varied descendants of one common ancestor. The first children of the earth. Those of my race, the Thel Akai. Those Who Speak.’

‘Quite the story,’ Kyle said, again with the unthinking innocence of youth.

Ereko gave an easy shrug. ‘Oh, yes. I may be lying, or more likely self-deluded by memories twisted over the ages. But I lived through those times. I was there when an isolated flowering of civilization of your people arose on Jacuruku. And I suppose it was my people's nurturing that helped things along — not that I say we gave you civilization as some Jaghut claim they have — no, we merely advised and supported. In any case, in time a warlord arose. One who showed a genius and a lust for conquering all his surrounding states. We were not a warlike people, not in the least, but we lent our support against him. We raised our voices in opposition, gave succour to his enemies. For that we earned his eternal enmity. He swore to wipe us from the face of the earth. And he almost succeeded. Of my people only I remain.’

‘I'm sorry,’ Kyle breathed. He was staring out over the waves, squinting against the glitter of dawn's light from the ice. Ereko thought him half-awake.

‘Thank you. Since then, for the most part, your race has been kind to me.’

‘Who was this warlord?’

‘Who was he? Ah, yes. He became King, of course. Eventually even his own people became so sickened by his cruelty that they attempted to rid themselves of him. And thereby they brought great misery to this world. But that is a story too long to be told now. Let us say he anointed himself with the name High King. Originally, his name was Kallor.’

Stalker sat up, draped his long forearms across his folded legs. ‘I've heard the name Kallor.’

Ereko shrugged. ‘No doubt there are others named such.’

‘He was mentioned among the Guard. An ally of Brood against the Malazans in Genabackis. They called him the “Warlord”.’

Again an easy shrug. ‘This world has seen too many warlords.’

Crouched on his haunches, Toc the Elder took up a handful of the dark rich prairie soil and rubbed it in his hands. He held it to his nose and inhaled the rich scent of humus. No matter what might come, success or failure of this toss of the bones, he was thankful that he would see it here in his adopted homeland. He would offer up a blessing for that gift to Wind, Earth and the ancient spirits of the land. At some point in his younger days — he wasn't sure when it had happened — but at some time he'd fallen in love with the plains landscape. Some he knew found it empty and desolate — the Great Central Desert, many called it in Tali and Unta, even Heng, here right upon its doorstep. Yet to him it was far from empty. To him it was in fact full of a grim yet enthralling grandeur. This, to his mind, was the key to why so many professed their dislike. The simple truth was that it was too big for those small people.

He stood, stretched his back and nodded his assent to the waiting atamans and message riders. Choss waited at the flaps of the command tent and they embraced. ‘Almost all together again,’ Choss said, grinning behind his thick gold and russet beard.

‘Almost.’

Toc greeted the atamans and they all reclined on the blankets within. Trays of sweetmeats and flatbreads made the rounds. ‘Firstly,’ Toc said, dipping his hands in a water bowl, ‘may I thank the gathered atamans for the trust and honour they have been generous enough to place upon me. And secondly, may I apologize that the walls of Heng yet stand.’

The atamans spoke all at once, dismissing any need for an apology. Ataman Ortal, of the Black Ferret Assembly, raised his hands to speak. ‘Warlord, it was understood from the beginning that we would not take the city immediately. You asked us to wait for allies to arrive. And now they are here — now we need wait no longer. Now we will attack together.’

Toc exchanged a glance with Choss, shifted his seat and selected a handful of grapes. ‘I wish it were so simple, Ortal. Our allies from Tali have brought many men, yes, but not enough to take Heng.’

Gazes moved to Choss. ‘Not enough?’ said Ortal. ‘Then why come at all? Explain.’

‘We ask for further patience,’ Choss said with a grimace. ‘We have more men coming.’

‘More? From where?’ asked the Plains Lion Assembly ataman, Redden Brokeleg. ‘Wait, you say. This is your answer for everything. Where can these warriors be coming from? There are no more in all your lands. You may have as many men and women as there are blades of grass, yet they would be useless when there is no will to fight.’

The other atamans all shouted their disapproval of such harsh words. Toc raised his hands to speak. ‘… If I may… Redden, your words are strong but I hear them. Are they yours or do you speak for other voices that I have heard are raised against our alliance?’

All eyes turned to Redden. He shrugged his indifference, dug at the bare earth with a stick. ‘I merely speak openly what others only dare tell their Hands.’

‘And what are these things?’ Toc asked.

‘There are those who heard promises of great booty but have found none. Promises of honour in fighting but who sully themselves riding down women and children. Who see Seti blood spilled to further the ambitions of outlanders… as it was in the past.’

‘The Wildman of the foothills,’ sneered Imotan, the White Jackal shaman sitting cross-legged to one side.

Redden nodded his agreement. ‘Yes. The Wildman. He speaks against all alliances.’ He raised his gaze to Toc. ‘Especially those with Malazans.’

‘He should have been slain long ago,’ Imotan growled.

‘You are welcome to try,’ Redden said with an easy shrug. ‘He is coming.’

The shaman's face darkened. ‘What? Here?’

‘Yes.’ The stick scoured a line in the dirt. ‘He calls for all warriors to rally to him. Some say he means to challenge for leadership…’

‘Of what Assembly is he?’ Toc asked.

An insouciant shrug. ‘Who is to know? He renounces all such bonds — he names them chains upon the mind and body.’

For a time no one spoke. Toc shook his head. ‘I wish it were so easy, but you cannot turn your back upon the world — it will not go away. You must adjust to change. Or be consumed by it… In any case,‘ he bowed to Redden, ‘my thanks, friend, for bringing this news to us. We all have much to think about. I ask for further patience and I promise you this, many more men are close. Very close. Enough to take Heng. They will be arriving soon.’ He bowed to the gathering and all answered in kind.

After the hugs and assurances of loyalty, Toc was left with Choss and Imotan, the White Jackal shaman. Servants lit lamps against the gathering darkness. Toc listened to the susurrus of the field crickets.

‘What more do we know about this Wildman?’ Choss asked Imotan.

The shaman waved a clawed hand dismissively. His sun-darkened face puckered in distaste. ‘Very little. He is called this because he emerged from the woods and they say he's as hairy as a wild bhederin.’

Choss poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Just what we need — some fiery prophet denouncing all contact with outlanders. You Seti are ill-served by him, I think, Imotan. What does he expect? You're inviting the world to bite your arse when you stick your head in the sand.’

‘Colourful but accurate,’ said Toc. He eyed Imotan and his mouth drew down in thought. ‘Perhaps some demonstration of fighting spirit is called for. We should contact our people in Heng. A coordinated, targeted attack…’

‘Would be a waste of resources,’ Choss countered, waving the glass dismissively.

‘An investment in improved relations.’

‘Damned expensive.’

‘Required, I think.’

Choss's thick, expressive brows rose and fell. He scratched his beard in thought. ‘Well. I'll pull something together.’

‘Good.’ Toc stood. ‘We are finished, then?’

Grunting, Imotan pushed himself up with an effort. ‘I am too old for these long talking sessions, I think.’ Choss offered an arm but the old man waved him off.

‘What of you?’ Choss asked him. ‘I'd think you'd agree with this Wildman.’

The old shaman assented, bobbing his head in approval. ‘Oh, yes, I agree with most of what he says… But for one thing — he does not have the sympathy of our people's spirits. They whisper to me that Heng must be besieged. That out of this will come the salvation of our people. So, in this you and I are allies. And I will fight him with all the resources at my command.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

‘Do not thank me, Choss. It is chance only. We might just as easily have been enemies.’ And smiling he left the tent to be surrounded by his white-cloaked bodyguard.

Choss clasped hands with Toc. ‘Well, on that reassuring note…’

‘Let me know what you've cooked up.’

‘Aye.’

Toc watched Choss go, waving his lieutenants to him, then raised his chin to a man in studded leather armour, a blackened iron helmet and a long mailed skirt. The ivory grips of twin sabres curved bright at his sides. The man approached, bowing, ‘Sir?’

‘Captain Moss, you've heard talk of this Seti Wildman?’

‘Yes, sir. I have.’

‘Who is he? Where is he? Track him down and report back.’

Captain Moss saluted. ‘Sir.’ He jogged down the gentle hillside. As he went, he called to his troop, ‘Mount up!’

Toc remained for a time in the tent opening testing the night air. It carried a hint of the stink of Li Heng, now a glow on the southern horizon. Toc smiled at his own conceit; here he was, son of a nameless speck of a hamlet in Bloor, naming the Seti prairie his home and damning cities as stinking shitpits. He wrinkled his nose… still, it did smell of shit. He supposed he'd been away from all human settlements for too long. He thought he could also detect a distant pine stand — the sap would be thickening. Autumn was coming. They didn't have much time.

It was worse than Cowl's most pessimistic forebodings: the instant they entered the Warren he scrambled to raise the most potent pro-tecrions he could muster. Yet even now, sheltered from direct exposure, he could feel the rabid energies gnawing at his wards. Should they corrode their way through, he and Skinner would not last a heartbeat. Here, at the most far-flung reaches of Thyr, within sight of the effects of Kurald Liosan, Elder Light, inaccessible and far more inhospitable than all the other elders.

He crouched with Skinner within the shadows of a narrow, deep ravine of cracked, baked earth. Overhead, curtains and streamers of energy lashed and snapped across a blinding white sky. Cowl imagined he could almost hear them singing.

‘You prefer this to Chaos?’ Skinner growled.

‘I preferred to chance this over Chaos, yes.’

‘You are too cautious. Why not Shadow, or Tellann?’

‘Too crowded. And eyes are everywhere. Here there are no eyes.’ He gestured the way ahead. The two shuffled along, wincing against the raging storm of energies above.

‘What do you mean, no eyes?’

‘Can't you feel it? This place is wild, feral. It is without a guiding presence.’

‘What of Father Light?’

Cowl raised an arm across his face. ‘Well, if you must cite the first mover, the prime originator, then, yes, I suppose he is here, yes.’ He pinched shut his dazzled eyes, grimacing. ‘If only in spirit.’

‘I mistrust it. I have heard the air is poisoned. That those who come here die of it later.’

‘It's not the air that's poisonous,’ Cowl said, and he took a right-hand turn where the ravine met another, wider channel. This way.’

‘You said something about crowds?’ Skinner said.

Cowl turned. Skinner was pointing to the channel's dry dirt floor: a Path. Twins’ laughter! How had he missed that? Damn. He waved Skinner on.

They followed the channel for some time. How long Cowl could not be sure, of course; no sun rose or fell, nor was there any discernible change in the natural variations in the streamers and coronas of unleashed energy lashing across the sky. They had reached a position, roughly, where his instincts told him he might attempt to reach out to the churning power to manipulate an opening, when four figures suddenly stepped out in front of them.

Surprised, Cowl stopped short; obviously, he could not count on his heightened senses and perceptions here in this inimical place. The figures wore a kind of white enamelled armour, now caked in dust, and pale yellow cloaks. Their features reminded him of Tiste Andii, though the hair of each hung white and long. One barked something in their own tongue. Cowl signed his lack of comprehension.

A wave from one and the spokesman tried again, ‘You understand us now, worm?’

Cowl gave a half-bow. ‘Greetings, honored Liosan.’

‘Relinquish your arms and armour, trespassers. You are now our slaves.’

Cowl turned to Skinner — the full iron helm, blackened yet glittering as if dusted in sand, disguised the man's face but Cowl could imagine the raised brows. In answer, Skinner waved Cowl aside and advanced upon the four.

