Return of the Crimson Guard

CHAPTER V

‘Ships, uncle! A convoy of ships!’ Nevall Od’ Orr's nephew called from outside the tent. Nevall Od’ Orr, once Chief Factor of Cawn, gagged on the mouthful of chewed charcoal he used for ink as he sat attempting to bring his books up to date. In a fit of coughing he clutched the edges of his high table.

‘Ships, uncle!’ his nephew shouted again.

The factor took a drink from a cup, rinsed and spat on to the bare dirt floor. ‘What of it?’ He drew his blankets tighter about himself.

‘They fly the Imperial sceptre!’

‘Wonderful. Yet another fleet to sack us. Will they take our hoard of turnips, I wonder?’

‘You have turnips?’

Nevall slammed shut his scorched book. Sighing, he rubbed his blackened hands across the back of his neck. ‘I suppose I should go down and grovel picturesquely. Perhaps she'll toss me a copper moon. I wonder if I am attired appropriately to receive an Empress?’

Nevall listened, arms open. Silence. He hung his head, ‘Lout.’

He stepped down gingerly on to the damp dirt ground, crossed to the front flaps and peeked out. Downhill, over the blackened ribs of burnt Cawn, a rag-tag flotilla of ships of all sizes and ages was filling the harbour. Now she comes. Still, better than if she had come before the mercenaries. They had at least a small chance to recoup their losses. He sniffed the air and wondered if any of the day's catch was left. He should send his other nephew for a fish.

‘Nevall Od’ Orr.’

He stiffened then, slowly turned. A man occupied the rear of the tent, nondescript in a loose dark shirt and trousers. Nevall inclined his chin in greeting, shuffled back to his table. He tore a pinch from a dark loaf and popped it into his mouth. ‘Ranath. It's been a while. The Claw, now, is it? I've lost track of all the changes.’

A shrug. ‘It's all the same shell game.’ Ranath straightened the front fold of his shirt. ‘Listen, Nevall. She's here. She means to wipe this League and the Guard from the face of the continent, but…’ and he opened his hands, ‘… she needs the funds to do it. Lots of funds.’

A burst of cackled laughter. Nevall opened his arms wide to gesture all around. ‘She's welcome to all of it — even the blanket from my back.’

Ranath's lazy gaze did not waver. ‘Come, come, Nevall. The spies you have placed everywhere report to us as well. The Guard took everything not nailed down. Horses, oxen, cattle, goats, wagons, carts, preserves, flour, rice, pots, timber, rope, nails. Everything. Everything, that is, except…’ he raised a hand and turned it over to reveal a gold coin. ‘Except cash.’ He tossed the coin from hand to hand, his eyes on Nevall. ‘They didn't find the vaults of the trading houses, did they?’ He snapped the coin from the air, opened the hand to show its empty palm. ‘You know, I wonder if they even knew to ask for them? Now there's an irony — charitable mercenaries.’

The pointed tip of Nevall's tongue edged out to wet his lips. ‘Now, Ranath. Let's not be hasty here. We back the Empress, of course. The Empire was ever superb for business. But,’ he shrugged his bony shoulders beneath the thin blanket, ‘our hands are tied — it's all spoken for. You know that.’

Ranath sighed. He raised his gaze to the tent ceiling while he searched for words. ‘Nevall… how shall I put this — oh yes.’ He smiled, raising his hands. ‘The gloves are off. And lo and behold, the claws are unsheathed.’

‘Whose?’

The smile hardened. ‘Careful, my friend. The Throne's, let us say. You say you support the Empress. Excellent. Let us collect the entire contents of every trading house's vault to hold as pledge to said backing. You will notify the Ruling Convene of the province that all their writs have been called in immediately. We will expect the complete commitment of all troops from across Cawn province as the honouring of said debt. Understood?’

Nevall sat heavily on his stool, lay a hand on his blackened ledger book, nodded.

‘As you merchants say, Nevall — a pleasure doing business with you.’

The factor hung his head. Tent cloth shifted. He looked up and the Claw was gone. Yanking open his book, Nevall took a bite from a stick of charcoal next to it and chewed furiously. He jammed a feather nib into the corner of his mouth. ‘Damn Laseen and Mallick both.’

‘The place is a dump!’ Nait exclaimed from the crowded rail of the fishing scow that had carried its contingent of seven hundred — limping and wallowing — all the way from Unta to Cawn harbour. Least, in thin torn buckskins only, his fists white on the rail, mumbled abjectly, ‘I just want off. Please Hood, kill me and take me from here.’

Nait eyed the stricken giant halfbreed Barghast. He leaned close to whisper, ‘Want some fish?’

‘Baiting!’ Hands yelled from nearby.

Rolling his eyes, Nait leaned over the side, made a great gagging show of spitting out the wad of chewed rustleaf bulging his cheek. Least paled, swallowing.

Hands dragged Nait from the rail. ‘Staff meeting,’ she smiled gleefully. Nait slumped, groaning.

At mid-deck they met with their old sergeant, now captain, Tinsmith. Many of Tinsmith's old command from the Untan Harbour Guard were gathered around, Hands, Honey Boy, together with many faces from other guard companies within Unta such as Lim Tal, one-time chief bodyguard, and rumoured lover, to Duke Amstar D'Avig. Also sitting with the captain was the old tanned and scarred veteran for whom many had already come to nurture a precious hatred for having drilled them mercilessly day after day since casting off from the capital. A man Tinsmith simply referred to as Master Sergeant Temp, but whom the men called ‘Old Clozup’ after his constant badgering of ‘Close ranks! Close up!’

Tinsmith looked to each of them, cleared his throat. ‘We'll have to wait our turn to off-load. Cawn's as bare as Hood's bones, so we'll shoulder what rations we have left and march right on out. Orders are to make six leagues a day-’

‘Six leagues!’ Nait squawked. ‘After sitting on our backsides for so long?’

‘Put Captain after your whining,’ Hands snarled.

‘And another thing,’ Nait continued, ‘everyone's a sergeant around here. Hands, Least, Lim, Honey Boy-’

‘That's Honey, now.’

‘Yeah, fine, Sergeant Honey. Why ain't I a sergeant too?’

‘’Cause you lead our saboteurs, Corporal,’ growled Master Sergeant Temp. ‘And no saboteur rises to the dizzy heights of a sergeancy.’

‘I heard o’ one or two.’

‘Then show me what you got

Nait looked away from the veteran's icy pale eyes, waggled his head mouthing, ‘show me what you got’

‘We are part of one battalion of the Fourth's heavies,’ Tinsmith continued, stroking his long silver moustache with a thumb and forefinger. ‘The iron core of this army. Now, we got us hardly any cavalry to speak of, some spotty noblemen, a few mounted scouts. What we do got is thousands of skirmishers, light infantry — enough cross-bowmen to depopulate a country. That's the hand we've been dealt. So, what to do? They need a centre, an anchor. That's us. The ferocity of their fire will wither any force stupid enough to show their heads like they did the Guard, and will do to any cavalry. But when we do hit strong resistance, they'll melt through us to the rear and reform. We don't melt. We hold. Understood? So, all the old veterans,’ Tinsmith inclined his head to the Master Sergeant, ‘they sent a contingent to High Fist Anand — and the Sword, Korbolo Dom, too of course-’

Nait blew a farting noise.

‘To hash things out,’ Tinsmith continued blithely, ‘an’ what they came up with is four main battle groups, mutually supporting, each anchored by a battalion of heavies. The Sword has the lead one, o’ course. Braven Tooth will command us on the left. The right flanking battalion is under Fist D'Ebbin, and High Fist Anand co-ordinates from the rear. Now, the lot of you might think that the Master Sergeant here was just to train you up, but I'm sure you'll all be right pleased to know that he'll be the anchoring right corner shieldman on the front line.’

Nait eyed the old veteran; sure, he looked tough, but him march six leagues in a day? The geezer'll drop and he'll be sure to step on him on the way past.

‘You sergeants,’ Tinsmith added, ‘you have your men follow his lead. Stand with him, follow his orders and I guarantee you our ranks will hold. That's all for now. Dismissed.’

‘One last thing, Captain,’ the old-timer threw in, his scarred cheek pulling up in a one-sided smile, ‘while we're out here on this beautiful day waiting for our turn to off-load…’ Nait caught Honey's gaze, rolled his eyes. ‘… I thought I might have the men and women practise some close order drills.’

Tinsmith smoothed his moustache to hide his smile. ‘All yours, Master Sergeant.’

From the rear ranks of the Imperial retinue of court functionaries, it appeared to Possum that the Empress was in a hurry. Marines formed in parade ranks guarded the wharf where a glittering crowd of nobles and functionaries, Possum included, awaited the Imperial presence. All the usual ceremonies and speeches of reception had been waived. Behind the ranks of marines the citizens of Cawn stood waiting, silent and — Possum had to admit — looking rather downtrodden and desultory. But then, the town had just been sacked. She appeared at the top of the gangway without fanfare or announcement — just one more passenger disembarking, yet Possum was surprised by the collective inhalation from the Cawnese that her appearance evoked. How could they have known? She wore no finery, no crown or tiara; no sceptre weighted her arms; nor was she carried by palanquin or raised throne. No, she merely stepped up unannounced, wearing only her plain silk tunic and pantaloons. Her hair was short, mousey-brown and touched by grey; her face, well, plain, and rather sour in its tight thin mouth, lined at the eyes and brow.

Yet everyone knew it was her. Perhaps it was the glance she cast over the waterfront and all assembled. Severe. Utterly assured. And frankly rather disappointed with what it saw. The nobles knelt followed by the citizens. The marines saluted.

She did receive the local factors of the Cawn trading houses: they were allowed to crawl forward on their knees like a gaggle of beggars on the street. She acknowledged their abject loyalty with a brief inclination of her head, then was assisted by a groom in mounting her horse. Everyone else then mounted, and the whole cavalcade set off, the screen of cavalry, the honour-guard, the Empress and her bodyguard accompanied by High Fist Anand and staff, the court retinue following along, Possum among them. The other High Fist, Korbolo Dom, also Sword of the Empire, was where he insisted upon being, leading the van, where everyone seemed content to leave him. For his part Possum was dressed in rich silks, Untan duelling sword at his side. He played the part of a minor noble whose job was to sneer haughtily at anyone gauche enough to ask him what position it was he actually filled.

As he rode along, he spotted operatives standing alongside the road. From signs from them he learned that Cawn had been secured, that spies left behind by Urko had been identified, and that the deal that Ranath, the region's old chief of intelligence, had proposed to Possum had been accepted. The deal was a sweet one and would double Laseen's forces — eventually — but its appearance out of seemingly nowhere troubled him. What had Ranath been up to lately? Where had the intelligence behind the deal come from? And yet, was it not the man's job? Why question him for being competent and resourceful? Was he, Possum, now the sort of leader who dreaded talent among his subordinates? Had he not in fact deliberately cultivated the opposite managerial style? Did he not signal in so many ways to his subordinates that ways and means were of no interest to him so long as the job got done? That they could count on him appearing only when things got botched up? He forced himself to ease back further into his role, flexed his neck and glanced — scornfully — around at the efforts the Cawnese were making in demolishing and rebuilding their city. His gaze fell on the rider next to him and he was startled to see there, dressed in the cream flowing robes and headscarf of a Seven Cities noblewoman, Coil, the most insolent of the five commanders who constituted his second echelon.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

An arched brow, a regal wave to the surroundings. ‘Is this not delicious? Is it not bracing to be out in the field once again?’

Glancing about, Possum smiled thinly. ‘Indeed it is. I am reminded of the old days, my more active times.’

The woman's painted lips could just be made out curling behind the sheer scarf. ‘It seems to me that you should have been getting out much more often all this time.’

It seems to me that both of us were damned lucky not to have been on Malaz just recently. But he inclined his head in assent to the point. Whatever it is she's getting at — yet more useless taunting, no doubt. ‘But we are not here on a pleasure outing.’

‘No. Sadly not. We have the Guard before us and the insurrectionists and their traitor ringleaders. A tall order for anyone, yes?’

What was the fool getting at? She knew as well as he that Laseen in no way intended to actually fight the Guard if she could avoid it. So, the ringleaders. He glanced away, touched a silk handkerchief to his nose. Yes, a tall order. And what order? Or orders? ‘Our primary concern is the safety of the Empress, of course.’

For a mounted rider, Coil performed an admirable curtsied bow, and reined to fall back. Possum turned away. So — has she just announced herself as the source of all these initiatives and unexplained actions on the part of so many of the Claw? All running through here? Sadly for her I cannot risk not acting. There cannot be a parallel command structure. I should strike now, but I cannot forget what lies ahead. After all that, woman, should you still be alive… I'll kill you myself.

Captain Tazal, career soldier, of no famous family, newly installed, marched up to the Throne room of Unta, helmet under one arm, hand on the grip of his sword, and sweat slick on his brow. Guards opened the doors and entering he bowed just within the threshold. Raising his head he saw the throne empty, draped in a white satin cloth — of course, fool! He glanced about. Aside, rinsing his hands in a washbowl, he saw the current authority in the absence of the Empress, Mallick Rel, spokesperson of the Assembly.

Mallick turned from the bowl, dried his hands in a white cloth. ‘You have news, Captain, of this barbarian stain offending our lands?’

Our lands? But Tazal carefully held all emotion from his bearded face. ‘Fortress Jurda has capitulated. Insufficient garrison to withstand an assault.’

The Assemblyman held out the cloth and a servant took it. He clasped his hands across his wide stomach. He glanced down as if studying them. ‘I see. And whose decision was this to make?’

The captain sought to disguise a frown. What was this? Retribution? ‘The commander, the current Lord Jurda.’

‘Competent?’

‘In my view? Yes.’

‘Unfortunate…’

How so unfortunate? Unfortunate that the fortress has capitulated? Or unfortunate for the commander that he capitulated without permission? Or unfortunate for you that thousands of Wickan were now storming down upon you howling for your blood? Or, to give the Assemblyman some credit, unfortunate that a competent military commander viewed the situation so hopeless he capitulated? The captain wiped a sleeve across his brow, striving to keep his face flat. The man did appear admirably calm given the hole he'd dug for himself. Made of strong stuff, this fat conniver.

Still lowered, the Assemblyman's gaze slanted aside to the unoccupied throne. His pale round face appeared even more bloated. The Sword of the Empire has left for the west, Captain. What advice would you offer us?’

Us? From all accounts the captain had heard of this self-proclaimed Sword it was damned lucky the man was in the west and not with them. Then the captain realized the enormity of what had just been requested. Good Soliel! Here he was, a mere garrison commander just raised to captain, never dreaming of seeing the inside of the throneroom, being asked for advice from the most powerful man in the Empire? Well, at least his wife will be pleased. Yet what on Burn's Earth should he, or could he, say to the man? Perhaps, as his father used to say, if you're going to get drunk, might as well throw in the whole deck. He coughed into a fist to clear his throat. One war at a time, sir. Their timing is exquisite. We can't beat them. We must negotiate. Buy them off. Deal with them later.’

Sallow eyes still on the throne, the Assemblyman's thick lips pursed. His fingers, entwined across his stomach, stirred restlessly, reminding the captain of some sort of pale undersea creature. The urge to lash out is almost overwhelming,‘ the man muttered almost as if he'd forgotten the captain's presence. ‘Exterminating these vermin from the face of the world my most dear wish…’ Tazal wondered if he ought to hear any of this yet he dared not say anything, or even breathe. Mallick announced more loudly: Tactical frankness is like a smooth clean cut in battle, captain — much appreciated. I cannot dispute the straight thrust of your thinking. Ruthless cold pragmatism. Refreshing.’ He nodded to himself as if what he'd heard confirmed his own thoughts. ‘Yes. We will send an envoy to open negotiations.’

Tazal clashed a fist to his newly fitted cuirass. The envoy, Assemblyman?’

The fingers stopped weaving. ‘Why, yourself, of course. Promoted under my authority to the rank of Fist.’

After the captain exited the Throne room and the doors closed Mallick also left, but by a small side door, leaving behind the court functionaries, clerks and servants for a small private audience chamber. After a moment Oryan entered the room by another door. Mallick fixed the dark-skinned, tattooed man with a long hard stare. ‘Why, servant of mine, are you still here?’

The old man remained unperturbed, his long dark face impassive. The Wickans are not important enough.’

Tight-lipped, Mallick grated, ‘I gave you strict orders.’

‘Your problem in the past has been your nurturing of grudges and your predilection for vendetta.’ The slim old man, limbs no more than bone and writhing, faded blue tattoos, made a casting away gesture. ‘You must learn to abandon such urges if you wish to actually succeed.’

Mallick's eyes bulged his outrage, hissed splutterings escaped his lips bringing spittle with them. He brought his pudgy fisted hands to his face. ‘You would dare!’

Again, unperturbed, the Seven Cities shaman's eyes remained bland. ‘Which do you wish? Petty satisfaction or achievement of your ambitions? Choose!’

Mallick sucked in a great shuddering breath, forced his hands down. ‘Past failures would indicate flaws in my choices, yes. Though I dearly wish them utterly destroyed they are currently no dire threat, true. No fearsome Wickan curses winging my way. Yes, Oryan. At this time attention to them would be counter to productive, yes? Very well. Annoying distractions, they are, from the main stage. Like a loud man at the theatre. An irritation to be endured by us — the more cultured.’ Mallick crossed an arm over his chest then propped his other upon it and pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead. ‘And so further insult is to be endured from these unwashed illiterates, as my advisers suggest.’

An insouciant shrug. ‘As I say. They are of no importance.’

‘Very good. So, the west, then. And speaking of the west — any word from our beautiful murderess?’

‘None since she left with the fleet. I believe she secured a position as an officer's whore.’

‘Careful, Oryan. Your biases are showing. No doubt she has the man enslaved.’

‘As I said — a whore.’

‘Yes, well. You may have a point there.’

A discreet knock at one door. Mallick gestured Oryan out, crossed to it. ‘Yes?’

‘Matter of a property dispute, Assemblyman,’ a voice quavered through the door. Mallick pulled it open. ‘A what?’

A court clerk bowed extremely low. ‘As the authority present in the capital, sir. A property dispute has arisen out of the rebuilding efforts

Mallick stared at the man, his bulging eyes blinked. ‘And this is a matter you bring to me now?’

‘The parties involved are most insistent, and of the highest rank and most prestigious families…’

‘Then perhaps a city magistrate would no doubt be appropriate.’

The clerk bowed again. ‘Sadly, said magistrate's family has been proven to be distantly related to one of the claimants…’

Mallick clasped his hands at his stomach, his eyes narrowed to angry slits. ‘Very well, court clerk. Here is my judgment upon the case that said self-important appellants are so keen to bring before me to the exclusion of all else I may have to attend to. Said plot of land or property is to be divided exactly in half and fifty per cent given to each party — even if said property constitutes a slave. Am I understood?’

The clerk bowed deeply again — perhaps to hide the tight grin that he fought to disguise. ‘Excellent, sir. I shall write up the papers immediately.’

‘That should winnow the line of petitioners, do you not think?’

‘Most drastically, sir.’

For the next few days while they skirted the Jacuruku north coast, Traveller lay at the bow gripped in a fever of sweats and shuddering chills. Ereko guided the Kite while Kyle and the Lost brothers slept in turns. The third night Traveller suddenly cried out, weeping in-consolably, his body wrenched with the violence of his convulsions. Kyle went to the Thel Akai's side. ‘What did they do to him, those mages?’

Ereko was surprised. Under their broad bone ridge, his argent eyes flicked to Kyle, smiled their reassurance, then returned to scanning the shore. ‘They? Nothing. He carries his illness with him. It has been whispering to him all these months. I have seen it growing upon him day by day. Those fools with their interference have weakened him and now he feels its pull keenly.’

‘You cannot cure it?’

A shake of his shaggy head. ‘You have not guessed, Kyle? It is the sword he carries. That is not a blade meant for any human, no matter who. It brings with it the memories of terrible things. Bloodshed, yes. But much worse — acts of cruelty and of soul-corroding anguish. It was forged ages ago by the one known as the Son of Darkness, Anomandaris. Know you of him?’

‘Yes. We have legends of him. Stories of the Moon itself floating overhead and dragons soaring.’ Those fireside tales no longer sounded so incredible to Kyle.

‘It has held many names over the ages. Anger. Rage. Vengeance. Of them all, he chose for himself vengeance. A choice we should perhaps be grateful for. Now that choice eats at him like acid. I pray it will not taint his spirit.’

Kyle watched the man, curled up under a cloak, hands clenched in his sweat-slick hair, his face hidden behind his forearms. ‘Then we should take it from him.’

The giant grasped Kyle's upper arm in his massive grip. ‘No. You mustn't. He would strike without thought. Would you add yet another burden to his conscience?’

‘Then what can we do?’

Without turning his head, Ereko slid his bright gaze to Kyle in a strange sort of sideways regard. He bared his tusk-like teeth in a one-sided grin. ‘You can pray, Kyle.’

Kyle flinched away. Pray? Is there so little hope? He moved off to lie down next to the Lost brothers wrapped in cloaks and blankets. Pray? To who? He thought of the bewildering array of Gods, spirits and heroes he'd heard mentioned since leaving Bael lands. None appealed to him. That left his old guardian and tribal ancestral spirits going back all the way to their legendary progenitor, Father Wind. Perhaps that very entity taken from him by the very company he joined? Yet, as time has passed, it all seemed so unreal to him.

The gentle night waves rocked the Kite, and the susurration of the nearby surf whispered rhythmically. Kyle eventually did slip into an uneasy sleep. He repeated his people's ancient invocation:

Great All Father,

Whose breath cleanses, brings life,

Guide me. Show me my path.

Kyle awoke, spluttering and coughing on a mouthful of smoke. He lay in a tent made of roughly sewn hides. But not a tent like the one he'd recently slept in; this one was cramped and dark, its ceiling low. A hunched figure, a man or a woman, occupied half the sagging quarters. A brazier next to the occupant sent out gouts of smoke that made Kyle's eyes water and his breath catch in his throat. Outside, a strong wind blew, gusting at the sides of the frail construction. The figure waved a hand wrapped in tatters of cloth. Its shape was unnervingly strange and distorted. ‘Apologies for the poor domestic arrangements. Recent setbacks have reduced my circumstances.’

‘Where am I? Where is everyone?’

‘You are not so far away from your ship and your friends, Kyle.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Who am I?’ The shape rocked back and forth, cackling. ‘A friend, of course. One who has, how shall I put it — intervened — to help.’

‘Help?’

‘Yes. Help you. Whereas those you erroneously pray to ignore your pleas, I, however, am always responsive.’

Kyle attempted to wave the choking fumes from his face. ‘How did I get here?’

A great gust of wind kicked the frail tent and the figure hissed indistinct mouthings under its breath. ‘Never mind that, Kyle. Time is pressing. Your friend is ill. It lies within my power to ease his sufferings. What say you? For a small price I will sooth his misery, calm his nightmares. Do you not wish to see him revive?’

‘Yes, of course — but what price?’

‘Oh, nothing awful, I assure you. Nothing like your blood or your spirit or anything absurd like that. No. However, I am interested in that sword you carry. It has unusual characteristics. You could say I have an interest in uncommon weapons.’ The arms opened in a shrug. ‘There you have it. Nothing unreasonable. Surely you do not value this blade above your friend's health and recovery?’

Kyle blinked to clear his blurring vision, coughed into a fist. ‘No, of course not. But why-’

A wind slammed the tent with a thundering boom, completely flattening one side. The figure pressed both hands against the bulging hides, snarling, ‘No! I am master here! Be gone!’

A woman's voice came cutting through the howling wind then. It rose and fell as if calling from a great distance. Kyle cocked his head, straining to listen. ‘You are not the master here. Chained One,’ the voice seemed to scold. ‘Come, Kyle. Come away.’

Unable to stand, Kyle crawled on his hands and knees towards the entry. ‘You!’ the figure roared. ‘How dare you! There will be retribution! I will remember this!’ Kyle reached the flap, scrabbled under it. ‘Wait! I can tell you what you carry — don't you want to know? Aren't you curious? How you've been betrayed? Used?’

‘Speak not of using others, great deceiver,’ the voice answered.

On his elbows, Kyle pulled himself out from under the hide into the night to find himself before the bare feet of a woman. She stood above him, her pale slim body wrapped in loose gossamer scarves the colour of darkest night that whipped sinuous in the wind. The long veil over her face flicked like a banner and her black hair lashed about her face. She turned and walked away.

‘And you! Speak not of deception^ was the last thing Kyle heard spat from within the tent.

Stumbling, crawling, he followed the woman. Broken wood and tatters of cloth littered the beach; it looked as though a shipwreck had crashed ashore. None of it seemed to obstruct the woman yet Kyle had to pick his way carefully. At one point the wind brought a long-drawn-out mournful howling like that of a hound. The woman's head snapped aside, to the north, and she raised a pale languid hand as if waving something away, then continued on. Kyle joined her far down the strand, the surf licking his sandals. ‘Where am I?’ he gasped.

Back to him, scanning the sea's starry horizon, she said, ‘It is a dream, Kyle. Only a dream. Nothing more.’ She turned her oval, achingly beautiful, veiled face to him. ‘And you are haunted.’

‘By you?’

A teasing smile; a cool hand at his brow. ‘Among others,’ and she gestured down the beach. Kyle squinted — there, through the curtains of blowing sand, a figure, shouting, a hand at his mouth. An old man, one-handed…

‘Stoop! Yes, I see you! What? What is it?’

‘He was banished to Hood's most distant Paths,’ the woman explained. ‘Yet not utterly, for the Vow holds him still in bindings that cannot be broken. And so he is caught between Realms. Cast away yet linked to you.’

‘To me?’

‘Yes. He chose you to speak to — as is the custom among the fallen Avowed. Their “Brethren” I believe they are named.’

Brethren. So, that is who they are.

She extended a naked arm, pointed a long finger out to the expanse of water. ‘And there you are.’

Kyle squinted out to the dark sea. Far out, past the phosphor glow of breakers at a reef, was the pale patch of a sail passing east to west. ‘What? Is that me?’