Perhaps it was incomprehension, or an inability to accept what was occurring, but Skinner was able to close on the first two before they acted to draw their weapons. As the nearest went for his grip the Avowed commander grasped that arm and swung the Liosan aside to crash into the defile wall, bringing down a rain of baked clay soil as jagged as kiln-dried potsherds. The second he backhanded aside into the other wall. Both slumped unconscious. The remaining two, swords readied, raised their white triangular shields. Skinner continued to close, still empty-handed. The first swung, the curved creamy blade striking an upraised armoured forearm and shattering into brittle shards. The Liosan gaped in unbelieving amazement. A punch from Skinner drove his shield into his chest and knocked him backwards from his feet; he lay stunned. The remaining Liosan sliced Skinner's chest but the blade merely skittered from the Avowed's glinting deep-crimson armour. An arm lashed out to clout the Liosan across the side of his helmeted head, spinning him from his feet. Without pausing, Skinner stepped over the fallen Liosan. Cowl followed, not even bothering to look down.

After a time one of the Liosan sat up groggily. He yanked off his helmet and threw it to the dirt. ‘Brother Enias, I am coming dangerously close to losing my faith.’

A second sat up, coughing, and gingerly pressing his chest. ‘Hold on to your faith, Brother Jorrude. These are tests, are they not, of its strength?’

‘Well, I cannot speak for you, Brother Enias, but I am tested sorely.’

Groans sounded from the other two and Jorrude helped them to their feet. ‘And who were they?’ he demanded of Enias.

‘I know not. Humans yet, though I smell vows, pacts and patronage about them. Enough that they insult us by trespassing with impunity.’

‘We must follow! Bring justice to them!’ said a third.

Jorrude retreived his helmet, brushed dust from it. ‘Perhaps it would be best that we continue our quest… what think you, Brother Enias?’

‘Yes, Brother Jorrude. Satisfying though justice may be, we ought not to neglect our purpose. Father Light has turned his face from us brothers! Some failure or lack within ourselves or our ancestors has severed our connection. We must find a way to bring the warmth of his gaze upon us once more.’ Brother Enias adjusted his armour, wincing. ‘That is our purpose!’

‘Yes, Brother Enias,’ the other three recited.

Cowl waited until enough distance lay between him and the Liosan — guards, or fellow travellers like themselves, or whoever they may have been — before deciding to try to exit Thyrllan. He did not look forward to it; so abandoned were the energies here that enforcing the control of manipulation would try his skill to its limit.

He was flexing his gloved hands when Skinner stopped. ‘There, Cowl. What is that?’

He looked ahead, then up. Just visible above the narrow gap of a side ravine rose an ochre-brick tower. Cowl stared. Great Mother Dark — who might possibly… He hurriedly stepped aside into cover. ‘We should go. Now.’

Absently, Skinner raised an iron-gauntleted hand to shake a finger at Cowl. ‘I think not. I am curious.’

‘Do not fool yourself. There are entities here far more powerful than those Liosan.’

‘Then let us go meet these great powers.’

‘Are you insane? I will take us out, now.’

The finger pointed. ‘No. You will accompany me in case you are needed.’

The Avowed High Mage stood silent for a time, stroked the scars that traced a pearly thatching along his neck. Even more imperious than when he left us is our Skinner. Still, he was powerful even then, and now this Ardata seems to have invested even greater potentialities within him. Why would she have done so and then apparently meekly allow him to go? There is a greater mystery here. And perhaps it would be interesting… He waved an invitation to proceed.

After investigating for a time they could not discover any way up to the tower. It seemed that whoever built or occupied the structure had no use for the sheltered ways all other travellers were forced to walk in order to pass through this deadly reach of the warren. That alone made the sweat cold that soaked Cowl's silk shirt, layered thin hauberk, pocketed vest and many weapon belts. They also had to pause while he renewed each of the layered protections he had woven around them. After this, Skinner selected the shallowest ravine wall and punched out depressions as hand-holds. Cowl waited, face averted, while the dry clay clumps rained down.

Eyes shaded, he waited until his seemingly irresistible commander had almost reached the top then took a breath and launched himself at the rotten wall. A soft moccasin touch within one gap, a deft pull upon a protruding rock, and in an instant he had ascended the wall as if flying up.

Reaching the top and pulling himself erect, Skinner grunted to see Cowl standing before him. He gestured to himself. ‘I don't suppose you could have…’

‘No.’

A blasted landscape of harsh shadows and brilliant whites assaulted their vision. The energies pulsing outward felt like a hand thrusting Cowl backwards. The commingled roar of its rush was a thunder almost beyond his capacity to hear. Face averted, he ran for the cover of the tower. Even Skinner joined him, hunched against the raw, yammering aurora. The bricks of the tower scorched Cowl's fingertips. ‘You're not going in, are you?’ he shouted.

‘Of course. And you are coming with me.’

In the end, he followed, if only to avoid the indignity of being dragged by his belts. They found an opening leading to an empty ground floor and stairs up. All was built of the same clay bricks — all of which had equally bulged and sagged in the unrelenting kiln heat. Skinner led the way up. The brick stairway circled the tower three times before ending at an empty circular chamber, roofed and featuring one slit window that faced directly upon Kurald Liosan. They kept to one side, wary of the blade of brilliant light cutting across the chamber's middle. Cowl noted that the motes of dust that drifted into the blade puffed into wisps of smoke. Skinner crossed his arms. ‘Your evaluation?’

‘Some sort of a research, or observation or communication tower, I should think.’

A grunt from Skinner. ‘Very well. Let us then communicate.’

‘You're not going to…’

‘Yes. I am.’

‘We don't know what will happen!’

The mailed finger pointed once more. ‘Exactly, Cowl. And this is where you always fall short. You don't know what you can do — until you do it.’ And he stepped up before the slit window. Instantly his surcoat burst into flames. Grunting anew, this time in pain, he averted the vision slit of his full helm. So great was the force driving in that Skinner shifted a mailed foot back, leaning into the stream. ‘Do you see anything?’ he bellowed.

Cowl attempted to send his awareness out ahead but it was like trying to push a boat up a foaming set of rapids. Still, he could sense something… something very potent… approaching… ‘Something's coming!’

A shape, a presence, occluded the stream of power. It seemed to hover before the slit window. Through eyes shaded and narrowed Cowl had the impression first of a coiling, shifting serpent, then a winged entity, then a globe of roiling flame. Whatever it was it seemed entirely protean, without any set shape.

‘Who are you? came a thought so powerful as to ring the chamber like a bell.

‘Skinner. Avowed of the Crimson Guard. Who-’

‘These titles are meaningless. You are not he — that is plain.’

‘Who-’ Skinner began, then a blast struck the tower, which rocked. Raw, yammering power seared through the slit window throwing Cowl backwards to the floor. Dust as dry as death swirled in the desiccated air. The blade of light returned. Carefully Cowl straightened, coughing, peering into the shifting curtains of brick dust. A groan brought him to the rear of the chamber. Here, Skinner straightened from the wall. Behind him crushed and broken brick tumbled to the floor. He patted his chest, sending the black ash that was his surcoat floating out into the chamber. The helm shifted to Cowl. ‘You are going to say something. I can see it in your face.’

Cowl raised a hand to his neck. He struggled to keep his mouth straight. ‘If I were to say something, Skinner, I suppose it would be that what goes around comes around.’

The Avowed commander ground out a long, slow growl.

The entire trip to the Golden Hills Lieutenant Rillish spent surrounded by a moiling horde of Wickan cavalry. Mounts had been provided for all; recovering, he could ride now with major discomfort, but he could ride. A large cart, a kind of wheeled yurt, had been assembled for the youth and it now constituted the centre of the churning mass of yelling, chanting horsemen. Early on Rillish had leant to Sergeant Chord, asking, ‘What is that they're repeating?’

‘Well, sir, they seem to think the youth carries the spirit of Coltaine, reborn.’

The name impressed Rillish no end. Coltaine. Leader of the last Wickan challenge to Malazan rule. Through negotiation he had then become one of the Empire's most feared commanders, and had died battling a rebellion in Seven Cities — though some claimed he had actually led it himself. That news had come four days ago. Plenty of time to ruminate on the truth, or suspicious convenience, of the timing of such a manifestation. After mulling it over — Nil and Nether seemed to accept it explicitly — he decided that it wasn't a truth for him to judge. He wasn't a Wickan. Not that he would endorse just any culture's practices — slavery of women, for example. Sure, it was a tradition among many peoples not to allow women access to power. Fine, so long as the ‘tradition’ was recognized for what it was: just another form of slavery.

So he would go along with the story. Never mind, whispered that scoffing sceptic's voice within him, how convenient it might prove for him.

Five days of wending up and down steep defiles and crossing rocky rushing streams brought them to a high broad plateau dotted with encampments of yurts and surging herds of horses. A great exulting war call went up from the column followed by a ululation of singing from the many camps. Mounted youths charged back and forth, spears raised. Some climbed to stand on the bare backs of their mounts; others leapt side to side, running alongside their horses, hands wrapped in manes.

‘You'll have your hands full with this lot,’ Rillish said to Nether who happened to be at his side. Her answer was a long, amused look, then she kneed her mount ahead.

A bivouac was set aside for Rillish and his command. He set to its ordering along with Sergeant Chord. ‘Now what do you think, sir?’ Chord asked while they inspected the soldiers’ work, some raising tents, others assembling imitations of the yurts in blankets and cloaks over a framework of branches. Fires were going and water was heating in clay pots over the flames.

‘Don't know for certain, of course. Some kind of an army will be organized, I imagine. They obviously intend to swoop down and clear the invaders out.’ Rillish caught the eye of the soldier who had helped him escape from the fort and nodded his greeting. Smiling broadly, she saluted.

As they walked along, Rillish asked his sergeant, ‘What is her name, anyway, Chord?’

‘Ah, that would be Corporal Talia, sir. Designated instructor in swordsmanship. The lads, they don't care a fart for technique. They think a thick arm and a thick head will see them through. But the lasses, sir, they know it's their edge.’

‘True enough, Chord. Thank you.’

‘Perhaps we could arrange some training, sir. While we rest and regroup. You've been on your back for some time now.’

‘Thank you, Chord. But you know regulations. Only commissioned ranks can spar together.’ Rillish rubbed the side of his nose. ‘Too many officers found run through, if I remember correctly.’

‘As you say, sir. But it seems to me that command is far away now, and there's some as might question whether we're really even in the army now, sir, if you follow my thinking.’

Rillish stopped outside the yurt the Wickans had given for his use — though obviously desperately short of shelter themselves. ‘Thank you, Chord. But the day I follow your thinking is the day I tear off all my clothes and jump into the ice of the Cut.’

‘I blame the drink, sir.’

‘You wouldn't have any of it left, would you?’

‘Used it to poison the enemy, sir.’

‘And a sad waste it was too.’

‘The bottle got a promotion out of it though, sir.’

‘True enough — wait, don't tell me — it's now known as Korbottle Dom.’

Looking away, Chord grinned. ‘Heard that one before have you, sir?’

‘Many times. And about this yurt…’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Give it back to the Wickans tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Later that night Chord stopped beside Corporal Talia's bedroll. He tapped her awake with a foot. She opened an eye. He produced a bottle from under his cloak. ‘Why don't you go offer to share this with the lieutenant?’

‘Why isn't he here instead of sorry-arsed you?’

‘All traditional, he is. Thinks rank's a problem.’