His vision blurred and he fell to his knees. ‘Sleep now, soldier,’ the Goddess whispered, and he pitched forward into the surf. Water splashed his face.

‘Kyle? Kyle!’ He opened his eyes: Ereko's anxious face loomed above him, his long stringy hair hanging down. The giant shook water from his hand. ‘How are you now, lad?’

Kyle wiped his wet cold face, blinking. ‘Fine, fine. What is it? What happened?’

‘What happened?’ Pain clenched Ereko's brow and looked away. ‘What happened was my fault. I am sorry. It was… more perilous… than I imagined. But it turned out well in the end. My Lady won't thank me for it, though.’

‘Who was that thing?’

‘That was the poison corrupting the Warrens, Kyle, and more. The Outsider. Some call him the Chained God, others the Crippled God, for he, or it, is broken, shattered. His presence here has infected this land.’

‘He seemed… sick.’

‘We are no doubt a sickness to him — for he is from elsewhere. He was brought here unwillingly, and now suffers eternally. Myself, I pity his plight.‘ Ereko took Kyle's arm in his huge hand, his eyes searching. ‘I'm sorry, Kyle. I did not expect such a strong reaction from all involved. But it forced her to act and now all is well. It is Traveller. He's awake, and he's asking for you.’ Ereko handed him a skin of water. Kyle gulped it down then crab-walked hunched to the bow. Traveller sat with the Lost brothers, propped up against the bow, a blanket at his shoulders. His long dark hair was plastered across his brow, hung lank about the blanket. He appeared exhausted but his eyes were sharp and clear. Kyle squatted in front of him.

‘How are you?’ the man asked.

‘How am J? Fine. What about you?’

Traveller looked past him to the stern where Ereko watched. ‘I am fine now as well,‘ he said, his eyes on the Thel Akai. ‘They were just dreams. Bad dreams. I see that now.’ He offered Kyle a hand; Kyle took it and he squeezed. ‘My thanks.’

‘Thanks? For what?’

‘For your patience. Your faith.’

Confused, Kyle shrugged. He moved to leave but Traveller held his hand. ‘We are close now. Very close. Whatever happens do not interfere. This is between Ereko and me. Yes?’

Kyle shrugged again. ‘Certainly.’

‘Thank you.’ He released Kyle's hand.

Still confused, Kyle headed back to his blanket. Stalker had moved to lie there, an arm over his face. ‘Maybe we can all get back to sleep now,’ the man grumbled. Kyle looked to Ereko who winked.

The next morning saw a coast of ruins. Sun-bleached pillars of cyclopean stones stood canted amid dunes. Jetties of stone lay submerged just visible beneath the clear cerulean surface, overgrown by coral and seaweed. Inland, the remains of an immense dome of blindingly white stone hung half collapsed at an angle. Next to Ereko, Kyle peeled one of the local fruits. He looked to the giant who nodded. The Dolmans of Tien. We are close. Close to many things.’

After the ruins of the ancient city they came to where a smooth plain of hard wind-scoured sands met the coast. Here all remains of occupation ended and menhirs, or stone pillars, stood, isolated and distinct. Coming around the headland of a bay Kyle saw that the menhirs continued on in even more numbers, like a forest of stone, for as far as he could see inland. The Dolmans,’ Ereko said. He swung the tiller for the shore.

‘And K'azz?’

‘From what you have told me I imagine he must be imprisoned within one of these.’

Kyle stared. Imprisoned within one of these? ‘But there's thousands of them!’

‘Yes.’

‘How will we even know where to begin?’

Ereko tapped Kyle as lightly as he could on the back, rocking him. ‘Do not despair, lad, we'll know.’

A collection of ramshackle huts occupied the beach whose ragged inhabitants stood staring, too beaten down or famished even to run. Jumping ashore, Traveller adjusted his hauberk beneath his salt-stained leathers, drew the mottled magenta blade a hand's breadth from its black wooden sheath and slammed it home. Before the man turned away Kyle glimpsed a clenched ache on his features that made him wince. Having secured the Kite, Ereko tried speaking with a few of the cringing fisher-folk but quickly abandoned the effort.

‘They know nothing,’ he told them. The interior, the Dolmans, are just sources of terror for them. They have turned their backs upon them.’

‘What do we do then?’ Kyle asked, unable to keep an edge of irritation from his voice.

His back to them, Traveller said, ‘We will follow Ereko.’

Stalker, at Kyle's side, nodded silent assent. He signed to the brothers, who checked their blades then jogged off to the right and left. ‘I'll bring up the rear.’

Kyle was surprised. ‘Shouldn't you-’

‘Walk with me, Kyle,’ Traveller invited.

Smiling his reassurance to Kyle, Ereko set off ahead. Traveller handed Kyle a strip of smoked fish taken from the bundles supplied by Jhest. He took a bite and handed it back as they walked.

The pillars were built of stones carved to sit one atop the other, diminishing smoothly on six facets to a blunt tip just taller than Ereko himself. They stood some five paces apart in immensely long rows running east-west and north-south. Looking carefully Kyle could discern a curve to the east-west rows, as if they described a series of nested arcs, or vast circles. ‘What is this?’ he asked of Traveller.

Ereko answered, ‘A cemetery, mainly. However, it served many other functions for those who built it. Ritual centre, timepiece, observatory, calendar, temple and prison.’

‘Did your people build it?’

‘Goddess, no, Kyle. We were not builders. No, this was raised ages ago by a people long gone. Humans, like yourself, of a close lineage.’

‘You have been here before?’

The Thel Akai glanced back, a smile of amusement at his lips. ‘No.’

‘Then where are you leading us?’

A shrug of the massive shoulders. ‘To the centre. I find that the centre is often a good place to start.’

‘Do not worry,’ Traveller said, also smiling at Kyle's discomfort. ‘Ereko knows what he is doing. Can you say the same?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that I gather you intend to try to rescue or release this Prince K'azz D'Avore, commander of the Crimson Guard. Do you think that wise?’

‘Wise?’

The man's dark-blue eyes watched him sideways, gauging. His beard of silver and black bristles gave him a grave, priestly look. ‘Yes.’

‘The Guard's become a band of murderers. Skinner has-’

‘Skinner? Traveller interrupted, then mastered himself with an effort.

‘Yes… He killed one of their own right before my eyes. Only K'azz can restore the Guard to what it should be.’

Traveller's gaze was averted, but in it, and in his tight down-turned mouth, Kyle read sadness coupled with a strange amusement, as if at some grim joke known only to himself. ‘Indeed. To what it should be. And what might that be, I wonder?’

‘I–I don't know, but it would have to be an improvement. Only the Duke can bring Skinner to heel.’

‘Can he? I wonder…’

Ahead, Ereko stopped, raising a hand. Coming abreast of him Kyle saw that they had reached the innermost ring of pillars. Before them lay a flat circular plaza the size of a city centre floored entirely by pale, off-white, wind-scoured gravel. The gathering shadows of the afternoon revealed that the pavement was not smooth, but that the stones were intricately set in lines. Some lines bisected the expanse, some curved, some were straight, each was marked out only in shadow by the arrangement of the stones. Indeed, from where Kyle stood, it appeared as if a forest of lines, some gently curving arcs or tight curls, others straight as sword blades, crawled about the gravelled floor of the plaza like, well, an infinity of paths. But all were marked only in shadow. The stones were all identical, all the same shade of creamy off-white. One could not tell which stone was part of which line. And even as they all stood staring in fascination, Coots and Badlands coming to stand with them, the sun moved a fraction and all the lines writhed with it like shadows jumping to new tracery.

‘Incredible,’ Ereko breathed. ‘Would that I had known its makers. A construct worthy of the great artificer Icarium.’

‘Do we cross?’ Stalker asked.

‘Our goal is across the way.’

‘We go around,’ Traveller said.

Kyle felt unaccountable relief at that pronouncement. But he also felt a deeper unease, for here was a man who surely must have no need to fear anything, yet even he was wary of this place. They slowly traced their way around half the circumference. All the while, Kyle watched the plaza: no bird landed, no leaf blew, no twig or dry weed tumbled across the expanse. All was still. It was as if the space were somehow sealed off from the normal littered, overgrown expanse of sand surrounding it.

Eventually, Ereko stopped at a pillar that, as far as Kyle could see, was no different from any other. He knelt to study its base for a time. ‘This is where we must dig, I believe.’

‘Dig?’ Kyle asked in disbelief.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘But, is he… dead…?’

The giant frowned. ‘From what you have told me of these Avowed, I presume not.’

‘Then…’ Words failed Kyle. Father Wind! To be buried alive for so long, unable to die. His mind must be gone…

The brothers set to without question. They fell to their knees, began dragging armfuls of sand aside. Seeing Kyle watch, Coots commented aside, ‘The sooner we're outta here the better…’ Kyle got to his knees to help. An arm's length down they met harder ground, firm tough dirt, a deeper hue of yellow, damp and cold. Out came boot-knives and short blunt eating blades. The fighting blades stayed sheathed. It came to look to Kyle as if the Thel Akai must have been right in selecting this one particular pillar out of the countless thousands, for the ground was broken, the lower matrix mixed with the sands from above. Someone had dug here before them.

They reached a flat stone barrier, roughly hewn. Feeling about the edges Badlands revealed a paving stone or lid, roughly square, about an arm's length in each direction. He pushed his fingers under one edge and, straining, lifted. The stone grated, rose and fell leaning. Badlands edged aside to reveal a small dark cavity, like a large urn. Within, arms wrapped tightly around knees tucked to its chest, was a desiccated corpse.

Badlands gestured. ‘This the guy?’

‘How should I know? I've never seen him!’

‘He don't look so good,’ Coots said, brushing sand from his beard.

‘Oh, you think so? Ereko?’ But the Thel Akai had turned away and was scanning the grounds. ‘Ereko?’

The giant glanced down, his amber eyes churning with heavy sadness. ‘I'm sorry, Kyle. I'd hoped you'd be successful. It would make… well, I'm sorry.’

Puzzled, Kyle peered about the surrounding dunes, his eyes narrowing. ‘What's going on?’

Traveller had stepped down and crouched over the corpse. He lifted its skull to examine its ravaged face, wrenched its right hand free to examine it, then straightened.

‘Well?’ Kyle asked.

Traveller too was looking aside. ‘It might be him,’ he said, distractedly. ‘Hard to say.’

‘What's going on, Lady take it!’

Stalker's head snapped up and he leapt aside, facing east, a hand at his sword. The brothers crouched behind the cover of the piled sand. Traveller straight-armed Kyle to fall backwards into the pit. ‘Hey!’

Peering up over the lip, Kyle saw that a wind had arisen, a twisting dust-devil that kicked up clouds of sand. Within, darkness gathered, a ragged gap that Kyle recognized as the opening of a Warren. Greyness moiled behind the fissure. Then, with a clap, it was gone and the sands settled. An armoured man now occupied the space between two pillars. He was tall, gaunt, looking exceptionally old. His face was dark and lined, ravaged by age, and his long grey hair hung lank. His mail shirt hung to his ankles, a plain bastard sword was at his side. He approached, scanning everyone briefly. The open scorn of his gaze set Kyle's teeth on edge. The eyes fixed upon Ereko and a hungry smile twisted the old man's mouth. He called something in a language unknown to Kyle.

‘Talian is a common tongue here,’ Ereko answered.

The man paused, inclined his head fractionally. ‘Very well… I had lost hope, Ereko. Yet here you are. Seems we've played the longest waiting game in history, you and I.’

‘I play no games, Kallor.’

‘Coy to the end, then. Come,’ he gestured Ereko forward impatiently, ‘let me complete my last remaining vow.’

‘Let me take him,’ Stalker said, straightening.

Ereko shot out a hand. ‘No! No one must interfere. This is between him and me.’

‘You aren't armed, Ereko,’ Kyle called.

The giant turned a wistful smile to Kyle. ‘It is all right. Don't worry, Kyle. This is what I have chosen.’ He took a long ragged breath. ‘I'll not meet you with a weapon in my hand, Kallor. That would dishonour the memory of why I am here.’

The man shrugged. ‘As you will. It would make no difference, in any case.’

‘Traveller, do something!’ Kyle begged.

The swordsman did not answer. Kyle was shaken to see tears staining the man's face. He gripped and regripped the hilts of his sword. ‘I'm sorry, Kyle,’ he ground out, almost gasping. ‘This was our agreement.’

‘Well, I made no such Hood-damned agreement…’ Kyle climbed from the pit, went for his tulwar. Traveller grabbed his arm, twisted it behind him. Pain flamed in his shoulder. ‘Damn you!’ he gasped.

‘I sometimes think that is so,’ the man answered in a voice almost broken in emotion.

Ereko stepped forward, arms open. ‘Come then yourself, High King. I know no fear.’

Despite facing an unarmed opponent, the one named Kallor retreated. Perhaps he wondered if this were some sort of elaborate trap. Or was incapable of understanding what was unfolding. After a few steps back he scowled anew, drew his sword. ‘Do not think that I will be moved by such a display.’

‘Be assured that in your case I am under no such misapprehension.’

Badlands and Coots jumped atop the piled sands, weapons out. ‘Hold!’ Traveller barked.

‘He's gonna get killed!’ Badlands called.

‘It is his decision.’

‘No,’ Kallor snarled, shifting forward. ‘It is mine!’

For all his apparent age, this ‘High King’ moved with stunning speed. The bastard sword's long blade thrust high then was quickly withdrawn to slash down Ereko's front. The giant clenched his arms around himself and fell to his knees. Kallor thrust a second time. The blade pierced the back of Ereko's shirt then withdrew. Silent, Ereko toppled to his side.

Kyle covered his face, horrified. Yet he knew he should bear witness and so he forced himself to look up again, his eyes searing.

Kallor drew his blade across the fallen giant's clothes to clean it. He looked down for a time, musingly. ‘Too easy by far. Though oddly satisfying all the same. But-’ he leant forward. ‘What's this — breathing still?’ He shifted to stand closer to Ereko's shoulders. ‘I think I will take the head.’

‘No, you will not,’ Traveller announced.

The High King straightened, blade rising. ‘A little late for your friend, don't you think? Pangs of delayed guilt? Then again,’ and the man struck a ready stance, ‘please do. I came for a fight. Perhaps you can provide me one.’

Traveller edged forward carefully. ‘I speak now because the terms of my agreement with my friend have been observed.’

‘And now you wish revenge. Yes, yes. It's all so drearily predictable.’

Traveller flinched as if stabbed. He raised a hand, pointing. ‘Speak not to me of vengeance, Kallor.’ Kyle was shaken, hearing in Traveller's words echoes of the night before. ‘The one who lies before you made me swear off any vengeance in his name and I respect his wishes. And so I say to you — go now! You have struck mortal blows. Ereko will die of them soon enough.’

Kallor drew himself up tall. His mouth curled his contempt and disbelief. ‘You dare dismiss me! Had you the least idea of who and what I am you would run now and not stop until beneath the waves!’

Traveller eased his blade in its scabbard. ‘There are those who would say the same of me…’

A smile broke through the man's glower and he stepped free of Ereko, sweeping his blade wide in an invitation. ‘Then by all means, come. I will take both your heads.’

‘Flee now, High King, or I will act.’

The man made a show of peering first to the right and then the left. ‘I appear not to have fled.’

Traveller drew his blade. ‘That is good enough for me.’

The two closed, feet shuffling slowly and carefully, blades extended. Kyle was worried, for the High King had just demonstrated amazing speed and his bastard sword was a much heavier blade than Traveller's. Not to mention that the man was more heavily armoured.

The blades touched, scraping. Both held two-handed grips. They clashed once, iron snarling. They clashed again, parrying, then Traveller was somehow before Kallor, his fists at the man's chest, blade thrust completely through to the hilt. Kyle gaped and Kallor stared as well, just as astonished. One of his mailed hands went to Traveller's grip while the other swung his weapon. Traveller snapped up a hand to clasp the man's forearm. They held like that for a time, circling and straining, Kallor's blade held high while Traveller's slim dark blade thrust straight from Kallor's back. Kyle was chilled to see no blood upon that blade.

Fury changed to consternation to disbelief on the High King's lined face as his eyes widened and his lips peeled back from grey teeth. ‘Who… are… you?’ he ground out. Edging his head closer, Traveller spoke, his words lost beneath Kallor's gasped breaths. The High King blanched, flinching away. ‘No! Chained One, aid me!’

A wind gathered around the two. The High King glanced behind himself where darkness blossomed. He gave Traveller a mocking smile. ‘As you can see, apostate, though you have the better of me this time, I am just as difficult to overcome as you. And my Patron is very strong here. In this place, especially…’ He threw himself backwards, sliding off Traveller's blade into the darkness of a gap that cracked open that instant. Traveller appeared ready to throw himself in, but Stalker, leaping forward, pushed him aside.

The gateway disappeared with a sharp explosion of air. Traveller stood motionless for a time, staring at where the portal had been. Beside him, it was Stalker who was gasping for breath, his face sweaty. ‘I thought you weren't going to strike him,’ he said. Traveller sheathed his sword. ‘That was long overdue for another friend.’

Kyle ran to Ereko, threw himself down at his side. The Thel Akai was conscious, panting shallowly. Traveller knelt with Kyle. ‘He is gone,’ he told Ereko.

The giant gave a curt jerk of his head. ‘I go too,‘ he said, laboured, ‘to join my people. I have been a long time from them. I have missed them. Thank you, my friend.’ Glancing to Kyle, he offered a weak smile. ‘Do not mourn me. And do not give in to sorrow. I will always be with you, yes? This is necessary, here and now. Necessary…’

Traveller stood. ‘Farewell.’

Kyle remained on his knees, thinking, someone ought to do something. Why wasn't someone doing something? The Thel Akai's skin took on a grey pallor, roughening. Before Kyle's eyes the flesh transformed to gritty grey stone. The stone cracked, crumbled and flaked. Kyle could not help but pull away, unnerved. ‘What's happening?’

‘He's returning to the Earth. To his mother,’ Traveller said softly, reverently. ‘As it should be…’ and he scanned the horizons, hand on his sword grip.

Even as Traveller spoke Ereko's flesh crumbled to a dust that the wind pulled away. In moments nothing remained. Traveller whispered something that sounded to Kyle like a prayer.

Behind them, the brothers spoke with Stalker who then approached. ‘We'd best go,’ he said, his voice low.

Traveller nodded, ‘Yes.’ He moved to take Kyle's arm but Kyle flinched away.

‘How can you just leave him here!’

‘He's gone, Kyle. The wind has taken him and he will be of the earth once more. It is what he wished.’

The burning in Kyle's chest flared at those words. ‘And how could you have let this happen! You could have stopped it!’

The swordsman's dark-blue eyes widened in shock, then he lowered them and turned away. ‘We should go,’ he said, his voice thick.

Stalker took Kyle's arm. ‘Don't be angry with the man,’ he mumured. But Kyle pulled his arm free.

‘He might as well have killed Ereko himself!’

‘Kyle — that's not…’ but the scout could say no more. He shook his head and walked away, signalling something to his brothers.

Kyle fell to his knees next to where the giant had lain. He reached out to pass his hands over the sands. Gone. He felt as if his heart had been torn from his chest. He'd sworn never to feel this way again, yet somehow this affected him so much more than that day atop the Spur. Someone so kind and wise — how could this have happened? It was not right. Drops of tears wet the sands. His hands found a leather thong and a stone, the necklace he'd seen on Ereko. The stone had a hole through which the thong ran and was smooth and translucent, like amber. He clenched it in his fist and stood.

Feeling oddly as if he were sleepwalking, he headed back, retracing their steps. Distantly, he was aware of Coots and Badlands keeping an eye on him. Reaching the shore and the Kite pulled up on the strand only pained Kyle further. The Lost brothers worked together with Traveller to ready it. Kyle sat and watched them, the ocean and the steady surf. An old man came walking up the beach from the direction of the village. ‘Greetings,’ he called in Talian.

Kyle looked to Traveller who merely returned to his work. Shrugging, Kyle faced the man. ‘Yes? You speak Talian?’

‘Yes. I'm of Gris. Was shipwrecked here years ago.’ His long, straight, greying hair whipped in the off-shore wind. His beard and moustache were a startling white against his lean, sun-darkened features. He wore the ragged, bleached remains of a shirt, leather vest and trousers. His feet were bare and cracked.

‘And?’

The man's eyes narrowed to slits and he glanced away. ‘Was hoping you'd offer a berth — passage anywhere but here.’

‘I don't think so. We're not really-’

‘I know these waters well. I could guide you through them. Been fishing here for years. Where are you headed?’

Kyle was at a loss. Yes, where were they headed? He looked to Traveller; the man's back was turned as he was stowing the bundles and refilled water casks. ‘Quon Tali,’ the man finally said.

‘Quon! Then please, Lady's Mercy! You must take me.’

Kyle glanced sharply to the man — Lady's Mercy? But no, why read anything into that. No doubt it was a common enough Talian oath. ‘It's not really for me to say…’ he looked again, a little sullenly, to Traveller.

The man was coiling rope. His back to them, he hung his head then raised it as if entreating the sky. ‘It's your decision, Kyle.’

‘Then I suppose so. What's your name?’

‘Jan.’

Kyle made the introductions. The Lost brothers greeted the man but Traveller did not turn around. ‘We should catch the night tide,’ was all he said.

Jan gestured to the village. ‘I'll just get some supplies.’

‘Be quick about it,’ Traveller called after him.

They had the Kite out in the shallows when Jan returned burdened by skins of water, bundles of fruits and pale root tubers. Pushing his way out into the surf he tossed the goods over the side then climbed in. Stalker yielded the tiller. Kyle and the brothers handled the sail. Traveller sat at the bow, arms crossed over his knees. Jan turned them north.

After a time, as the stars came out, Kyle sat against the side and set his chin on the gunwale. He stared back at the dark line on the horizon that was the coast of Jacaruku. His suggestion to come to the Dolmans had been a disaster for them. K'azz dead or gone. Ereko slain. And, Kyle now worried, he may have insulted Traveller beyond forgiveness with his words back at the Dolmans. He saw that now. But he'd been so angry. He'd given no thought to the fact that the man had known Ereko far longer than he. And now Traveller was taking them to Quon — the very destination of the Guard. Perhaps he meant to hand Kyle over to them. It suddenly occurred to him that Traveller might actually blame him for his friend's death; if he hadn't suggested this destination of Jacuruku out of all possible headings then Ereko would still be alive. He glanced to the bow. The man was awake, brooding, it seemed to Kyle. His eyes were glittering in the dark, fixed on the seemingly oblivious Jan at the tiller, whose gaze held just as steady to the north-east horizon.

For Toc the assault began with a burgeoning roar that shook the hooves and flesh of his mount before it struck his gut. To the south, what seemed the entire horizon lit up behind the Outer Round curtain wall as incendiaries flew tall arcs in both directions over the Inner Round walls: inward from Talian catapults and outward from Hengan onagers. Remnants of the Talian legion that had participated in the original assault watched from the pickets alongside the gathered camp followers and support staff of armourers, cooks, drovers, washerwomen, prostitutes and trooper's wives and their children.

Beyond the encampment bands of Seti roved the fitfully lit hillsides, chanting warsongs, waving lances, bellowing their encouragement and cursing the Hengans. Toc longed to be in the thick of things with Choss, though well could he imagine the horror of it: frontal escalades were always high in body counts. Pure naked ferocity versus ferocity.

As the assault dragged on into the night, the constant low roar not abating, up out of the night came the White Jackal shaman, Imotan, and his bodyguard to Toc and his staff. The shaman urged his mount to Toc's side. A simple leather band secured the old man's grey hair and his leathers were mud-spattered. Instead of a lance he carried a short baton tufted in white fur held tight across his chest. The old man's eyes blazed bright, either in excitement or alarm, Toc wasn't sure. ‘What is it?’

‘You must get all your people inside,’ Imotan called.

‘Why? A sortie?’

‘No. Something is coming. For you, something terrible. Yet for us, a prophecy fulfilled.’

Toc stared his confusion. Was the man mad? ‘What do you mean?’

‘Ryllandaras is coming. I feel him. I can almost smell his breath.’

‘Ryllandaras?’ The man must be mad. It was impossible. He'd been imprisoned long ago. ‘No. You must be mistaken.’

Imotan flinched away, glowering. ‘Do not insult me, Malazan.’ He sawed his mount around. ‘Very well. I have done my part. Ignore me and die.’ The White Jackal shaman stormed off into the night surrounded by his bodyguard.

Toc watched him go then straightened up tall in his saddle, peering to the left and right, squinting at the lines. Surely the old man would not have come to him unless he was certain. But still, Ryllandaras, after all this time? And why now?

‘Rider!’ he called.

One of his staff urged his mount alongside. ‘Sir?’

‘Go to Urko's command. Tell them the Seti warn of a dangerous presence out in the night.’

‘Sir.’ The messenger kicked his mount and rode off.

‘Captain Moss?’

‘Sir?’

‘Take a troop and do a circuit of the perimeter. Warn the pickets to be sharp.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The captain saluted and reined his mount away.

There. But had he done all he could? Should he warn Choss? No, the man had more than enough to handle, electing to direct the assault from the front. He would wait to see if anything came of this — on the face of it — utterly outrageous claim.

It was a full hour later, close to midnight, when a woman in a dress torn and stained dark came walking out of camp. She headed straight to Toc, as silent as a ghost, her eyes empty, hands held out before her dark and wet. His men shouted, pointing. Toc stared. He could not speak; would not believe. He slid from his mount and took her hands sticky with blood. ‘Where?’ he shouted. ‘Tell me where!’ She stared up at him, uncomprehending, her brow clenched in confusion.

‘They are dead,’ she told him. ‘Everyone is dead.’

‘Where, damn you!

‘By the creek.’

‘Blow to arms,’ he yelled. ‘Form square. Escort all civilians behind the walls!’