She sat up on one elbow. ‘Oho, so that's the way of it. Questions of coercion.’ She took the bottle from Chord. ‘Well, we'll just have to hammer that out.’

Chord offered a mock salute. ‘Don't take too long. That yurt's disappearing tomorrow.’ He walked away thinking that it was good to see the lieutenant up on his feet again, but that it was the duty of any sergeant to see to the fullest recovery of his commanding officer… at least those worth saving.

Over the next few days Rillish saw little of any of the Wickan youths he'd got to know during the march. They had all been adopted into families of their clans while Mane, Nil and Nether were absorbed in the furious debates that swirled night and day around the central ring of yurts as participants came and went, sometimes sleeping then returning to pick up old arguments where they'd left off. He was glad to have no part in it. What part awaited him now troubled him enough. Resignation seemed increasingly the compelling path. Especially now with his new-found intimacy with Corporal Talia. To his mind it was too complicated for the command structure. What if an opening for promotion came up and he gave the sergeancy to her? Grumblings of favouritism? What if he did not? Unfairly penalizing her? There was no way either of them could win. Unless he was no longer her superior officer.

That settled it then; problem was, there was no one to resign before.

Sitting cross-legged on his bedding, Untan duelling swords across his lap, Rillish wrapped his sharpening stone in a rag and sheathed the blades. Unless he could report to someone who — technically — outranked him. He stood, gestured a soldier to him. ‘Find Nil or Nether and tell them I wish to speak with them.’ The soldier saluted, jogged off.

A formal letter might be necessary. Rillish picked up his kitbag of bits and pieces that he'd pulled together since losing everything at the fort. Perhaps he had a scrap of vellum or two.

The soldier returned. ‘Sir, Nil and Nether wish to speak to you at the central ring.’

‘Thank you.’

Rillish straightened his torn and faded surcoat, belted on his swords, pushed back his hair that had grown too wild and long of late and carried more grey in it than he wished. He crossed to the main ring. As he went, the constitution of the population of Wickans here in the plateau impressed him once again — so many youths and elders and almost no one of middle age. All those had gone away to fight in foreign wars and precious few had returned. As he neared the ring he noticed the quiet; things had apparently finally been settled. Only Wickan elders faced him — no youths had the stomach, or patience, for these sorts of interminable disputes. Or perhaps they had things to do with their time. Many of the elders wore torn and dirty leathers, and many betrayed the gaunt and ashen pallor of hunger, that grim companion of all refugees. They parted to let him pass. Some glared open hostility. Fists even rested near the bone handles of long-knives.

So fares the reputation of the Malazans now in the company of Wickans. And deservedly so, too. He found the twins next to that special youth's yurt. Here he got his first good look at the child who sat cross-legged on a blanket, a small sheep's wool cap high on his domed head. It was true that the youth's black eyes held an unusual amount of self-awareness for one of his age.

‘Rillish Jal Keth,’ began Nil, ‘it has been decided. My sister and I are now guardians and councillors to this youth who since his birth has been unquestionably recognized as Coltaine reborn. In this capacity we wish to enlist you as captain and military adviser to the Head of All Clans. Do you accept?’

Rillish stared. Had he correctly understood? He came to offer his resignation and this is what he hears? Shocked outrage had taken the crowd — everyone was awaiting his reply. Many now glared open hatred. Rillish struggled to find his voice. ‘Adviser? I? Surely there must be a Wickan officer among you-’

‘There are a number. But we have chosen you.’

As the moments passed, a wall of objections now firmed up in his mind. ‘With all due respect, a Wickan would be more suitable, would know the land better-’

‘That is all true, assuming we intend to fight a war of defence,’ said Nether. ‘We do not. Foreigners have invaded our lands and brought war to us and so we intend to return the favour. We will not ride down into the steppes to drive them off. No, that we leave to Temul who commands on the steppes. We, instead, will lead the counter-offensive. We shall ride south into Untan lands bringing war and invasion to them. What say you to that, Malazan?’

Rillish felt as if he couldn't breathe. Good Gods, the two mean it. Could it be done? How many could they muster? A few thousand at least, many old veterans to steady and instruct the young bloods. The finest skirmishers and horse raiders anyone knew of. And last he'd heard there weren't enough soldiers left in Unta to hold a drinking party. Still, there remained questions of loyalty. ‘To what end, Nether? Nil? To what end?’

Angry calls sounded from all around. ‘He spits in our faces!’ someone shouted in Talian. Nil raised his arms for silence. The twins exchanged glances, their eyes glittering like sharp stones. ‘To force a renegotiation of our treaties with the Empire.’

‘I see. Then I can only answer in one way — I offer my resignation. Do you, Nil or Nether, as senior officers, accept?’

A roar as the crowd of enraged elders surged inward, raised blades flashed orange in the afternoon light. A clot of dirt struck Rillish's chest. Both twins threw their arms up for silence, shouting down the crowd.

‘Yes,’ sounded a piping voice that cut through the din like a whistle. The elders were silenced instantly, almost as if abashed. The twins stared down, astonished.

‘Accepted,’ said the toddler, grinning up at Rillish.

It occurred to Rillish then that in the view of many, the twins were not the senior officers present. ‘Very good,’ he stammered, shaken despite his scepticism. ‘Then I, Rillish Jal Keth, accept your commission.’

The child clapped his hands, clearly delighted. The twins quickly, and loudly, swore their confidence. After a long tense silence, the surrounding elders shuffled forward one by one, taking turns to bow and acknowledge his selection.

At the end of the ceremony Rillish was left with the twins, an old woman and the toddler, who had fallen asleep. The old woman picked him up and nestled him in her arms. As she did so his eyes popped open and he said something to her. She gestured Rillish to her with an impatient twist of her wrist.

‘Yes?’

She was looking down at the child who now rested, eyes closed. ‘He said, “Turn their swords. Turn them.’”

‘Turn their swords?’

‘Yes.’

Turn their swords? Had the old woman heard correctly? Perhaps he'd just babbled some gibberish. But she had ducked into the yurt, taking the child with her, and pulled the flap shut. He turned to Nil. The young man had pressed both hands to his face as if to cool it.

‘That went better than I'd hoped,’ the youth said through his fingers.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. No one was hurt.’ He tucked his hands under his arms, grinning.

‘You set high standards.’ ‘I know my people. We're a fractious lot.‘ ‘Well, now it's my turn.’ ‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Now I have to explain to my people why and how we've just switched armies.’

When his worthless nephew stuck his head between the cloth hangings of his palanquin shouting, ‘Ships, Uncle! Hundreds of ships!’ Nevall Od’ Orr, Chief Factor of Cawn, nearly had a heart attack. Not from the prospect of Cawn being sacked by some fleet out of nowhere — invaders can be milked just as easily as anyone — but rather from the fact that his nephew had managed to get within arm's reach of him.

‘Groten!’ he bellowed, massaging his chest with one hand and smoothing his beard with the other.

The captain of his bodyguard thrust his shaven blue-black bullet head through the cloth hangings, ‘Yes?’

‘That's “Yes, Chief Factor”.’

A nod of agreement. ‘Yes?’

Nevall stared at Groten; Groten stared back. Sighing, Nevall covered his face. ‘Groten,’ he began, speaking through his hands, ‘how did my idiot nephew get through your oh-so-vigilant cordon of guards?’

‘He's your nephew.’

Nevall threw his arms down to slap his thin crossed legs. ‘I know he's my Lady-damned nephew! I myself hired the mage who through no mistake of mine actually reported honestly on his paternity. Now, because of the egregious oversight of allowing one of my relations near me I penalize you one month's wages.’

Groten's thick brows pressed together. A large meaty hand rubbed his sweaty pate. ‘A month's?’

‘Yes. That is, unless you'd prefer to go back to whipping slaves on one of my merchantmen?’

The hulking Dal-Honese frowned his assent. As he did so the palanquin jerked from side to side and Nevall braced himself with a hand at the low roof. ‘What was that? What's going on out there?’

‘Ah, the crowd, sir. All headed to the waterfront.’

‘Well? Why aren't we?’

The captain of the bodyguard opened his mouth to answer, thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut. The head withdrew. Soon after that orders sounded and the palanquin rocked as Nevall's bearers started up again. He found the paper fan he'd dropped when the terrifying apparition of his nephew's head had assaulted him and he set to cooling himself. Gods above and below, did any of the smelly populace of Cawn have the least idea of what he had to endure as their Chief Factor?

Comforted by the crack of his bodyguard's whips and the thump of their truncheons clearing the way, Nevall turned his thoughts to this fleet of mystery ships. Could it be the Empress's forces? His sources spoke of her intent to sail after the disastrous assault of those mercenary raiders. And where else would she sail but for Cawn? Port of choice for any inland expedition. Yet how could she have arrived so soon? It would take more than two weeks for a fleet of that size to make its way from Unta — and that barring any of the usual delays. No, logic compelled that this must be some other force. Therefore, eliminating the possible but improbable invasion from Korel, Genabaris, storied Perish, enigmatic Nemill, legendary Assail or that empire his most distant trading partners whisper about — Lethery, or some such absurd name — that left the rumours his field agents had been picking up of a massing of ships in Western Falar. But an invasion fleet from Falar? To what end?

The stink of the waterfront, old sun-rotted fish and human excrement, penetrated the palanquin and Nevall scrambled to find his pomander; he dug it out of one of the small drawers and pressed it to his nose. Dead Poliel! How could anyone live like this? How could he be expected even to think? The palanquin slowed. Voices all around babbled. ‘Groten!’

The captain of the bodyguard stuck his head between the hangings. ‘Yes?’

‘What is it? What's to be seen?’

‘Lots of ships. All kinds. Even Moranth Blue merchantmen.’

‘Moranth Blue vessels? How could you possibly know a Moranth Blue vessel from any other?’

The captain of the bodyguard shrugged his wide shoulders, shaking the palanquin. ‘Because the sails are blue?’

Nevall stroked his beard. ‘Oh, yes. Flags? Any flags? Did you think to look for those?’

An uncertain frown. ‘Well, they're still pretty distant. But there's an old woman here who claims to be a witch. Says she can see though the eyes of birds. Says she'll look for a half-silver.’

‘A half-silver! Tell the hag I'd look through the anus of a mole for half a silver. No, wait, let me guess what she'd see looking through the eyes of a bird — fish! Fish and water! What else would a blasted bird look at!’

Groten flinched away, hurt. ‘It was just a suggestion. Anyway-’ he looked out, spoke with someone, glanced in again. ‘Tali. They're flying the blue of Tali.’

Nevall hissed a breath while pulling at his beard. Tali. The old hegemonic power itself. So much for these rumours of a return to independent states. Looked like they'd merely be changing one hat for another. So be it. The Cawnese were famous for their pragmatism. They would join — until fortunes changed.

‘Very well. Groten, take me to whoever's in charge down there when they arrive.’

‘Yes, ah, Chief Factor.’

Even as the sullen dockworkers kicked at the mooring ropes thrown from the Keth's Loss, a palanquin carried by six extraordinarily tall men and escorted by ten cudgel- and whip-wielding bodyguards bulled its way down to the dockside. At the railing, Ullen clenched his teeth, knowing who that would be: the current Chief Grasper and Extorter of Cawn, whoever that was this year. While he watched, members of the bodyguard stood on the gangway planking where the dockworkers were lazily sifting, and name-calling led to pushing which led to punching and soon a gorgeous, indiscriminate row erupted between labourers, dockhands, general onlookers and the bodyguards. Caught in the brawl the yellow-clothed palanquin pitched about like a ship in a storm while its occupant screeched, ‘Cawn welcomes… its liberators! Long… live the Talian forces! We open our doors… to your noble… warriors!’