Far to the back of camp, screams sounded — not human — the shrill shrieks of terrified dying horses. Toc straightened. Gods preserve all of us. He remembered. He remembered Ryllandaras. He'd been there. Not even Dassem could kill him. They had nothing. Nothing to counter the Curse of Quon, eater of men. The man-jackal, brother of Trake, god of war.

Escorted by a bodyguard of Malazan regulars, Storo climbed the Inner Round wall where Hurl waited. His surcoat was rent, blood smeared his gauntlets and his face glistened with sweat and soot. ‘This had better be good,’ he warned, his voice hoarse from shouting commands. ‘We're barely hanging on out there. We'd be overrun if it weren't for those three brothers. They're a right horror, they are.’

Hurl said nothing, her eyes avoiding his. Storo drew breath to speak but something in the timbre of the noise here stopped him; it was different from the tumult elsewhere: rather than rage, screams sounded alongside shouts of panic. And no escalade persisted here. He drew off his helmet, pulled back his mail hood revealing smeared blood where a blow had struck. ‘What is it?’

Hurl raised her chin to the parapet where, opposite, the north gate of the Outer Round wall stood. ‘It's begun.’

Storo climbed the parapet. A milling mass of humanity. Torches waved, Talian soldiers shouted and fought to maintain lines facing the half-closed North Plains Gate. Civilians crammed the portal, fought to pass the soldiers, screaming, pale hands grasping at armour. Nearby in the press, one of the few mounted figures gestured, shouting orders, his short grey hair and moustache bright in the gloom. He held a black recurve bow in one hand, emphasizing his orders with it.

‘Gods, Storo blurted as if gut-punched. ‘Toc. Toc himself.’ He glanced to Hurl. ‘Have you any bowmen here?’

‘No.’

‘Huh! The man's luck still holds.’ He stepped down, faced Hurl squarely. ‘Wait ‘til they're clear then do it.’

‘Must we?’

‘Yes, dammit! Otherwise we're lost.’

‘They'll be slaughtered. Soldiers and civilians alike.’

Storo pulled up his mail hood. ‘Then they should've stayed home. As for the civilians, they were warned. I have to go. May the Lady favour you.’

‘And you.’

Storo tramped back down the stairs. Hurl remained with her sergeant and squads of regulars guarding this section of the curtain wall. While she watched, passage was made for the clamouring civilians. The Talians formed lines of crossbowmen facing the gate as others struggled to close it. The last man staggering through was memorable, his dark surcoat and mail coat hanging in tatters, the remains of a shattered helmet swinging from his neck, twin sabres in his hands. Had he actually survived a melee with the man-eater? She'd probably never know. The second wing of the gate was levered shut and iron crossbars frantically lowered into place. Hurl turned to Sergeant Banath. ‘I want you down there.’

He saluted, jogged down the stairs. Along the Outer Wall Talian soldiers climbed to the parapets, scanned down beyond. Hands pointed, alarm was raised, crossbows fired. Hurl waited until the civilians were far clear of the gate then went to the inner lip of the stone walk. She peered down to torches lighting a crew, Sergeant Banath with them, in a trench dug tight against the wall. She looked to her right and left up and down the wall. ‘Brace yourselves!’ she shouted to the men. She raised a hand, thinking, with this hand I doom more men and women than I can imagine. What has happened to me that I could do such a thing? Was it Shaky's death? The attack of Fat Kepten's men? What did she care if Heng fell? Not at all, to tell the truth. No, the mean selfish fact of it was that she wanted to live and if the city fell she'd no doubt be executed.

She dropped her hand and threw herself down, covering her head. Below her, she could imagine a sledge being swung to bash a pipe that ran out underground across the entire breadth of the Outer Round to a stash of carefully ordered and bound Moranth munitions snug against the left gate jamb. There its pointed end would crack a sharper nestled within four cussors. The resultant explosion-

A shockwave kicked the breath from her. The thunderous blast of the munitions was lost on her deafened ears. A bloated roaring filled her head. Tiny rocks peppered her back. Blinking, shaking her head, she climbed to her feet. Smoke obscured the gates. Down in the Outer Round, strewn in wreckage, men and women were picking themselves up. Wounded staggered from the smoke carrying appalling wounds and Hurl's stomach churned. She'd known that not everyone had been far enough away, but most had — or so she told herself. Nearby buildings burned in ruins. And through the smoke something ran. She couldn't be sure; it had been too fast. Just a glimpse of paleness, but huge, smooth and terrifyingly fluid. Then it was gone.

She slumped down against the parapet. It was done. Now she too shared Quon's Curse. The blood it would spill from this night forward would now also steep her. She covered her face and great shuddering sobs shook her.

The report of the explosion startled Toc's mount and it sidestepped into a stall, became tangled in ropes and boxes, tripped and fell. He hit the cobbled road hard, losing his breath. The press around him closed in, hands raised him. Shouts and screams continued, only doubled now by the blast. Everyone was asking what had happened; Toc ignored them. He pushed to where his mount thrashed screaming among the shattered slats of the stall, leg broken. He drew his sword — poor animal — one of his favourites, but he couldn't leave it like this.

The instant the report of the eruption reached him he knew what had happened. They'd blown the outer gate. The fierce calculated cruelty of the plan left him awed. Enfilade. Here they were drawn in and trapped between high walls. Death hunting them. By morning the Outer Round would be one long slaughterhouse as Ryllandaras slaked a near century of blood thirst. He had to get to Choss. He raised his sword high in both hands and swung.

Picking up his bow he straightened, shouted, ‘Get indoors, hide. Defend yourselves.’

Soldiers looked to him and the pleading in their eyes clawed at his conscience. He wanted to offer reassuring words but he had none. The most despairing of the men and women did not even bother searching out his gaze for commands. He gathered himself, set one tip of his horn recurve bow to the cobbles and, leaning all his weight upon it, strung it in one quick motion. ‘Form square here for a fighting retreat. Spears, lances, poleaxes, anything you can find on the outside. Crossbowmen and archers within.’

A civilian woman shrieked at him, ‘What of us!’

‘And get these people off the street!’

A nearby soldier, a lieutenant by his arm-tore, snapped a salute. ‘You heard the commander! Set to. Form up!’

‘Slow retreat, lieutenant,’ Toc repeated. ‘I have to find the commander.’

‘Aye, sir. Oponn with you, sir.’

Toc answered the man's salute and jogged up the street.

Burning buildings near the Inner Round wall lit the night. Toc met soldiers assembling hasty barricades on the main thoroughfare. He almost ordered them to abandon the effort but decided not to add to the confusion and chaos of the night. Yet it was a forlorn hope: the beast would easily sidestep any such position. Soldiers directed him to the rooftop of a sturdy brick warehouse. Here he found Choss, surrounded by staff.

‘Thank Beru!’ the big man exploded upon spotting him. ‘What in the Chained One's name is going on out there? I'm getting all kinds of outrageous reports.’

‘It's Ryllandaras returned, beyond a doubt. And we're pressed in here with him.’

Choss's horrified stare was the worst vision yet for Toc that night. A wind, pulled up by all the fires, blew the commander's great mane of hair across his face. He spat to the roof. ‘So they've been saying. Well, you'd know, Toc’ He looked to the sections of curtain wall visible from this position, drew in a deep breath, held it, then released it in a long slow exhalation of regret. ‘We captured a tower, Toc,’ he said, wistful. ‘We were so close. Now I have to turn around and come up with a way to salvage this.’

Screams of utter terror pulled their gazes aside to the maze of streets and lanes. Toc's back crawled at the hopelessness of those cries. Ryllandaras was murdering their soldiers — and he would not stop. Toc studied Choss. The man's regard had returned to the distant battlements where figures could be seen firing down, dropping torches. Toc was silent, thinking of how closely this man had worked with that great general, Dujek, and how it was he who saw the army through the shock of Y'Ghatan where Dassem fell. ‘If I remember rightly,’ Choss said, his gaze narrowed, ‘his feud is with Heng. It's Heng he hates. You could say we're just in the way.’ The hazel eyes shifted to Toc, calculating. ‘Is that not so?’

‘I think you could say that.’

‘All right then. If this Storo wants to play for all the stakes then we'll match his roll.’ He turned to a messenger, ‘Bring up all the munitions! Tell the sappers, every single last secret cache upon pain of death! Double-time.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Toc watched as Choss returned to studying the walls. What did he intend? Toc had spent most of his time with the cavalry and so didn't know the man as well as he would like. But munitions? Would it work? Every trap and trick known had been tried on the man-beast and none had succeeded. The creature's wariness and cunning were legendary. Still, munitions ought to be new to the cursed fiend.

Hurl found Storo at a stair-tower close by the Inner Round Gate. ‘They're retreating to the Gate of the Dawn,’ she told him. ‘Abandoning the assault.’

He wiped a bundled handful of his surcoat across his face. ‘Looks like. Can't fight him and us at the same time.’

‘What do you think they'll do?’

‘Withdraw. Redeploy to face Laseen. Get off the plains as fast as Oponn will allow.’

Yells and firing at the Inner Round Gate drew Hurl's attention. She peered out to see that the assault continued there. Bowmen behind mantlets and among the ruins of the burnt buildings close by exchanged fire with their crossbowmen. Ladders lay broken like straw on the road amid bodies, some burning. ‘What's going on there?’

‘Keeping up appearances. They're running sappers up against the gates, to no use.’

‘Why? Are they digging?’

‘Yes. But the foundations go down far too deep. You know that.’

Hurl's chest tightened with an inchoate dread. ‘I don't like it, Storo. Clear them off.’

‘Fast as we can.’ He turned to a messenger. ‘Tell them to bring up more stones.’

‘Aye.’

Storo pulled his helmet off, sighed his exhaustion and obvious unshielded relief. ‘I thought they really-’

A blast rocked their footing, throwing them both down. Hurl smashed her head to the stone floor. ‘Hood preserve us!’ Storo gasped. Together they leapt to the east arch. Hurl held her head and fought back a darkness gathering at the edges of her vision. Smoke and dust obscured the gate but from the strength of the eruption Hurl knew it was shattered. Storo's eyes met hers. Her legs buckled and he reached out quickly to support her. He cupped her head then brought his hand away wet with blood. Hurl tried to say what she now knew but there was no need; she saw it in Storo's stricken gaze.

Ryllandaras was now their curse.

Hurl awoke to screams and a guttural snarled bellowing that raised the hair at her neck and shook the stones beneath her back. She lay in a room crowded with many other wounded. Groans and cursing along with the tang of blood and spilt bile assaulted her on all sides. She pushed herself up, dizzy, her head throbbing as if a spike were being hammered into it. Her munitions bag still hung from her side. She made her way to the door, stepping carefully over wounded, some of whom helped steady her. At the door a guard watched the street, crossbow raised. Hengan urban cohorts ran past the opening, weapons abandoned.

It was still night. The fitful light from fires lit the street. Hurl peeked out to see that she occupied a guardhouse hard up by the blown gate. A shuffling, yelling wall of men armed with spears and poleaxes fought something. A thing that when it reared back rose fully three times their height. It was covered in pale creamy-white fur with darker streaks down its back in grey and dirty yellow. A great maw, black-lipped, twisted from enormous canines. Carmine eyes as dark as heart-blood glared hotly and blood stained its entire front. It punched out with unnaturally long cabled arms ending in black talons to claw men and toss them aside like handfuls of straw.

A sound like a whimper brought Hurl's gaze around; the guard met her gaze. Terror and uncomprehending despair filled the man's wide staring eyes. ‘It is be,’ he gasped. The man-eater.’ After a last look of utter hopelessness, the guard threw down his crossbow and ran.

Hurl reached down to gently take up the weapon. Yes, it was he. The creature some named a God, brother to an ascending God. Some even claimed him to be a last remnant of those ancient primordial terrors who hunted humanity's ancestors so long ago out beyond the firelight. Hurl did not know; she knew only that he had sworn to level Heng, and that should he get within he would do so. And the Talians would lay claim to what was left with the sunrise.

She pushed her way out on to the rubble-strewn street, pulled the bolt from the weapon. She slid round the crowd to begin climbing the heaped fallen stones to one side of the blasted opening. At times dizziness took her and she paused on all fours, breathing heavily. She reached a vantage on the piled stones and spread her booted feet for stability. She could now see that one soldier led the defence: he wore a long coat of armour and a visored helm, and wielded twinned longswords. Rell. The monster racked at him but he slipped every swing and the blades flicked inward, slashing so fast only the reflected torchlight marked their movement. The beast's roar of rage and pain shook the stones beneath Hurl's feet. From the bag at her side she took a bolt armed with a sharper, slotted it and punched the air. Warning shouts sounded below. Grunting her effort, she raised the weapon, steadied it. She marked the littered ground just behind the beast, fired. The kick knocked her backwards from her feet. An instant later an explosion spat stones against her entire front. She lay among the broken smoking rocks until roused by renewed roaring that was a constant thunder snarl of rage. Using her elbows and knees she pulled herself up to a sitting position. Men still faced the fiend but it had pulled down or swept aside most. Blood now flecked the pelt on its back. It dodged right and left, blurringly quick, but always the same fighter forestalled it, twin swords raised. Hurl was hardly conscious but even she could sense that something miraculous was occurring — no man ought to be doing what Rell was managing. Through the blown gate she saw Talian troops standing still, watching, mouths open. They held bows and crossbows loose at their sides as if it were inconceivable to interfere in the duel. Ryllandaras's wild swings, ducked or slipped by Rell, knocked the very stone blocks of the wall flying — stones heavier than any man could lift. Spittle flew as the beast threw back its head in such a bellowing eruption of blind incandescent rage that more stones were torn from the fractured walls and Hurl cried, attempting to cover her ears.