Ullen could only hang his head. Gods, Cawn, how he hated the city.

That night Urko rode west with a force on all the horses that had survived the crossing in serviceable health. He claimed to be scouting the trader road to Heng, but Ullen knew he was fleeing any dealings with the Cawnese authorities. He also knew why — Urko would have throttled the lot of them. The warehouses Ullen leased were falling-down ruins awash with a fetid sludge of rotted fish. The wagons he rented fell apart even as they were loaded. The horses were either diseased or broken or both, not one animal among them fit even for light scouting. Meanwhile, the fees, tithes and bills piled up in the wallets of his secretaries, exaggerated, inflated and outright false. He had bills for material and labour for repair of ships he didn't even recognize.

Meanwhile, V'thell had formed his Moranth Gold into columns and marched off without speaking to anyone and Bala had somehow claimed a fine carriage — probably threatening to curse a family — and attached herself to that brigade. By the time Ullen was organizing the rearguard and supply trains Urko's entire campaign chest was emptied. Toward the end of his stay Ullen was handing out scrip and referring bills to Tali's ruling Troika. Nevall Od’ Orr and Seega Vull, the richest factors in Cawn, sent him on his way with a sneer and the fluttering of handfuls of his scrip to the wind.

It surprised him that he kept his humour through the entire ordeal. Standing with the rearguard, hands at the reins of the scrawny and bruised ex-carthorse he'd purchased for the price of a Grisan war-mount, he bowed an ironic farewell to Cawn — may it rot in the effluvium of its own sour rapaciousness. For what seemed not to have occurred to these factors in their myopic focus on the immediate gain was that once the League had taken Heng, the road to Unta led back this way.

Shaky had been motionless at an arrow-loop of the westernmost tower of Heng's north wall for some time now. Hurl was glad; she didn't want him bothering her while she worked her calculations.

‘Would you look at that…’ he said, amazement in his voice.

‘What?’ Hurl did not look up from her scratches on the slate board resting on her crossed legs.

‘They're attacking.’

‘I don't hear anything.’

‘Take a look. They're prepping.’

Sighing her annoyance, Hurl pushed her piece of chalk into a pouch and cautiously uncrossed her numb legs. ‘It's almost bloody dark, for Fanderay's sake!’

‘Guess they think they need all the help they can get.’

She looked out, studied the Talian entrenchments, and was displeased to have to admit that Shaky was right. ‘Well, so do we,’ she said absently as she watched the fires lighting down the lines, moveable shield platforms being raised and buckets of water being tossed on hides hung over every piece of wooden siege equipment. The increasing activity of the besiegers extended as far as she could see east around the curve of the outer wall. ‘Looks like a general assault,’ she said, amazed.

‘It's ridiculous. They don't have the men to take the walls.’

‘And they know we don't have the men to defend them.’

That silenced Shaky. He glanced up and down the top of the curtain wall. ‘You think maybe they've got a chance?’

‘There's always a chance.’

‘Yeah. Well, maybe someone ought to do something.’ He was looking straight at her. Hurl stared back until she realized that that someone was her. She stepped into the tower archway, leaned out. ‘Ready fires! Prepare for assault!’

‘Aye, Captain!’

Hurl fought the urge to look behind her whenever anyone called ‘Captain’ her way. She heard her orders repeated down the curve of the defences. She adjusted the rank tore at her arm — the damned thing just didn't seem to fit right. ‘Get up top and ready the Beast,’ she told Shaky.

The old saboteur winked, bellowing, ‘Oh, aye, Captain!’

‘Just get up there.’

Laughing at her discomfort, Shaky climbed a ladder affixed to the stone wall and pushed open the roof trap. ‘Stoke the fire!’ he yelled, pulling himself up.

The squat, broad figure of Sergeant Banath entered the stair tower, saluted crisply. ‘Sergeant,’ Hurl greeted him.

‘Orders?’

Hurl eyed the Malazan regular, a red-haired Falaran veteran of the Genabackan campaigns, tanned, always looking as if he needed a shave, even at the morning muster. She'd yet to detect any definite sign either way of his attitude to this new command structure. A careful career soldier, she was coming to think. She said nothing at first. Orders should be blasted obvious, she thought. ‘How do the urban levies look?’ The levies were the majority of their forces: citizens hired, cajoled and plain coerced into the apparently distasteful duty of actually defending their city. She'd been given four hundred to hold this section of the wall. Banath led the three garrison squads that formed the backbone of her command.

The sergeant frowned the usual professional's distaste for amateurs. ‘Nervous and clumsy. Not pissing their pants, yet.’

‘Keep an eye on them.’

‘Aye.’

‘And hold fire until I give the word. Dismissed.’

Another crisp salute, a regimental turn, and exit. Maybe, the thought occurred to her, the exaggerated parade-ground manner was one long extended finger for her to spin on. Well, that was just too bad. His buddy isn't the Fist. She peered out of the loop to gauge the activity. Metal screeched and ratcheted overhead, vibrating the stones of the tower. The Beast was being wound. Hurl could hear Shaky gleefully cursing the lads he had helping him and she couldn't keep down a smile; Gods, Shaky was never so happy as when he had a machine to pour destruction down on someone. And the Beast was his own special design. A winch had been installed at the rear of the stair-tower to bring up the enormous clay pots, big enough for a kid to bathe in, that were its ammunition. Only you wouldn't want to bathe in these. Sealed they were, and filled with oil. World's biggest munition.

Hurl watched while flagmen signalled out at the lines. Sappers took hold of the broad-wheeled shield platforms, and bowmen were forming up behind their cover. A lot of bowmen. Narrowing her eyes, Hurl tried to penetrate the gathering dusk. They looked like Seti tribals. Dismounted horse bowmen? What in the name of Dessembrae were they up to? Horns sounded in the night, and Talian siege engines, medium-sized catapults and onagers, fired. Burning bundles of oil-soaked rags arched overhead streaking smoke and flames in their wake. Stones cracked from the walls. Hurl ignored it all: the Talians had yet to field a single engine capable of damaging Heng's walls. It was just nuisance fire meant to keep everyone's heads down. A flight of arrows darkened the sky, climbed, then fell full of deadly grace. Though she had cover, Hurl winced at the havoc such salvos would cause along the walkway. While she watched, a staccato of answering fire darted from the lines. Hurl ran to the archway, yelling, ‘Who fired? Hold, I said!’

She returned to the loop. The besiegers could waste all the arrows they wanted; they had something Heng would never get: resupply. She squinted again far out to the small hill behind the Talian investments. It was an inviting hill with a view of the river, and a good chance of a steady breeze to keep the midges away. She and Sunny and Shaky knew all this because weeks ago they'd spent a few nights clearing away rocks to make it even more attractive. And sure enough, their work had paid off because the first thing whoever it was commanding this flank had done was obligingly raise his, or her, command tent right on the spot. Hurl couldn't keep from shifting from foot to foot. C'mon, man, fire! Now. It was all calibrated and set! What was Shaky waiting for?

The mantlets were close now, the bow fire more targeted on the parapets. Hurl leaned out the archway, Tire! ‘Fire at will!’ She watched the exchange of salvos with a critical eye — wrong, it was still going all wrong. No matter how many times you had them practise… She returned to the portal. ‘Aim up, for Hood's sake! Up, dammit!’

Banath stalked the walkway, bellowing, ‘Into the sky! Rain it down on them, damn you dogs!’

Something strange caught her eye on the darkening field of burnt stubble and flattened burned hovels. Something low but moving. She stretched to stick her head out through a crenel. Arrows pattered from the stones around her, the iron heads sounding high-pitched tings. A catapulted rock exploded against the wall of the stair-tower above sending shards raining down. Everyone hunched, cursing. A nearby Heng levy raised a tower shield over Hurl. Leaning forward once more she could see that the object was some kind of low rectangular platform covered in sod and grass stubble. It was edging up toward the base of the wall and there were more of them all up and down the lines. ‘Cats!’ she yelled. ‘Sergeant, we have cats! Bring up the stones — I want them broken!’

‘Aye, Captain.’

‘Come with me,’ she said to the soldier who had raised the shield.

At the loop she leaned forward to try to get a look straight down. Not that mining the wall would do the poor bastards any good — the foundations went down a good three man-heights — she should know as she and Sunny had spent most of their time lately digging around down there.

The tower shuddered then as if it had taken a terrible blow from a stone as big as a horse thrown by a monstrous trebuchet such as those Hurl had seen rotting and broken after the siege of the island fortress of Nathilog. Dust and stones sifted down and she coughed, waving a hand. The Urban Levy had instinctively crouched. Hurl darted to the loop. At first she saw nothing, the brightly lit white command tent remained. Shadows moved against the canvas, messengers came and went. Then she flinched away as a blossom of orange and yellow flame suddenly lit the night. The eruption reached her as a shuddering boom echoing along the curtain wall. Hurl jumped up and down, yelled to the roof, ‘You nailed it, Shaky! Beautiful. Just beautiful!’ War whoops reached her from above. She could imagine the old saboteur doing his war dance. ‘Reload,’ she yelled, and went to the portal. The soldier joined her, a portly older fellow, probably a shop-owner. ‘What's your name, soldier?’

‘Ah, Jekurathenaw, Captain.’

‘Jeck-your-what? Never mind. Cover me, Jeck.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hurl stepped out on to the walkway; Jeck held the tower shield between her and the parapets. Soldiers knelt among the litter loading and aiming. Arrows pelted around them. She stepped over the wounded and fallen alike. The sergeant, Banath, ran to meet her. ‘How's it going?’ she yelled.

They should just pack it up and go home, sir.’

‘I agree.’

Hurl studied the too-empty curve of the walkway. ‘Stones, sergeant? Where are the stones?’

Banath spat. ‘Ran out. Trouble at the winch. Some kind of mess up.’

‘Hood's bony arse! All right. You stay on the levies — I'll check it out.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Hurl edged further along. Jeck followed, shield extended. She jumped a section of walkway burning with oil where levies beat soaked cloth at the flames. The main winch was idle, and a team of three men and one woman sat next to it, staring down. ‘What in the name of Gedderone is the problem here?’

One fellow rubbed a greasy rag over his neck. ‘Don't know. Maybe flames spooked the oxen. Or a broken block.’

Hurl leant far out past the inner edge of the wall, grasped the thick hemp rope. ‘What's going on down there!’ she bellowed as loud as she could.

Catapulted fire-bombs arching over the walls lit for Hurl a milling chaos of soldiers and citizens below. Growing fires dotted the crowded buildings of the Outer Round. For as far as she could see torches danced up and down the roads around their curve where men and women surged in seeming headless panic. Ranks were forming up around the base of her section of wall from the West River Gate to half-way to the North Gate. More Urban Levy? Reinforcements? Who had sent them? Storo?

Down at the base of the winch a fellow holding a torch was yelling something back up to her. ‘What?’ The fellow waved his torch, gesturing to the platform. Snarling her disgust, Hurl pushed herself upright. ‘Oh, to Hood with this.’ She pointed to the crew, ‘Get this thing working or I'll toss you over the side!’ She waved Jeck to her. ‘Let's go.’ She went to find Banath.

She found him with two Malazan regulars next to the wall of the stair-tower assembling a cache of casks, flasks and skins of oil. Hurl took in the supplies, the rags, the torches, and nodded her approval. ‘Good. How soon?’

‘Working double-time, sir,’ said Banath without pause in tying together the fat goatskin bladders.

‘How much do we have?’ Hurl asked. She crouched and lent a hand.

Banath spat again, scowling. ‘This is it.’

‘Not nearly enough.’

‘No.’

‘Did you send word for reinforcements?’

Banath looked up, blinking. ‘Reinforcements? No, sir.’

‘There's more Urban Levy below, waiting.’

‘Maybe someone's on to the Talians.’

Hurl thought of Silk and returned to work soaking rags. ‘Maybe.’

The regulars lifted a cask and set off. Banath shouldered the bombs of oil-skins. ‘Good hunting,’ Hurl called. The ginger-haired veteran straightened his helmet and cracked an evil smile. ‘Aye, sir.’

Hurl returned to the parapets. She wiped her hands, looking out. Jeck raised his shield over her. Below, more cats were inching their way to the walls. So many… And the archers seemed mainly Seti tribals…

Cheers brought Hurl's attention around; the men were waving to Urban Levy ranks now climbing the open stairs lining the walls. Hurl gaped — who in the Abyss ordered that? She retreated to the stair-tower for a better look. Inside, stamping sandals echoed up the circular stairwell.

A strange silence then descended all along the wall. Hurl was momentarily frozen when suddenly the cries of the wounded dominated the night. Voices pleaded for water, for relief. From the darkness a woman cursed the besiegers in a string of obscenities worthy of any Jakatakan pirate. Hurl stood still, straining to listen, and a shiver ran down her arms. The bow-fire had ceased; the catapults had stopped. Up and down the wall the men were straightening, looking to one another in wonder. Had the attack been called? Had they beat them off?

Hurl stood motionless but her thoughts gyred the same circle. They've stopped firing — new cohorts she didn't request — they've stopped firing — Gods Below! She bolted to the archway and there across the inner curve of the curtain wall she caught a glimpse of the unmistakable tall slim form of Captain Harmin Els D'Shil, Smiley himself, leading a column of urban levies charging up the stairs. She pointed, bellowing, ‘Don't let them-’

An arm at her neck yanked her back. Pain lanced her side. She was thrown to the stone floor where she curled around a wound that felt as if it passed entirely through her. Blinking back a veil of pain she saw Jeck over her, his face expressionless. He sheathed his dagger and drew his shortsword. He raised it in both hands above her, paused. ‘Amaron,’ he said, ‘sends his regrets.’

Hurl could only stare up dumbly. Oh Storo, I'm so sorry. Out-generalled from the start.

Then the man was gone. Hurl blinked her confusion, peered around. Jeck lay now all crumpled up, bloody vomit at his mouth. Arms straightened her, leaned her up against the wall. She looked up at the dirty torn robes of a chubby ugly fellow with a slack mouth and one drooping eye. ‘… situation?’ he said, slurring the word.

Hurl stared at the man blankly. Who in Soliel's Mercy was this? Yet had she any choice? She took a deep breath, fought her dizziness and nausea. ‘Urban Levy turned. Working with the attack.’ The man closed his eyes, cocked his head as if listening to someone or something Hurl could not hear. Then he nodded and opened his eyes.

‘Retreat. Defend River Gate.’

‘Says who?’

‘Your commander.’

‘Storo? Help me up.’

Showing astonishing strength, the man lifted her, held her erect with an arm under hers. Pain blackened Hurl's vision but she fought it back. ‘Who are you?’

‘City mage… old friend of Silk's.’

She gestured to the archway. The mage dragged her over. What confronted her was like a vision out of Hood's Paths: waving torches lit figures seething, locked in hand-to-hand fighting, some panicked, even leaping, or pushed, from the walkway. Grapnels now lined the parapets and some Urban Levy chopped at them while others defended them. Two Malazan regulars were crouched behind shields facing the tower entrance, ready to stop any further enemy. Upon seeing her their eyes widened within the visors of their helmets.

‘Soldiers,’ she tried to bark, but could only gasp. They straightened, saluting. ‘Spread the word — retreat to the River Gate.’

‘Aye, sir.’

The mage turned round, taking her with him, and Hurl now saw that the circular stairway had been reduced to broken rubble. She craned her neck to face the man directly. ‘Who are you?’

‘… Ahl…’

‘Well, Ahl, my thanks, I-’ But the mage kept walking, taking Hurl out through the westerly tower arch. ‘What are you doing?’ she snarled, her side biting at her with teeth of acid.

‘Retreating.’

‘No, I have to see to-’

But Ahl kept going. They passed Urban Levy who stared and gabbled questions. Hurl just shook her head. ‘Defend. Defend the wall here.’ They came to a grapnel that had yet to be cut. As they passed Ahl reached out one hand, and, grunting his effort, yanked it free of where the iron tines had dug into the stone, held it out beyond the lip of the parapet and released it. Screams accompanied its fall. Hurl stared at the man. Who in Serc's regard was this? A scent now wafted up from the fellow as well: the sharp bite of spice.

At Hurl's stare, Ahl smiled lopsidedly, the one side of his mouth edging up, and he winked his good eye. ‘We could've held off any besiegers. But not those damned undead Imass of the emperor's.’

Queen preserve her! One of the old city mages who defended Heng so long ago. And, a friend of Silk? So, he, too… But of course he as much as confessed such to her. Yet it was one thing to hear of it abstractly. Another to see it in action. ‘Set me down here.’ Ahl shot her a questioning look. ‘We have to hold this section for the retreat.’ He grunted his understanding. She waved an Urban Levy to her as Ahl gently sat her against the parapet. ‘Any regulars here?’ A frightened nod. ‘Good. Go get one.’ She asked Ahl, ‘Can you do anything for me?’

He shook his head. ‘Not my… speciality.’

‘Well, bind it, would you?’

The mage began undoing the lacings and buckles of her armour. A Malazan regular, a woman, arrived to kneel next her. Hurl waved her close. ‘Forces should be retreating to us,’ she said, her voice falling. ‘We must hold this section.’

‘Aye, Captain.’ She squinted aside, smiling, ‘I think I see them.’ Another regular arrived.

‘Who're you?’ Hurl slurred.

‘Fallow,’ he said, and brushed aside Ahl's hands. ‘Squad healer.’

Hurl laughed, almost vomiting in pain from the convulsion. Fallow held something, a vial, under her nose. She jerked up a hand to slap it away. ‘Don't dope me!’

‘Then stop bloody moving!’ Fallow pulled up Hurl's undershirt, began wrapping her middle. He jerked his head to Ahl, asked low, ‘Who's the civilian?’

‘Mage,’ she whispered. ‘Maybe Soletaken.’

‘Hood's dead breath…’

‘What's going on? Have to know.’

The man's hands were warm on her stomach and side. Hurl felt the pain retreating. He was looking away. ‘They're close now. A slow retreat in ranks. Banath is organizing crossbowmen…’

A terrible thought struck Hurl. ‘Close?’

‘Yes.’

‘Past the stair-tower?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good Burn, no!’ She struggled to rise. Fallow's hands pressed her down.

‘Don't you dare ruin my work! What is it?’

‘Shaky! In the stair-tower. We have to-’

‘It's lost. The Talians have it.’

All the strength fled from Hurl. ‘Oh shit, Shaky…’

They lifted her, set her on a rough litter made from two shields over spears. Ahl retreated at her side. She caught his eye. ‘Where's Silk? Where's Storo, Jalor, Rell? We've lost the wall!’

‘You think… you're alone? The Inner Round Gate… as well. It was… priority. Rell broke them there… fighting now… to take the Outer. Troop rafts on the Idryn. The River Gate… must hold.’

Great Fanderay, it was worse than she imagined. She let her head fall back on the litter. So, now they knew what it was like to face the Old Malazans. Terrifying. They charge over you like a flashflood. What a gambit. And it may yet succeed.

They reached the short tower that secured the most westerly reach of the wall together with the north arch of the bridge supporting the River Gate. Hurl planned to hold the Talians here. She ordered barricades assembled. Banath's slow methodical retreat fell back to them. He gathered what levies he could as he went. The salute he offered Hurl was as crisp as his earlier ones despite a round shield hacked to kindling, a bloody slash across his mouth exposing both upper and lower teeth, and two missing fingers. Hurl decided that maybe it hadn't been an act after all. ‘Well done, Sergeant.’

Banath nodded, saluted, and turned to the soldiers, pointing and shoving men. Hurl realized that with a wound like that the man could no longer make himself understood. She gestured Fallow to see to him. Arrows sang into the tower over the barricade. A tossed incendiary burst flaming oil over the piled table, barrels and chairs. Everyone flinched, then quickly straightened to return fire through the flames. More Malazan regulars, crossbows rattling on their backs, climbed the ladder to the trap in the tower roof to pour fire down on the walkway. After a time it became quiet out on the curve of the curtain wall beyond the knot of mixed Talian troopers and Heng levies besieging the barricade. But now sharp yells reached them: shouts full of sudden panic and open fear.

‘What is it? What's going on out there?’ Hurl demanded, hoarse.

The female Malazan soldier came to her side. ‘Don't know. It's dark. All the torches have been thrown aside. There's no light.’

‘I smell oil,’ a soldier called from the barricade. ‘Lots.’

‘What is that?’ another said.

‘What's going on?’ Hurl snarled. ‘Look!’

The female regular stood tall, peering. ‘Something's pouring down the walls from the walkway. Water?’

Hood's Laughter! Shaky! ‘Get down!’ Hurl shouted. ‘Everyone! Take cover!’

Ahl turned to her, his good eye narrowed. ‘Why?’

Brilliance suddenly silhouetted the man. A yellow-white chiaroscuro of blinding light and shadow seared Hurl's vision. A roar such as that of a landslide slammed into the barricade, pushing it backwards. Soldiers rolled away slapping at themselves, clothes aflame. Screams quavered an undertone of hopeless pain beneath the furnace roar. A howling thing of flame crashed through the fallen barrels and furniture and thrashed about until soldiers stabbed it repeatedly. Ahl, a hand raised to shield his eye, turned to look down to Hurl once more. ‘You saboteurs… you fight dirty,’ and he frowned his distaste.

Likewise I'm sure, friend.

In the morning orders arrived to withdraw to the southern Inner Round Gate. Talk was they were abandoning the entire Outer Round. Too many rods of wall and not enough men. Hurl grated at the news; all those men dead, Shaky's sacrifice, and for what? All to hand the wall over to the Talians?

A dishevelled, hollow-eyed Storo met her as she was being carried to the gate. He took hold of her shoulder. ‘I heard you took one in the side.’

‘A gift from Amaron.’

He winced, looking away. ‘Yeah. Well, I guess we've all got one coming. Listen, don't take it bad. It was chance. You just happened to have that section last night. That's all. Could've been anyone. Don't take it personal.’

She laughed hoarsely. ‘I'll try not to.’ She eyed the man, gauging his strength. He was exhausted and had taken a slash across the arm — he'd been in the fighting — but he didn't have the look of a man sliding down into despair. ‘We lost Shaky.’

‘Yeah. I heard.’

‘We were betrayed. The Urban Levy…’

He raised a hand. ‘I know. We'll get to the bottom of it.’

‘And don't you take it personal. There was nothing you could do about it. Betrayal's always the way sieges end.’

The man smiled his rueful agreement and his eyes brightened for a moment. He rubbed the back of his neck then pulled down his mail hood to scratch his head. ‘Yeah. I understand. Who could beat Choss and Toc, eh? But listen.’ He waved her bearers on, walked alongside the litter. ‘They did us a favour. We were stretched too thin out there on the Outer anyway. And they tipped their hand too early with that move. To gain what, the Outer Round?’ He waved the success aside. ‘They should've held out for the Inner. Now we know.’