Through eyes slitted and blurred, she saw that Rell alone now faced the man-beast. He struck a guard position, one slim blade low, the other high above his head, point down. Ryllandaras’ jaws worked, taloned bloodied hands gestured. Was it speaking to him? The thunder in Hurl's ears deadened them to all sounds. A sudden leap inward made her flinch, so quick was it, yet Rell met it in a flurry of counter-attacks that slashed arms, torso and legs. Now Hurl was amazed by the man-beast: how could any living thing absorb such punishment? Was it truly something of a god itself — akin to Trake? Was Rell doomed to tire, to slow and fail?

Rousing herself, she fought to cock the crossbow, gave it up as futile. She threw it down, drew another bolt from her satchel, pulled the sharper from its mount. With it held high in one fist she struggled to climb down the rubble slope closer to the beast. Now Rell was shouting something, pointing a blade. Hurl looked up to meet the lambent flame-red eyes of the beast watching her. The eyes tracked the munition in her hand. A leg moved as it stepped toward her — Gods, what a stride! An arm stretched out, talons closing — what reach!

Hurl threw at its feet, falling flat.

Some unknown time later she came to as hands pulled her, stones scraped along gouging her back. She tried to cry out, couldn't. Soldiers bent over her; it was still night. The clash of fighting still nearby. Someone took her shoulderbag, another cupped her head on his lap. She looked up into the worried face of Fallow, the squad healer. ‘I'm getting to be a regular,’ she chuckled.

‘You and your commander. Now quiet.’

‘Storo? What…?’

‘Quiet. Relax.’ He closed her eyes with his palm and that was the last she knew.

Toc and Choss remained behind at the Gate of the Dawn with a contingent of seventy spearmen backed up by fifty archers and cross-bowmen. They waited until the last of their elements had withdrawn, then their men pulled the gates shut behind them. Smoke, dust and exhaustion made Toc's eyes gritty and he pressed his fingers into them. As it was after every battle his mouth was as dry as dust and held an iron tinge of — and he could admit it — terror. He spat into the charred remains of a building next to the road burned by the defenders to deny them the wood for siege engines. When he turned from the gate dawn's light struck his gaze and he raised a hand to blot it out. Horsemen were galloping up from the east. Choss and he went to meet them,

‘Felicitations from Commander Urko!’ the leader announced, a fat ginger-haired Falaran in bronze scale armour. ‘I am to report that as per your intelligence Urko has begun excavation of ramparts and is raising a palisade to fortify his position.’

Choss nodded. ‘Thank you, ah…’

‘Captain Tonley.’

‘My thanks, Captain Tonley. Tell him our divisions will redeploy to join him by tonight.’

‘Very good, Commander.’

While they spoke, spare horses had been brought up led by the bloodied Captain Moss. Toc took one, nodding his thanks. Choss mounted as well. Captain Tonley leaned forward on his saddle. ‘Ah, tell me, sirs… what's this I hear of a great giant beastie?’

Toc, Choss and Moss exchanged exhausted glances. ‘It's the truth,’ Choss said flatly.

Captain Tonley shook his head, amazed. ‘You Quon Talians seem fearful of everything. First a band of hireswords and now a beastie. How you ever got the better of us I'll never know.’

Choss stared at the man. A grin pulled at his lips and he chuckled, then laughed outright. ‘It's a mystery, Captain. You may report back.’

A sloppy salute. ‘Very good, Commander. Let's go, boys. No drink to be had here.’ The troop stormed off. Toc turned to Choss.

‘So, now Laseen… And what of the Crimson Guard?’

‘We'll make them an offer. They want the Empire broken, don't they?’

‘And Heng?’

‘Heng and Ryllandaras can bugger each other. What of your Seti?’

Toc scanned the empty hillsides. ‘I don't know. I'll have to speak with them. Imotan's spent all his life praying for his patron God and now that he's come he's probably terrified.’

Choss grunted his scepticism. ‘Well, go. We still need them.’

‘Aye.’

They rode back to camp, silent for a time. ‘That soldier,’ Toc finally said, ‘who faced Ryllandaras. Have you ever seen the like?’

‘Dassem drove him off as well,’ Choss said. ‘But he was favoured by Hood.’

‘I've seen it,’ Moss said.

Toc and Choss glanced to the captain. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, touched the raw livid tear across his face. ‘Well, not seen exactly. Had it described to me by someone who had seen it in Genabackis. That style of fighting. That fellow, he's Seguleh.’

‘Seguleh?’ Choss repeated in wonder. ‘I've heard the name. What's he doing here?’

‘Storo's company was stationed in Genabackis,’ Moss said.

Toc studied his captain sidelong. ‘You know a lot about this Storo

Moss rubbed his gouged nose, wincing. ‘Ah, yes, sir. Gathering intelligence. Know your enemy, and such.’

‘In which case, captain,’ Toc said. ‘Would you like to go on a mission to the Crimson Guard? We have a proposal for them.’

The man smiled. The talon slash across his face cracked and fresh blood welled up. ‘Yes, sir. It would be a privilege.’

Though exhausted, his joints aflame with pain, Toc mounted a fresh horse that morning and set out alone to track down the Seti. He found their camp deserted, but here he also found unusual tracks. Something had visited the camp before him. Like wolf tracks, they were, except far larger, more the size of the largest bear track. And of an enormous breadth of gait. He knew this man-beast Ryllandaras could cover ground faster even than a horse. Though it was common lore that the creature hunted only at night, Toc suddenly felt very exposed out all alone on the plains. A part of him wondered if that was just a detail of atmosphere the jongleurs had tossed into the songs they recited of him. He could just hear Kellanved snarl: never mind what you imagine to be the case, what do you know? Not one to let reputations or legends stand in his way, was he. After all, he trapped the fiend, didn't he? And how did he manage that? A piece of information perhaps relegated to some archive somewhere is suddenly now not so trivial any longer. Knowing how wild Kellanved had been back then, he'd probably used himself as bait.

Towards noon, as he crossed a shallow valley, horsemen appeared in small bands all around him and moved in. He stopped to await them, crossed his arms on the high cantle of his saddle. They circled him from a distance until one broke through and closed. He was a burly fellow, wearing only deerskin trousers, a thick leather vest and wide leather vambraces. His curly hair was shot with grey, as was his matted chest hair. He looked Toc up and down in open evaluation. ‘You are Toc the Elder,’ he said in Talian.

‘And you are the Wildman of the Plains.’

A nod. ‘You ride to speak with Imotan. I think you shouldn't go.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘He has his white-haired God now. What need does he have for you?’

‘There's a lot of history between us. We've exchanged many vows.’

‘Between you and the Seti, yes. Not him.’

Toc flexed his back to ease its nagging pain. He studied the man before him: sword- and knife-scarred, speaks Talian fluently. An Imperial veteran, perhaps a noncommissioned officer. ‘What of you?’ he asked. ‘You might not accept Imotan's authority but we could use you and your warriors to throw off the Empire just the same.’

The man bared his sharp yellow teeth. ‘Do not insult me. Empire, League. It's all the same.’

‘Not at all… You and others would be nearly independent.’

‘Empty promises at best. Lies at worst. We've heard all that before.’

‘You should consider my offer carefully, veteran. We are set to defeat Laseen. She is so short of proper troops she's desperate. I've heard she's even dragooned all the old veterans on Malaz to bolster her numbers.’

The old Seti veteran grew still. His tight disapproving frown vanished. ‘What was that?’

Toc shrugged, puzzled. ‘I just said that she'd sent out the call to gather up everyone she can, even from Malaz.’

The Wildman tightened his reins. ‘I'm going now. I will tell you one more time, Toc — do not pursue this allegiance.’ He clucked his mount into motion and signed his warriors to follow. They thundered away.

Toc sat still for a time, watching them while they rode from sight. Something. Something had just happened there, but exactly what it could have been, he had no idea. Shaking his head, he urged his horse on.

He rode through most of the rest of the day before catching any sign beyond empty horse tracks. Dust rose to the north-east. He kicked his mount to pick up his pace a touch. He was just becoming worried about being caught out in the dark when he topped a gentle grassed rise to see below a horde of mounted warriors circling in a slow churning gyre, calling war chants in crowded rings around tents of the shamans. The clouds of yellow dust they raised plumed into the now darkening sky. He approached and waited but the young bloods ignored him. Most of the youths carried white hair fetishes on their lances, around their arms or in their hair. Eventually, perhaps at a command from within, grudging space was allowed for Toc's mount to push through.

In past the flank-to-flank pressing rings of hundreds of horsemen the atamans were sitting before the central tent, that of Imotan, the White Jackal shaman. Toc bowed and Imotan gestured him forward, patting the ground next to him. He sat and greeted the atamans while Imotan eyed him with a steady, weighing gaze. Toc met it, waiting. ‘I am sorry for your dead, Toc,’ the shaman finally said.

‘My thanks. It is him, then? The very one named Ryllandaras?’

Imotan used a short eating knife to cut meat from a haunch. ‘Yes, it is he. We've hoped and prayed for generations and now he is returned to us.’

‘Hoped? You hoped? If it is him, who do you think he'll turn to once we're gone?’

‘That is our concern, Malazan. We lived with him long before you ever came.’

‘We rid you of a predator.’

‘You interfered.’

‘We freed you!’

The old man stabbed the knife into the ground between them. ‘Freed us! Can you free a man from himself? A people from themselves?’ Taking a long hard breath to master himself he turned to the platter of food and gathered a handful of grapes. He laughed and shook his head at some thought that struck him. ‘Liss's curse! We are a lost people, wandering lost. Lost from ourselves. But now our way has returned to us.’

‘I see no true path.’

‘You are not Seti.’ The shaman was silent for a time. He appeared troubled while he pulled and studied the blade of his knife. Toc the Elder,’ he began carefully, ‘we honour you for what we have accomplished together in the past, but you should not have come.’

‘The old agreements still stand, Imotan.’

‘Do they?’ The shaman glanced aside to Hipal, the ferret shaman, who grinned, evilly, Toc thought, then he scanned a circuit of the men and women sitting in a circle before him. Many glanced away when his gaze reached them. Toc was struck by how much had changed in one night. Before, at the councils, Toc spoke with the atamans, the warrior society warchiefs and tribal Assembly chiefs, while Imotan and Hipal sat relegated to the rear. Now, though, Imotan occupied the seat of honour while the atamans sat at his feet, looking like no more than supplicants.

Having reviewed his council, Imotan sighed, thrust his knife into his sash. ‘What is it you ask, Toc?’

‘This coming battle will be the final arbiter of all. After it, you may consider all agreements fulfilled, all obligations met. It is the last and final request I shall make of you.’

The White Jackal shaman had nodded through Toc's statement. He held his thickly-veined hands up open. ‘So be it. We will be there. Now, for obvious reasons I suggest you spend the night here in our encampment. You will be safe with us. Tomorrow you may join your command.’

Toc bowed. ‘I thank you, Imotan of the White Jackal.’

Nait threw another handful of dried dung on to the fire and sat back in disgust. ‘I'm tellin’ you guys, if he says “clozup” one more time I'm gonna knife the old fart.’

Least let out his own loud fart while Honey pointed into the night. ‘You're welcome to it — he's over that ways.’

‘That's offensive,’ Hands commented to Least who looked abashed. Lim Tal, the Kanese ex-bodyguard, undid a clasp in her hair allowing its full black shimmering length to fall down past her shoulder to her shirt front. Nait, who looked about to say something, appeared to have forgotten what that was and stared along with everyone except Heuk, the company mage, who lay snoring wrapped around a brown earthenware jug. Hands watched as well, sighing. ‘I wish mine would do that.’

Brushing her hair, Lim smiled, flexed her bare bicep. ‘I wish I had your arms.’

‘Listen,’ Nait called across the fire, ‘you two wanna compare any more body parts I got me a nice big ol’ blanket over here…’

‘Should we bring him naked to the line tomorrow?’ Lim asked of Hands. ‘Push him out front?’

Hands snorted — either at the image or at the idea of Nait at the front of anything. ‘They might die laughing…’

‘Tomorrow?’ Nait asked, leaning forward. ‘You think maybe it's tomorrow? You heard that?’

Lim shrugged. ‘Tomorrow or the next.’

‘I hear there's a demon out there who will eat us all,’ Least said.

Beside him, Honey stared. ‘Where'd you hear that?’

Least pointed to the fetishes of wood and bone tied in his hair.

‘No — really?’

A sombre nod.

‘G' wan! No! I heard it from a guy in line.’

Least's eyes widened. ‘They speak to other people?’

A youth in an oversized studded leather hauberk came out of the night and squatted at the fire, warming his hands. He carried large canvas bags at each side hung from leather straps crossed over his neck. A crossbow hung ungainly on his back and a wooden-handled dirk was thrust through his belt. ‘You got any food?’ he asked them.