‘We should've suspected…’

‘We did.’

Hurl raised her head to eye Storo directly. ‘What do you mean? Do you mean that city mage, Ahl? What's his story? Do you trust him?’

Storo would not meet her eye. ‘You'll have to ask Silk.’

‘I will… What happened, anyway?’

A shrug. ‘Cohorts isolated your section at the Outer Round while a second group secured the North Gate. Shaky took care of the gang who took the wall but the other groups opened the gate. They overran the north ring of the Outer Round but we stopped them at the Inner Gate. Rell earned his pay there; he held the gate. Everyone's full of what he did there.’

‘On that subject, my sergeant, Banath, he deserves a commendation.’

A nod. ‘Good. I'm glad.’ He offered a big smile. ‘These noncoms, they're only as good as their officers,’ and he squeezed her shoulder.

It's OK, Storo. I ain't broke yet.

Seti warriors whooped and sang their war-chants through the next day, riding circles around Toc's command tent where he reclined together with Choss and the Assembly leaders. Occasionally a warrior would ride past the opened flaps and Toc would glimpse a piece of booty held high, a sword, silver plate, silk cloth, a severed human head. His gaze shifted to Choss who lay back, an arm over one knee, his mouth sour behind his dirty-blond beard, eyes downcast. Sorry, Choss. Things did not go as hoped. We were stopped on two counts by acts eerily reminiscent of Old Empire tactics. Toc shifted his numb elbow, straightening it and wincing. It was as if they faced themselves — and he supposed in fact they were. Malazan-trained military engineers, masters of siegecraft. Poor Captain Leen, blasted from the face of the earth by what was probably the largest mangonel ever constructed on the continent. Then that same engineer dumps his ammunition to immolate the curtain wall. It cost almost an entire battle group. But they took the Outer Round. Yes, the Outer. When we'd planned to have the Inner. Plan was… Toc let his gaze slide up to the bright canvas roof of the tent. Well, plan was to be nearing Unta by now.

‘Why so grim, Malazans?’ Imotan called across the tent.

Toc forced a smile. ‘We'd hoped for more.’

‘Yes, yes. That is plain. But you should rejoice for what you have accomplished! Never before have the walls of Heng been breached! We have entered! Soon the rest will fall like a tree wounded and tottering.’

Toc raised a tumbler of tea to that, which Imotan answered. The walls weren't breached, you fool. Can't you see this was but the first blooding in what would surely prove to be a fight to the death for the both of them? And they'd shot their best bolt first. All to bind you lot to the siege. Now this Fist, Storo, will be wary It won't work a second time. But then you can rejoice, can't you, Imotan, and your lackey, Hipal? Heng wounded all without your warriors hardly spilling a drop? It's our war, Malazan versus Malazan while you watch us bloody each other — no wonder you're grinning!

Raising the tumbler a second time, Toc held Imotan's gaze. That's the deal, shaman. We'll remove this thorn from your side, which you have failed to reach for so long. In return, you will accompany us east with every living soul able to mount a horse to burn, harass, worry and harry, harry, harry any force she might field against us.

Imotan answered with his tumbler. His smile behind his grey beard was savage, and his glittering black eyes held the knowing promise of bloodshed — for Malazans.

Riding with her commander, the Marquis Jhardin, and her Sentry of a hundred horse, Ghelel had her first good look at Heng since the attack. They travelled the trader road north-east to the old stone bridge over the Idryn. To the west, the orange morning light coloured the distant walls ochre. Smoke rose from fires still burning throughout the city. She couldn't see the north wall where a horrific firestorm had incinerated so many of her men but she'd heard stories of that amoral, almost petulant, act. How destructively childish! They'd lost the battle and so they should have shown the proper grace and simply bowed out. What were they going to do, burn down the entire city out of plain spite? It was — she searched for the right word — uncivilized,

‘So, a rendezvous?’ she said to the Marquis, who rode beside her.

He gave an assent, drawing on his pipe. ‘Yes, Prevost. Reinforcements.’

‘From the east, sir?’

‘Yes. Landings at Cawn. Recruits from Falar and abroad. Commanded by no less than Urko Crust himself.’

‘Urko? I thought he was dead.’

The Marquis showed stained teeth in a broad smile. ‘He's been reported drowned more times than a cat.’

Ghelel thought about all the names now assembled against Laseen in this ‘Talian League’. So many old lieutenants and companions. How must it feel to be so betrayed? So alone? But then, she'd brought it all upon herself, hadn't she? Yet that was the question — hadn't she? Ghelel also thought of herself as alone. How much more might the two of them have in common? Anything at all? Perhaps only this condition of isolation. It seemed to her that while she was the leader-in-waiting of the Talian League, in truth she controlled nothing. And, she wondered, how much alike might the two of them truly be in this regard as well?

A plume of dust ahead announced another party on the road. An outrider stormed up, pulled her mount to a halt, saluted the Marquis and Ghelel. ‘A religious procession,’ she reported to Ghelel.

‘Oh?’

‘Common here,’ the Marquis said. ‘This road passes over the bridge to meet the east-west trader road. A major monastery sits at the crossroads-’

‘The Great Sanctuary of Burn!’ Ghelel said in wonder.

‘Yes.’ If the Marquis was offended by the interruption he did not show it. ‘You've heard of it, then.’

‘Of course. But wasn't it ruined long ago?’

‘Yes. Struck by an earthquake.’ A wry smile. ‘Make of that what you will. Yet the devout still gather. They squat among its fallen walls. Persistent in their faith they are. This road was lain over the old pilgrim trail. The first bridge was built ages ago to accommodate the traffic’

As the Marquis spoke they came abreast of the procession: old men and women on foot, some carrying long banners proclaiming their status under the protection of Burn. All bowed as the Sentry rode past, even the ones already on their hands and knees genuflecting in the dust every foot of their pilgrimage, all to the great increase of their merit. As she passed, Ghelel had an impression of brown and grey unkempt dusty hair, tattered rags, emaciated limbs showing bruising and sores. From their darker complexion they looked to have originated from the Kan Confederacy, though it may just have been the grime.

They descended the southern flank of a broad shallow valley, the old flood plain of the Idryn. Upriver, intermittent copses of trees thickened to a solid line screening the river. Ahead in the distance the old stone bridge lay like the grey blade of a sword, long and low over the water. A great number of dark birds circled over the river and harried the shores. A gust of warm air greeted Ghelel, a current drawn up the valley. It carried the aroma of wood smoke from Heng, plus the stink of things not normally burned. As they neared the muddy shores a much worse, nauseating reek assaulted Ghelel and she flinched, covering her nose. ‘Gods, what is that?’

The Marquis turned to her, pipe firmly clenched between teeth, his broad face unreadable. He exchanged a glance with Sergeant Shepherd riding behind, and took the pipe from his mouth. ‘Heng uses the Idryn as a sewer, of course. So there's always that downriver from any city. But now, with the siege, it's much worse…’ Riding closer, Ghelel saw that the garbage and broken wreckage of war littered the shore. Among the shattered wood and flotsam lay tangled bodies: a stiff arm upraised like a macabre greeting; a pale bloated torso, obscene. And roving from corpse to corpse went contented dogs, stomachs distended. They flushed clouds of angry crows and kites with their bounding. ‘Because, you see, in the city, there's no room to bury the dead — it's just easiest to…’

‘It's criminal!’ Ghelel exploded. ‘What of the proper observances?’ ‘Who knows? Perhaps some basic gestures were made…’ Ghelel was in no mood to share the Marquis's forbearance. For her this was the final outrage from these Loyalist forces, the convincing proof that whoever these men or women were, they truly deserved to be wiped from the face of the earth. They had no common decency such as any reasonable man or woman. They seemed no better than animals.

The horses’ hooves clattered on the worn granite stones of the bridge. The Marquis raised his chin to indicate the far shore. ‘See there — the caves?’

Past the north shore, the ascent from the valley was much steeper; the road switched back and forth up cliffs of some soft layered sedimentary rock. Dark mouths of caves crowded the cliffs, forming a sort of abject settlement.

‘Hermits and ascetics squat in them. Purifying themselves for better communion with Burn, I suppose, or Soliel, or Oponn, or whoever.’

Figures that seemed no more than sticks wrapped in rags squatted in some of the dark openings. Beards and ragged clothes wafted with the wind. Children played in the dust with frisky grinning dogs. Beside the road an old man wearing only a loincloth despite the chill air leaned on a dead branch torn from a tree. As they passed he shouted, ‘Why struggle against our universal fate, brothers and sisters? Every step you take brings you closer to the oblivion that awaits us all. Repent this life that is a delusion for the blind!’

Ghelel twisted in her saddle. ‘That is blasphemy!’

‘Ignore him-’ the Marquis began.

‘May the Gods forgive you,’ she shouted.

‘The Gods forgive nothing,’ came the man's dark answer.

She stared back at the tall lean figure until a twist in the road took him from sight. ‘As I said,’ the Marquis began again, ‘hermits and mad ascetics infest these hills. Here you'll find all kinds of profanation and heterodoxies. Like the babbling of a thousand voices. You might as well yell for the wind to stop.’

‘Still, I wonder what he meant…’

‘Perhaps he meant that what we name as Gods have no concern for us.’

Ghelel and the Marquis turned to face Molk, who rode behind. He shifted in his saddle, shrugging. ‘Perhaps.’

Both turned away. Ghelel did not know what the Marquis made of the pronouncements, but they crawled on her like some sort of contagion. She felt an irresistible urge to wash. Just words, she told herself. Nothing more than words.

After climbing the slope they reached the north plains. Dark clouds bruised the far north-east where the Ergesh mountain range caught the prairie winds. North, the road would bring them past an isolated sedimentary butte, or remains of an ancient plateau. Here, climbing its steep slopes and jumbled atop, rested the crumpled fallen remains of the Great Sanctuary of Burn. Entire wings of its boxy, squat architecture had slid down the cliff on massive landslides and faults while other quarters appeared untouched. From this distance, its canted maze of walls appeared to Ghelel as if a God had tossed down a handful of cards. Traces of grey smoke rose amid the ruins. ‘It must have been enormous.’

‘Yes. Largest on the continent. It housed thousands of monks. Now the cries of prairie lions sound instead of the drone of prayer.’

Ghelel glanced to the heavyset man; his pale eyes, hidden in a thick nest of wrinkles, studied the far-off remains. ‘You sound like a poet, Marquis.’

His thick brows rose. ‘I had hoped to be, but circumstances have made of me a soldier — Prevost.’

‘Yet the sanctuary does not seem entirely abandoned.’

‘Yes. As I said. The devout still gather. They slouch amid the wreckage, forlorn.’ He glanced to her. ‘Perhaps they dream of the glory that once was…’

Ghelel shied her gaze away to the ruins. ‘I see no scaffolding, no efforts at rebuilding.’

‘Perhaps their dreams are too seductive.’

‘Or they are too poor.’

Grinning, the Marquis nodded thoughtfully. After a time he cleared his throat. ‘I am reminded of some lines from Thenys Bule. Are you familiar with him?’

‘I have heard of him. “Sayings of the Fool”?’

‘Yes. It goes something like — “While travelling I met a man dressed in rags, his feet and shoulders bare. Take this coin, I offered him, yet he refused my hand. You see me poor, hungry, and cold, he said — yet I am rich in dreams.”’

Ghelel eyed the man narrowly. ‘I am not sure what to take from that, Marquis…’

‘Yes, well. The man was a fool after all.’

Past noon they reached the crossroads, Here the road south to Kan and Dal Hon met the major east-west trade route. The freshly burned remains of wayside inns, hostels and horse corrals lined the way. Ghelel knew this to be the work of the Seti and she bridled at the destruction wrought in what some might come to construe as her name. Trampled and now neglected garden plots stretched back on all sides. All was not abandoned, however; a tent encampment stood on a north hillside overlooking the crossroads. What looked to Ghelel like several hundred men and horses rested. A contingent was on its way, walking its mounts leisurely down the gentle slope.

‘Urko's men?’

‘Yes.’

‘They are to join us in the south?’

The Marquis fished his pipe from a pouch at his side. ‘That is the question, Prevost. They were to deploy against the South Rounds. But things have changed. Now we must discuss strategy — and much will rest on our decisions. As it always does, I suppose, in matters of war.’

The contingent did little to strengthen Ghelel's confidence. Among their numbers she saw the robes over mail of Seven Cities, the embossed boiled leather of Genabackis and the bronze scaled armour of Falar. No order or effort at regimentation seemed to have been made save for pennants and flags of Falaran green. The soldiers seemed to treat the rendezvous as some sort of outing; they joked and talked amongst themselves while kicking their mounts on to the road in complete disorder. Ghelel glanced sidelong to the Marquis — the man's heavyset face revealed nothing of any anger or disgust at what, after all, could be interpreted as an insult. The foremost one, a ginger-bearded fat fellow in a leather hauberk set with bronze scales, inclined his head in greeting. ‘Captain Tonley, at your service, sir,’ he said in strongly accented Talian.

‘Marquis Jhardin, Commander of the Marchland Sentries. Prevost Alil, and Sergeant Shepherd.’

‘Greetings.’

‘Is Commander Urko with you?’

‘Yes, he is. But he's unavailable just now.’

‘Unavailable?’

‘Yes. He's…’ The man searched for words.

‘Reconnoitring,’ one of his troops suggested.

Captain Tonley brightened, his mouth quirking up. ‘Yes, that's it! Reconnoiting. Come, join us,’ and he reined his mount around.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ the Marquis said. ‘I hope we will see him later.’

‘Oh, yes.’ The captain waved such concerns aside. ‘He will be back tonight. For now, join us. Rest your mounts. Tell us about this attack we are hearing of.’

The Marquis nodded to Sergeant Shepherd who raised his arm in a ‘forward’.

With the gathering of dusk the bivouac came to resemble less and less a military encampment and more a gathering of brigands. From under the awning raised on poles that served as the command tent, Ghelel watched drunken fights break out around campfires, betting and wrestling over what meagre loot had been gathered so far, and a virtual army of camp followers picked up at Ipras and Idryb who circulated among the men and women. Captain Tonley entertained them with stories of the crossing while the Marquis sat calmly on a camp stool and smoked his pipe. Molk, Ghelel noted, had disappeared the moment they entered camp. Gloriously drunk by now, no doubt.

Almost no one noticed when an old man bearing two leather buckets of stones stooped under the awning. He dropped the buckets then pulled off his oversized wool cloak revealing a wrestler's broad shoulders and knotted, savagely scarred arms that reminded Ghelel of oak roots. Captain Tonley sprang from his stool to offer the man a tankard. The fellow drank while eyeing them over its rim. The Marquis stood and bowed. Ghelel followed suit. Finishing the tankard he thrust it at the captain who staggered back.

‘Another. It's dusty work in the hills.’

The man extended a hand to the Marquis who took it. ‘Marquis Jhardin, Commander of the Marchland Sentries.’ He indicated Ghelel. ‘Our new Prevost, Alil.’

The man grunted, turned to her. She extended her hand, which disappeared into his massive paw. Ghelel had an impression of a brutal blunt Napan-blue face with small guarded eyes under a ledge of bone, brush-cut hair white with dust, but what overwhelmed everything was the pain in her hand. It felt as if it had been cracked between stones. ‘So this is our new Prevost,’ he said, eyeing her, and she knew that, somehow, this man also knew. ‘Commander Urko Crust.’

‘Commander,’ she managed, her teeth clenched against the pain.

Sighing his ease, Urko sat on a stool. Captain Tonley set another tankard next to him. ‘Captain Tonley. Just because I'm away for the day doesn't mean that the entire camp has to go to the Abyss.’

The captain flinched. ‘No, sir.’ Saluting, he ducked from the awning.

Urko dragged the buckets close, nodded for the Marquis to sit. Ghelel sat next to him. ‘What word from Choss?’ In the distance, the sharp commands of Captain Tonley filled the dusk.

The Marquis set to repacking his pipe. ‘She's on her way. Is right behind you, in fact.’

Startled, Ghelel stared at Jhardin. She? The Empress? Coming here? Gods! Then, this could be it. The battle to decide everything.

But Urko merely nodded at the news, as if he'd half-expected it. He selected a stone from a bucket and studied it, turning it this way and that. He spat on it, rubbed it with a thumb. ‘So, deploying to the south is out of the question. Can't have the river between our divisions.’

‘No. Choss requests that you take the north-east flank.’

He grunted, set the stone on a table. ‘And the south?’

‘We'll keep an eye on the south. They haven't the men in Heng for a sortie in any strength.’

Urko selected the next stone, frowned at it, threw it into the darkening night. ‘So. I will hold the north-east, Choss the centre, Heng will block the south flank, and the Seti will harass and skirmish.’ He let out a long growling breath. ‘Probably the best we can arrange for her.’

Gathering herself, Ghelel cleared her throat. ‘With all due respect, she marches to relieve Heng, doesn't she? Shouldn't we stop her before she reaches it?’

Urko's grizzled brows clenched together. He lowered his gaze to retrieve another stone. The Marquis took a mug from the table and filled it from an earthenware carafe of red wine. ‘Ostensibly, she marches to relieve Heng, yes. But she should know enough not to trap herself in it. No, the best way for her to relieve the siege would be to take the field.’

‘Do we have any intelligence on the size of her force?’ Ghelel asked. Urko cocked a thick brow at the question, peered up from his inspection of the stone.

‘Amaron has his sources,’ Jhardin answered. ‘I have been informed that, at best, she can field no more than fifty thousand — and that is assuming she conscripts all down the coast at Carasin, Vor, Marl and Halas.’

‘Then we well outnumber her.’

‘Yes. But numbers count for less than you would think. The emperor was almost always outnumbered. Wasn't that so, Urko?’

The old general grunted his assent while buffing the stone in a cloth. ‘She has other assets… the Claw. The mage cadre. And there is always the possibility that Tayschrenn may choose to dirty his hands.’

Ghelel sat back on her stool. Great Togg forefend! She hadn't considered that. But the High Mage had yet to act in any of this. Why should he now? Clearly everyone was assuming he would not. To think otherwise was to invite paralysis.

‘So,’ Urko said, taking a long draught from the tankard. ‘We'll wait here for the rest of the force to catch up. Then we will deploy to the north-east.’ He handed a stone to Ghelel. ‘Take a look at that.’

One side of the oblong stone was coarse rock but the other revealed a smooth curved surface that glistened multicoloured, reminding her of pearl. After a moment the likeness of a shell resolved itself, spiralled, curving ever inward with extraordinary delicacy. ‘Beautiful…’ she breathed.

One edge of the general's mouth crooked up. ‘You like it?’

‘Yes! It's wonderful.’

‘Good!’ He sat back and watched her turn the stone in her hands. ‘I'm glad you like it.’

These last few moons strange dreams had dogged Kyle. He slept restlessly, often waking with a start, in a cold sweat, as if having seen or heard something terrifying. And always, the images, the ghost-memories, receded just as he reached for them. This last week on board the Kite had passed more calmly, however. Perhaps it was the monotonous rocking, or the slapping rush of the waves, or the melodies Ereko hummed to himself during his long nights at the tiller, but he'd slept either more easily, or far more deeply.

One night Kyle dreamt, or thought he did; he was not sure. All that he knew was that suddenly he became aware of himself walking through mist, or what seemed like mist, or clouds. And he was not alone.

He walked just one pace behind, and slightly to the right of, a slim pale figure who wore layered thick robes that dragged on the ground behind — a ground, Kyle now saw, of dry baked dirt. He walked slowly and deliberately with long strides, his wide hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed, perhaps deep in thought. Long white hair hung to the middle of his back. The man's similarities to the Magus, the Wind Spirit upon the Spur, made Kyle's eyes well with suppressed emotion, but there were differences as well; this man was not as powerfully built and he seemed taller. Yet even as he watched the man's figure rippled, shifting and wavering before returning once more to the slim snow-pale man. In that moment Kyle swore he glimpsed another shape, a bestial form unfolding.

He should not be there and it terrified him. Had they somehow trespassed or wandered too far in their journey? The man's sandalled feet raised clouds of dust but no sound reached Kyle of their fall. The dull pewter vault of the sky made his eyes ache to look at it; it seemed to blur when he studied it too carefully. Shadows flew across the two of them, cast themselves on the ground around them, all without any seeming source.

Eventually, after Kyle knew not how long, a destination detached itself from the horizon ahead, a low dark hill or structure of some sort. It resolved into a heap of gigantic darkly smoky crystals, as large as a building. Upon reaching it, the man planted his feet firmly, and from what Kyle could see, set his chin in a fist as he made a survey of the formation, carefully, from right to left. Coming to a decision, he took hold of one crystal with both hands. He strained, grunting and hissing his breath, and with a massive grinding crack the huge shard gave way. It stood twice the height of the man who himself stood far taller than Kyle. The man pushed it aside and reached for another.

‘Hold!’

Kyle and the man spun.

A slim figure came walking upon them, dark-skinned in a night-black cloak over sombre clothes, tall with long white hair. Noting the hair, Kyle wondered at a common ancestry between these two.

‘Anomandaris,’ the man greeted the newcomer, straightening, and loosening his arms at his sides.

Anomandaris bowed. ‘Liossercal.’ Closer now, Kyle saw that the man was no Dal Hon or of any other darkly-hued tribe, but non-human: his black skin seemed to absorb the dull light that fell upon it, yet his eyes were bright gold lamps that shone now with a kind of reckless amusement.

‘What business have you here?’

‘I may ask the same.’

Liossercal crossed his arms, rumbling, ‘Research.’

The brow over one gold eye arched. The newcomer kicked at the broken crystal. ‘It would seem that the subject may not survive the investigation.’

The arms fell again, large hands splayed. ‘What of it?’

A shrug. ‘It is young yet, Liossercal. A child. Would you dismember a child?’

Liossercal, whose back was still to Kyle, seemed surprised. ‘A child? This is new, yes, the weakest of these strange invasions into our Realms and thus so very appropriate to my purposes. But a child? Hardly.’

The one named Anomandaris took a step closer. ‘This is my point. It is new and thus unformed. Who is to say what is or is not its character or purpose? You? The universe you inhabit is one of certainties, I have learned. So you can say for certain you know of the future then?’

‘A poor argument. You play to my own point. What I can say of a certainty is that we will never know unless we investigate.’ And Liossercal turned to the formation.

‘I will not allow it.’

Liossercal stilled. He slowly returned to face the newcomer. ‘An ocean of blood birthed the hard-won accord between our Realms, Anomandaris. You would risk that? For this? It is not even of our existence! It is alien — very possibly a threat. I would resolve this mystery.’