‘Who in the Abyss are you?’ Nait demanded. The youth looked confused. ‘Listen, kid. This fire's for sergeants only, right? Bugger off.’

The boy straightened, sneering, pointed to Nait. ‘You're no sergeant.’

All except Nait laughed. Honey handed over a cut of hardbread. ‘You tell him, kid.’ The youth snatched the bread and ran into the night.

‘Too full of themselves, they are,’ Nait grumbled, and he took a stick from the fire to examine the blackened, shrivelled thing at its end. He pinched it in his fingers, frowning.

‘I'd say it's done,’ Least offered.

‘I'd say we're all done,’ Nait said without looking up. At the long silence following that he raised his eyes. ‘C'mon — you all got ears, eyes. I heard what they were sayin’ in Cawn.’ He pointed to the darkness. ‘They got ten thousand Moranth Gold! They got twenty thousand Falaran infantry — plus the Talians! Plus the Seti!’ He threw down the stick. ‘An’ what have we got? A horde of civilians is all, maybe ten thousand real soldiers?’

‘That horde beat the Guard,’ Hands said, her voice low and controlled. ‘I heard seven Avowed died. Those Gold come marching against us and they'll find themselves so full of quarrels they won't be able to fall over.’

‘The Seti will sweep those amateurs from the field.’

‘They're so hungry out there they'll be happy to see all those Seti horses.’

‘They'll-’

‘Enough!’ Honey bawled. ‘Hooded One take you both! Quit bickering like you're already married. We already got us two High Fists.’

Snorting, Hands dismissed Nait with a wave; Nait chuckled at Honey's comment. ‘Two,’ he mocked. He picked up the stick and dusted off the burnt wrinkled thing at its end.

‘Where'd you get that anyway?’ Least asked.

‘Found it dead.’

‘You ever been outside a town?’

Nait took a test nibble at the thing, looked to Least, puzzled. ‘No, why?’

Heuk suddenly jerked upright, making everyone flinch. His rheumy bloodshot eyes rolled, scanning the dark. ‘Something's happening,’ he croaked.

Nait threw a handful of dung at the man. ‘Not again! All the time, old man. Things happen all the time.’

‘He's here. I can taste his lust and hunger. All our blood couldn't slake it.’

Everyone stared. Leaning over, Nait cuffed the man. ‘Will you cut it out! You're giving everyone the willies.’

Heuk raised the earthenware jug, gulped down a mouthful of its dark contents. He spilled much over his beard and dirty robes. Honey waved a hand in front of his nose. ‘Faugh, old man. What's in there?’

‘Blood and bravery.’

Shouts suddenly sounded from the dark. Everyone stilled. The shouts took on a panicked note, followed shortly after by the beginnings of a scream suddenly cut short. Hands jumped to her feet. ‘What in the Abyss was that?’ She scanned the surrounding fields, dotted in campfires. ‘North, I think.’ She picked up her sword and belt. ‘C'mon!’

Everyone, even Heuk, climbed to their feet. ‘Anyone have a torch or a lamp or anything?’ Lim asked. Shrugs all around. ‘Great. Just great.’ She picked up her longsword and helmet and jogged after Hands who had not waited.

Least picked up a piece of burning bhederin dung. ‘I got this…’ he called after Lim.

It was chaos out on the dark shadowed slopes of tall, wind-lashed grasses. Men and women shouted, ran together, split up. Crossbow bolts flew, snapping overhead, making Nait duck. Another scream shattered the night in the distance. Nait ran into Honey, who was shaking a crossbowman by the shirt. ‘No shooting, Hood take it!’ He threw the man aide. ‘Almost skewered me…’

‘What is it? An attack?’

‘Don't know. Hope not, ‘cause we're beat already.’

Torches brightened the night to the north. A bellowing voice sounded across the hillside, ‘Assemble! Asssemmbblle! Form up! Close! Close up!’

Nait's shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, Gods Below. I don't believe it.’

Honey slapped his back. ‘C'mon — he's got the right idea.’ He jogged off. After peering about at the dark, Nait followed.

The formation was a broad swelling rectangle swallowing all it met; swordsmen held torches at its edges, crossbowmen behind. The master sergeant was there, and commander Braven Tooth, whom Nait had heard called a walking enraged hairball, a description with which he was inclined to agree. Also keeping order were Hands, Lim and the other sergeants.

After marching for a time, being chivvied into ranks with cuffs and kicks, orders sounded from the front to halt and to hold ranks. Nait pushed his way to the front. Here the stink of spilled bowels, vomit and blood almost choked off his breath — all that plus another reek like that of some kind of sick animal. It reminded him of the village butcher's, only this time instead of goat and pig guts and portions, it was human torsos, limbs and smears of viscera. Master Sergeant Temp and Braven Tooth were huddled over one corpse, torches held high. Both either slept in mail coats or had had the time or wherewithal to pull them on.

‘Looks like Soletaken, don't it?’ Braven Tooth said, his guttural voice kept low.

‘He could be. Not all are known.’ The master sergeant raised his head, calling, ‘Any cadre mages?’

Shortly later Heuk either pushed his way or was pushed to the front. The old man took one look at the splayed corpses and strewn entrails and fell to his knees and hands vomiting up great gouts of dark fluids.

‘I feel so much safer now,’ Honey commented to no one in particular.

‘That thing's a demon!’ Nait blurted out.

Both the master sergeant and Braven Tooth winced, glaring. ‘Will you stop your gob, soldier,’ Braven Tooth grated.

‘He's no demon,’ Master Sergeant Temp announced loudly to the crowd.

‘How in the Abyss would you know?’ Nait demanded.

The master sergeant crossed to Nait, peered up at him — he was a very squat, but very wide, man. ‘’Cause demons don't smell like that.’ He walked off to study the trail of slaughter. Braven Tooth clenched a hand on Nait's shoulder, grinned behind his bushy black beard. ‘You can trust the master sergeant on that one, soldier. Knows his demons, Temp does.’ Squeezing the shoulder painfully, he pulled Nait close to growl, ‘You keep your yap shut or I'll give you your real name, soldier.’

‘What d'you mean, my real name?’

His mouth tight in distaste, the commander looked him up and down. ‘Like Jumpy, soldier. You are definitely Jumpy.’ He pushed Nait aside, raised his head to the column. ‘All right! That's far enough! I want all the veterans, guards and Malazan regulars front and centre, now!’

Nait followed Hands to the master sergeant, who had returned from the trail. She asked, ‘What's going on?’

‘We're splitting up. Most of you guards and regulars are gonna escort the skirmishers back to camp-’

‘What?’ Nait blurted. ‘That's stupid, splitting up.’

Master Sergeant Temp just watched Nait for a time, saying nothing. He turned to Hands. ‘The recruits are too green to see what's ahead. It might break them. We need to get them back.’

‘Aye.’

While Braven Tooth was ordering the column, a troop of Imperial cavalry came riding out of the dark, torches sputtering. It was led by none other than Korbolo Dom, High Fist and Sword of the Empire, in full regalia of layered iron-banded armour and iron-scaled sleeves and hose. A black jupon displayed the silver Imperial sceptre while his mount supported long black and silver trappings that brushed the trampled grass. Master Sergeant Temp and Commander Braven Tooth saluted.

The High Fist pulled off his helmet. ‘You are wasting time here, Commander. You should give pursuit!’

Braven Tooth frowned thoughtfully as if considering the proposition. ‘We were thinking that if we did that he might just swing around and take a bite outta our arses.’

The Sword's bluish Napan features darkened even further. ‘You have been long from the front, Commander. You have perhaps lost the proper fighting spirit. Very well, stay hidden among your men. I go to hunt him down!’

‘I wouldn't go out there if I were you,’ Master Sergeant Temp said. ‘He'll just string you along then turn on you.’

The Sword sawed his mount over to look down at the man. ‘And who are you?’

‘Master Sergeant Temp,’ and he saluted.

‘Then that, Master Sergeant,’ Korbolo explained loftily, ‘is why I am the Sword and you are not.’ And he kicked his mount to lunge away into the night, followed by his troop. Commander Braven Tooth and the master sergeant exchanged glances of arched brows.

‘Think we'll ever see him again?’ Braven Tooth asked.

‘With his luck and ours? Yes.’

After more cajoling and cuffing the commander led the main column of skirmishers, escorted by regulars, back to camp. Master Sergeant Temp led the smaller column of ex-guards and Malazan regulars, including the cadre mage Heuk, onward, tracking the way the beast had come. As they walked through the night Nait complained, ‘Jumpy? I ain't jumpy. Who in the Abyss does he think he is? It ain't even a name. Might as well call someone Stone, or Stick.’ He cuffed the fellow marching ahead of him who, from his size, must be a heavy. ‘Hey, what's your name?’

The fellow turned, blinking slowly. ‘Fish.’

‘Fish? Your name is Fish? What in the Abyss kind of name is that?’

A shrug. ‘I dunno. The commander gave it to me.’

‘Hey, Jumpy,’ someone shouted, ‘Shut the Abyss up.’

They backtracked the beast until they lost the trail along the rocky bed of a dry creek that wended across the plain. Straightening, Master Sergeant Temp waved Heuk forward. The old man came puffing up, looking as if he was about to pass out. His curly brown mop of hair hung stringy and sweaty. He hugged his earthenware jug as if it held his deliverance — which, Nait presumed, wasn't too far from the truth. ‘Well?’ the master sergeant demanded. ‘Try your Warren — track him down!’

The old man raised the jug and took a long pull then wiped his mouth with a greasy sleeve. He squinted blearily at the trail, shook his head in a long drawn out negative. ‘No, Temp- that is, Master Sergeant. I'm not a Warren-mage. Blood and the Elders is my path. And you don't want me opening it. Not yet.’

The master sergeant looked like he was about to savage the man with a few good curses, but then he stopped. He scratched his stubbled cheeks while studying the old mage and actually appeared unnerved. He tilted his head, accepting the explanation. ‘Yeah. Let's hope it don't come to that.’ He raised a hand to sign a return. It was dawn before they sighted camp and when they returned they found everyone packing for another day's march.

Ho came and kicked Grief — that is, Blues — awake where he dozed in the shade under canvas hung at the bow of the Forlorn. ‘Yath's drowning another of us.’

The man cracked open one eye. ‘Why're you telling me? I'm not his keeper. You lot can rule yourselves — like you were so proud of.’

‘We're on board your ship! If you can call this rotting wreck a ship. You have authority.’

Blues groaned, fumbled to his feet. Ho still could not get used to calling the man by his real name. Real? More like his earlier alias. Who knew what his real name was? To him, he'd always be Grief. Ho chuckled aloud — he liked that. Blues gave him a puzzled glance. ‘The stern.’

‘Right. The stern.’ He motioned to two of his companions. ‘Get Fingers.’ Grumbling, the two headed below.

The Seven Cities cargo ship Forlorn boasted two decks, the main and a raised second stern deck. The gap between was tall enough for most save the tallest of the men. At the very stern, where the keel rose up tall and curving, Yath and Sessin were overseeing a party of his most enthusiastic supporters teamed on a rope. Seeing so many of the inmates all crowded together almost made Ho laugh aloud again; what a ragged, seedy and just plain scrofulous spectacle they all presented! Most had hacked their hair to brush-cut length to rid themselves of the clinging dust; most wore no more than blankets or rags taken from the ship's stores. All the pale-skinned ones were sun-burnt red with cracked, bleeding skin. Ho ran a hand over his own shaved head and winced as he was sun-burnt just as badly. And to make it worse, they were already nearly out of water.

‘That's enough,’ Blues called.

The men looked to Blues then glanced at Yath. After a moment the Seven Cities priest allowed an indifferent shrug. The men hauled on the rope. It was amazing, Ho reflected, how the revelations that followed the arrival of the Forlorn with the rest of Blues’ squad, or blade, had instilled a spirit of cooperation among the fractious band of inmate mages. The truth that Blues and Treat and his squad were not just secessionists working against the Empress, but in fact were Crimson Guardsmen, and not only that, all six were of the Avowed: well — it certainly ended the talk of throwing them overboard.

The rope team pulled an old man up over the railing to splay naked and unconscious on to the deck. He had tightly curled greying hair and brown skin, and scars of swirling designs covered him. Ho recognized him as Jain, a Dal Hon warlock. ‘Yath! You idiot!’ Blues snarled. He knelt over Jain, listened at his chest, then tilted his head back and blew into his mouth. The man coughed, spluttered, inhaled a great gasping breath.

‘Wasted effort,’ sneered a voice from behind Ho and he turned to see the skinny, almost skeletal shape of Fingers, the mage, with Treat and Dim. While of the Avowed, the mage had the appearance of a gangly apprentice.

‘He must be cleansed of the taint,’ Yath said. ‘All of us must be.’

‘Have you gone under?’ Blues snapped.

‘I have.’

Blues waved curtly to the grinning Sessin. ‘Has he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you're finished. Everyone's gone.’