Anomandaris's eyes seemed to glow even brighter in the gloom. ‘It is my interpretation that this house is of Emurlahn and Emurlahn exists as proof of the accord between our Realms. Threaten one and you threaten all.’

Liossercal drew himself up straight, head cocked to one side. After a time he nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well. I will reflect upon this new light you bring to the situation. A reprieve, then, for a time, for this Shadow House.’

Anomandaris inclined his head in agreement. A smile lifted his thin lips and he gestured an invitation to the empty plains. ‘Tell me of Resuthenal, then? How fares she?’

Liossercal clasped his hands behind his back, accepted Anomandaris's invitation. They walked off side by side. ‘She is in fine health, though the mention of your name still enrages her. Especially when I point out that she lost as a result of her own stupidity.’

Anomandaris laughed. ‘Yes, that would enrage anyone.’

Kyle wished to follow the two; he certainly knew that he ought not remain. The things the two spoke of were complete mysteries to him, but he feared being left behind, becoming lost in this strange dream. If only he could have seen the man from the front — he would know then for certain that he dreamed of the patron of his tribe, the Wind King himself. Now dead, killed by Cowl. He struggled to will himself to follow the two receding figures.

‘You have come far enough, I should think.’

Kyle turned. He faced a woman, an extraordinarily beautiful woman with deep black eyes and long straight black hair wearing a flowing dress that shimmered white and silver. He attempted to throw himself face-down in the dirt before this Goddess but found that he could not. He closed his eyes, face averted. Who was this? Sister Dawn? Queen of the Night? Great Mother Goddess?

The woman laughed and the sound brought shivers to his spine. ‘Come with me, Kyle. It is time that you returned. You are in powerful company, lad, and it is drawing you along with its wanderings. Your dreams are not your own. And I have to say, they are quite perilous.’ She led him off.

After a time he dared ask, ‘Who were they?’

She waved a hand dismissively. ‘Memories. Nothing more than old clinging memories.’

Kyle glanced back to the heap, the ‘house’. He was startled to see yet another figure now standing beside it — this one tall and slim as well, but by his silhouette quite ragged and carrying a longsword at his back. Kyle raised a hand to point but the woman, Goddess, whoever she was at his side, urged him on. ‘Some things,’ she said, ‘are best left unnoticed. Now,’ and she faced him, ‘it is time for you to move along.’

He opened his mouth to speak but found that he could not. He was frozen, immobile. His vision darkened. He heard water, nearing.

‘Lad? Kyle?’

Kyle opened his eyes. Stalker crouched over him, his hazel eyes narrowed. Seeing Kyle awake the scout grunted and moved aside. ‘You were fast asleep. Something's come up.’

‘What?’

In answer the scout gave a disgusted wave to the sea beyond. Kyle pushed himself up. The sky and sea held a formless grey pre-dawn light. Mist enclosed them on all sides. The sail hung limp. They were becalmed. He glanced back to Ereko who sat motionless, a hand still on the tiller, squinting off into the fog. Kyle shifted to the stern, whispered, ‘What is it?’

A shrug from the giant who did not take his eyes from the mist. ‘Something. A presence. But,’ and he gave a lopsided smile, ‘I am not afraid.’

‘We've moved.’ This from Traveller at the bow.

‘Yes. Question is… are we closer, or farther…’ Ereko raised a hand, took a long deep sniff of the air. ‘Land,’ he announced, smiling.

Stalker went to the gunwale, sniffed the air. He looked to the giant. ‘Desert?’

Ereko agreed.

‘I hate deserts,’ said Coots.

‘Lizard gives him god-awful indigestion,’ Badlands explained.

‘Man the oars,’ said Traveller.

The brothers readied the oars. Kyle sat at one, flexing his arm — Ereko had healed it their third night out. ‘I think everything gives you indigestion, Coots.’

Sitting, the brother strained furiously on the oar and let out an enormous fart. He looked surprised. ‘By the Dark Lady, you're right. Even rowing gives me indigestion.’

Stalker cuffed him on the shoulder. ‘Pay attention. I hear breakers.’ The mist dissipated and the wind rose revealing a long flat coast of dunes guarded by a reef. Ereko stood tall and scanned the shore. He nodded to himself, satisfied. ‘North around the coast a space yet,’ and he sat heaving the tiller around to face them away from the waves breaking over the reef. ‘Ready sail.’

Captain Moss's search for the Seti Wildman of the Hills brought him and his troop of thirty horse north to the rugged High Steppes that formed one heartland of Seti territory. On their way they encountered bands of Seti young bloods, soldiers of the Jackal, Plains Lion, Ferret, Wolf and Dog warrior societies, male and female. Some demanded payments in weapons or coin before allowing the troop of Malazan horse to proceed; others challenged Moss to single combat, but when he told them he was on his way to find the Wildman they laughed and said they would leave Moss for him.

The troop entered the Lands of the Jackal, so named for Ryllandaras, the legendary man-beast, brother to Treach who was now ascended as Trake, god of war. The bands they passed no longer continued on southward, but trailed them instead, coalescing into an informal escort of considerable numbers. Moss also noted that many no longer carried fetishes or colours proclaiming their allegiance to one or another clan Assembly.

On the third day smoke ahead announced a large encampment. Moss's slow pace brought him to the very lip of a grassed escarpment that fell steeply to a wide valley dotted by hide tents and corrals. Moss waved away the fat biting horseflies that circled his head, eased forward in his saddle. ‘Near a thousand, I should think,’ he said to his sergeant who nodded. The sergeant, a great wad of rustleaf bunching one cheek, raised his chin to the east where an erosional cut offered a way down. ‘Have to do,’ Moss sighed, and waved his men on.

They crossed a thin stream, an undersized remnant of what once must have been a massive flow. On the opposite shore a crowd was gathered. A raised hand from one Seti elder stopped Moss, who inclined his head in greeting then cocked a knee around the pommel of his saddle, watching. By way of his height advantage, he could see that the crowd surrounded an oval of open ground. At one edge stood a tall muscular Seti youth, his bare chest and legs smeared in paints proclaiming his many victories. His knife-brothers and sisters laughed with him, wiping more paint across his face. One pressed a functional-looking fighting blade into his hand. Moss cast across the oval for the youth's opponent but saw no likely figure. Eventually, straightening from a crouch, an unlikely candidate did appear. An old man, wild-haired with a gnarled grey beard. The Wildman? If so, he was from that much older Seti generation, back when it was unusual to meet any who stood taller than the backs of their mounts.

Moss leant aside to a Seti warrior, asked in Talian, ‘What's going on?’

The woman answered, reluctantly, ‘A challenge.’

‘Who would challenge such an old man?’

She looked up, smiled sharp white teeth. ‘The old man challenged him’

‘Why?’ But the woman didn't answer because the old man had drawn a knife from the back of his deerskin trousers and strode ahead. Waving the blade, he beckoned the tall youth forward. Moss could see him more clearly now; other than his trousers he wore only a thick leather vest revealing a barrel chest matted by silver-grey hair and equally hairy bent arms that seemed to hang unnaturally long. His lips were pulled back from canine-like yellowed teeth in an eager, almost scornful grin. The young blood laughed as he came forward but Moss knew he was in for more than he expected — the old man was fully as wide as he was tall.

Moss had always thought these ritual challenges raucous, chaotic mob scenes but an eerie silence now took the crowd, as of a collective holding of breath. The two combatants crouched, arms reaching out to one another. Moss straightened in his saddle, more than a little anxious since the target of his mission might just be eviscerated before his eyes.

Blades slashed, hands grasped, a grunt, crunch of a solid blow, then the youth spun away, hand at his face where bright blood smeared his chin. Many in the crowd let out breaths in a knowing exhalation. The old man straightened, made a throwing gesture as if to say, ‘we're finished,’ and turned to go.

But the youth angrily slapped aside the hands of his friends and advanced to the centre of the oval. Warnings brought the old man about. Turning, he called something; the youth's answer was a growl and a ready stance. With a shrug, the old man complied, advancing. This time he held his arms out wide, his hands empty. The surrounding crowd tensed, shocked, edged back a step to offer up more room. The two circled warily, the youth shouting — perhaps demanding that his opponent arm himself. The old man just smiled his feral toothy fighting grin. After two circuits the youth gave up, yelled something to the crowd — probably asking they witness that he'd given the old fool every chance to defend himself — and pressed the attack.

This time the exchange lasted longer. The youth slashed, hunting an opening while the old man gave ground, dodging. Moss could only shake his head; it was so damned obvious to him. A swing from the youth and the old man seemed to casually step inside and twist, throwing his opponent yet keeping a grip on the arm. That arm forced backwards farther and farther. A shriek from the youth. A sickening bend and wet snap of that elbow. And the old man straightened leaving the youth hugging his arm, rocking it like a crippled infant.

The Seti woman at Moss's side murmured something and Moss gave her a questioning look. ‘He should consider himself lucky,’ she explained. ‘The Boar showed great patience with him.’

The Boar?’

‘Some call him the Boar. Many elders swear he reminds him of the Boar of their youth.’

‘Who was he?’ Moss noted that from across the oval the Boar was now watching him steadily.

‘He was our last great champion from a generation ago. No one could defeat him.’

‘What happened to him?’

The female Seti warrior gave Moss a strange penetrating look. ‘Your Dassem Ultor came to us.’

The Wildman, or Boar, was now coming straight to Moss's horse. The crowd parted before him, some reverently reaching out to touch him as he passed. ‘You, Captain,’ he called in the Talian dialect. Moss moved to dismount. ‘Stay up there!’ Shrugging, Moss complied.

He stopped beside Moss's mount. Small brown eyes well hidden within ledges of bone studied Moss, roved about his figure. He sniffed, wrinkling his flattened nose. ‘I'm smelling a stink I haven't smelled in a long time, Captain. And I don't like it. You can stay the night. But don't you step outside your camp.’

Moss bowed his head. ‘Warlord Toc sends his regards and extends his invitation.’

‘He can keep both.’

‘You may bring an escort, perhaps fifty of your most loyal-’

‘I'm not interested in reminiscing. I'm looking to the future. One without any of you foreigners.’

‘Wouldn't a future without Heng help in that regard?’

‘Heng?’ the old man snorted. ‘Heng?’ He smiled his unnerving, hungry, bestial smile. ‘You've been on the trail for some time now, haven't you, Captain? Well, word's come. Heng's a sideshow now. She's left Unta. Coming by sea.’

Moss stared. So, she's coming. Now his choice would matter even more. He bowed as best he could while mounted. ‘My thanks. This is welcome news. I hadn't heard.’

The old man, Wildman, Boar, now scowled ferociously. ‘Yeah. It's welcome all right. I have a few things to pick over with her, I'll tell you, if I could be bothered.’

He waved Moss off. ‘Now go. We're finished.’ He marched off without waiting for a reply.

After a minute Moss dismounted. Seti warriors pointed him to an empty field; he waved his command over. While his men led their mounts to the bivouac, Moss watched where the Wildman now crouched shoulder to shoulder within a circle of elders, sharing a pipe and a platter of food. Who was he? Such men do not simply appear out of nowhere; he must have a history. A Malazan veteran, that much was obvious; he knew Moss's rank. Fought abroad and learned much of the world. A Seti officer returned from overseas. How many of them could there be? Toc and the atamans would have the resources to find out. Once he returned the mystery would be solved. Then he would also know whether this man might prove a factor in his mission — or not. He pulled his mount's reins to urge it on after his men.