Yath stepped closer. He appeared even more hungry and wiry now that he'd shaved his beard. He leant forward on his staff — a new staff he'd found on board — to tower over Blues. ‘Not everyone…’

‘Now wait a minute. Why should we-’

‘You were in the Pit.’ Yath raised a brow to Fingers. ‘Your friends nearby were exposed to the dust. Your continuing contamination spreads dust anew. All of you must wash. Cut your hair. Scour your skin with stones. Just as we have. And wash again. Your people and the women inmates as well — all, Su, Inese and that Korelan sea-witch.’

Blues eyed the man as if he was insane. ‘Why in the Abyss would we do that right now, right away? I mean, I plan on getting cleaned up — eventually. What's your rush?’

The Seven Cities priest's dark wrinkled face broke into a self-satisfied grin. He caught Ho's gaze and Ho realized that the man knew — that somehow he'd sensed what was going on — or had been informed by one of those he'd browbeaten into following him. ‘Tell him, Ho,’ Yath invited.

Blues turned to him. Ho rubbed his scalp and winced again. He pulled his hand away. ‘Something's going on at Heng. A lot of us can sense it — bits and pieces — glimpses, now that we're far from the islands. Something important. And Laseen is there.’

‘This insurrection you're talking about?’

‘… Yes… and more.’

‘More?’

‘Your mercenary company is involved,’ Yath said.

Blues’ gaze narrowed on Ho. ‘Is that true?’

Ho was unable to meet the man's eyes. He lowered his head. ‘Yes. They've come back. They are in the field near Heng.’

Blues was silent for some time. Jain continued coughing. Waves washed the sides of the Forlorn. Cordage creaked and rubbed overhead. ‘Why didn't you say anything?’

Ho raised his eyes, tried to plead for understanding. ‘I said nothing because I do not agree with Yath's proposal. What he is talking of is too dangerous. Far too risky for all of us. We will most likely all be killed.’

Blues’ mouth twisted in his clenched anger. He took his hands from the twin blades he now carried at his sides — his own swords had been left behind when he came to the Pit. Without moving his gaze he said, ‘Talk, old man.’

The Seven Cities priest made no effort to conceal his triumph. He bared his sharp yellow teeth. ‘A ritual, mercenary. We have among us more than thirty mages of considerable power. We will enact a ritual of movement through warren by ship. It is more common than you might imagine. Ask our Korelan friend — with her aid we are assured of success.’

‘Provided we can cleanse ourselves of the Otataral.’

‘Yes. Provided.’

Blues’ gaze slid past Ho to question Fingers. ‘Interesting…’ the mage said.

‘Now I'm definitely nervous,’ Blues muttered. But he waved a hand. ‘All right, Yath. We'll get cleaned up. In the meantime, set your people to scrubbing the deck.’

The Seven Cities mage actually bowed. ‘Excellent — Captain.’

Blues ignored the man, pointed to Treat. ‘Take down the sails, wash ‘em.’

Treat just rolled his eyes.

That night Ho sat with Su in the empty cargo hold. ‘If you don't go, they'll come down and carry you up.’

‘I'd curse their manhoods — if they still had them.’

‘It's just water. A quick dunk and they'll leave you alone.’

‘I'm too old for too many things, including dunking.’ The hull groaned around them. Rat claws scratched on wood. Ho felt the dark pressing in upon him, damp and gravid. ‘And what of you,’ Su said, tilting her head back to eye him. ‘They are all so much less than you — why fear them at all?’

‘We're not talking about that, Su. We could lower you in a net.’

‘A net? Am I a fish? Does your friend Blues know the real reason why you did not tell him of Heng? Why you are so frightened to return?’

‘Quiet, witch.’

‘Let us make a pact, magus-’

‘No pacts, witch. Just washing.’

‘A washing for me and a reunion for you.’

‘You're going under regardless, witch. It's just a question of coercion.’

‘Yes, it is always a question of coercion in the end, is it not?’

Ho sighed his impatience. ‘Su, I told you already I'm not impressed by these vague empty pronouncements you toss off hoping people will think they're wise.’

She smiled. ‘Is that what I do?’

‘Su…’

The old woman lifted a crooked finger. ‘Wisdom lives only in hindsight.’

Ho pushed his head back to hit the hull planking.

‘Is that anger I'm seeing, Ho? A temper, perhaps?’

‘Right, that's it.’ He stood, gestured Su up. ‘Let's go. On deck. Right now. There's something going on you should see. C'mon.’

She stared up at him, fiddled with her walking stick. ‘What? Right this minute?’

‘Yes. Come on!’

‘Well! Give an old woman a moment, would you?’ She struggled to rise, slapped away his offered hand. ‘As if anything could be so pressing! You would think Hood's Paths themselves had opened up above vomiting up all the dead!’ She grasped the steep gangway in one gnarled hand. ‘Just a trick, I'm sure,’ she grumbled, climbing.

On deck, torches and a bright moon in a clear night sky lit a crowd of inmates gathered around the Avowed at the larboard side of the Forlorn. Fingers sat gripping the sides of a slat seat perched atop the gunwale. By turns he peered down with pure dread and at Blues with pure venom. Treat and another of the Avowed, Reed, were tying ropes to the seat and to Fingers — who was already tightly strapped in.

‘It ain't gonna work!’ Fingers was shouting. ‘You're taking advantage of me right now is what you're doing! I'll drown.’

‘We'll keep a close watch,’ Dim assured him. ‘Don't you worry now.’

Fingers glared bloody fury at the man.

‘OK,’ Blues said. ‘All secure?’

Treat slapped Fingers’ back. ‘All secure.’

‘Bastards!’

‘Over we go,’ Blues ordered.

Treat and Reed lowered the stretcher by the ropes, backed up by Blues and Dim. Fingers had stopped cursing them all and, sinking out of sight, his pale white face stretched even tauter over his sharp cheekbones. The crowd of inmates pressed forward to line the side.

‘Room, dammit,’ Blues complained, raising his elbows. ‘Room!’

Ho observed aside to Su, ‘We're a little short on entertainment out here.’

‘Somehow this is not reassuring, Ho.’

‘Don't worry.’ He waved to a solid woman, her greying hair hacked short, who had come to his side. ‘Su, this is Devaleth. She's been over already but she and you and Inese — and Opal also — can wash at the stern. We'll put up a spare canvas or blankets. It's that or they'll throw you over in a net.’

The old witch's thin mouth curled in condescension. ‘If I must.’

Whoops and laughter sounded from the gathered inmates. Treat and Dim were hauling on the ropes. A sodden, shivering Fingers appeared at the gunwale. His torn linen shirt hung from his lank form. He stuttered something — curses probably — as they lowered his stretcher to the deck. Dim held out a blanket that he snatched and wrapped around himself. Ho watched, wondering, how could anyone be so skinny?

‘This does nothing for the traces we've ingested, or are ground into our calluses, or under our nails, or such,’ Su observed.

‘We've used the pumice stones on our flesh and knives under our nails,’ Devaleth said. ‘Myself, I would cut off my left hand to regain my gifts.’

‘Yes, well, let us hope it does not come to that,’ Su observed, turning away to limp to the stern.

From the broken wall of what was once one of a series of outlying gatehouses, hostelries and pilgrim inns for the sprawling complex that was the Great Sanctuary of Burn, Shimmer watched the envoy of the Talian League mount and ride off. The doubts and small suspicions that had gnawed at her since their return had lately coalesced into one dark, smothering feeling of wrongness that seemed to choke her. She turned back to the other two occupants of the room, Skinner and Cowl. ‘Was that wise?’ she asked, though she knew nothing would come of her objection — yet again the sensation struck her of being a player in a charade, of merely going through the motions in some tired play. Had she been here before? Done this countless times? Whence came this mood?

Skinner, his helm under one arm, revealing his scarred face and matted reddish-blond hair, waved her concerns aside. ‘This League is no different from the Malazans. I no more credit their offers of territory than I would any from Laseen.’

‘They may unite against us.’

The swordsman's gaze slid aside to Cowl. The High Mage, who had been looking off across the plain to the south, frowned a negative. ‘Unlikely for the near future — but a growing threat admittedly. Yet more forces are approaching.’

‘Laseen's?’ Shimmer asked.

A sly smile pulled at the curled tattoos beneath his mouth. ‘Who is to say? The choice is their commander's, I should think.’

‘It would precipitate matters, would it not,’ Skinner rumbled, ‘if Choss believed them Laseen's?’

‘Indeed.’

Skinner waved Cowl away. ‘I leave it to you.’

A curt bow from Cowl. The High Mage backed into shadow and disappeared. Shimmer turned to Skinner, surprised. ‘I thought Warren travel was extraordinarily dangerous these days.’

Heading to the shattered door jamb, the commander paused, considering. ‘So is Cowl.’

Alone, Shimmer suddenly felt the heat of the day seep into her — as if the commander's presence drained something vital from her. Catching his eyes still made her wince. What had become of the man who had led the First Company into the diaspora? He had been ambitious and fierce, yes, but not — inhuman. Now, something else looked out of those eyes. Something that felt more terrifying and menacing than anything that might be awaiting in the field.

‘Captain?’

Blinking, Shimmer turned. Greymane stood there along with Smoky and a regular, Ogilvy. ‘Yes?’

‘Turned them down, didn't he,’ Smoky said.

‘Yes.’

A sour nod. ‘Thought so. Makes sense.’

Shimmer straightened, ill at ease once more. ‘Explain yourself, mage.’

‘Me ‘n’ Grey been talking. Got us a theory.’

‘Yes?’ Shimmer said calmly, though her breath seemed to die in her throat.

‘First, though, this Guardsman here has something to say.’ Smoky urged Ogilvy forward with a curt jerk. Saluting, bobbing his bald bullet-head, the regular saluted.

‘’Pologies, ma'am, sir. Kept my drink-hole shut I did, sorry. Seemed most discretionary. Circumstances as they was, ’n’ all.’

Shimmer blinked again, her brow crimping. ‘Sorry, Guardsman…?’

‘Was first at the scene of Stoop's killin’ there in Stratem. Saw tracks — tracks that was later smoothed away. By spell.’

‘And those tracks told you what?’

‘Accordin’ to those tracks the lad never entered that clearing.’

‘I… see.’ Shimmer swallowed a tightening sickness. ‘Is there anyone else who saw these tracks? Who could corroborate your testimony?’

The Guardsman glanced to Greymane, then down. ‘No, sir.’

‘No. Well then, Guardsman, I suggest you continue to keep this to yourself until such time as further information comes forward.’

Ogilvy saluted. ‘Yes, ma'am, sir.’

‘You are dismissed.’

‘Yes, ma — sir.’

Ogilvy left. Shimmer turned on Smoky. ‘You presume too much, mage.’

Smoky's long face hardened. ‘I got more to presume. The men won't say, but there's a lot of grumbling. Skinner's gathering Avowed to himself, treating everyone else like servants, not brothers or sisters. There's sides drawing up. Everyone's looking to you to do something. You or-’ he stopped himself, then barrelled on, ‘Greymane.’

Shimmer finally faced the massive ex-High Fist. ‘I would take great care if I were you, Malazan. You are not of the Avowed.’

‘A condition that perhaps allows me the proper perspective.’

‘Proper — explain yourself, soldier.’

‘It is plain that Skinner intends to defeat both Laseen and this Talian League. And once both are crushed, what then?’

Brows wrinkled, Shimmer shrugged. ‘Why, then, the terms of the Vow will have been fulfilled — the shattering of the Empire.’

Greymane and Smoky exchanged troubled glances. ‘And yet not. Any new force could then step into the vacuum, such as an alliance of Dal Hon and Kan forces, or any other such, yes?’

‘Possibly…’

‘Unless this position were already occupied by another organization, another force ready to act. Is that not so?’

‘I do not see what you are getting at, Malazan.’

Smoky gave an impatient snarl. ‘The Vow has you in too tight a grip, Shimmer. Open your eyes! Skinner intends to occupy the throne himself!’

Shimmer could only stare. Then she laughed outright at the absurdity of the assertion. ‘Smoky, you know as well as I that the terms of the Vow would never allow such a thing.’

‘You're not a mage, Shimmer. Even I can see a few possible ways around it and Cowl is leagues ahead of me. One way to construe it is that the Malazan Empire remains an impossibility so long as the Avowed occupy the throne. There? How's that? Life and power eternal. Worth a throw, wouldn't you say?’

Shimmer felt almost dizzy. She steadied herself at a wall. ‘But that would be-’

‘A monstrous perversion? Yes.’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No, Smoky. You are inventing threats, conspiracies. Seeing enemies everywhere. Perhaps that is the Vow affecting you. You've never made a secret of your distaste for Cowl. Have you considered that?’

The mage was silent for some time. His stare was hard, gauging, and Shimmer was shaken to see disappointment colour the man's eyes. ‘Greymane is not Avowed, Shimmer,’ he said, and pushed his way past. Greymane remained, but Shimmer would not face him. She turned her back. After a time he bowed and left.

We are so close. Queen's Prophecies, the completion of the Vow is within reach! We can break them! Why then these doubts, these worries? None afflicted at the beginning. Everything was so clear then. The sides so cleanly drawn, our cause so pressing. Now, though, I can hardly muster the effort to go through with it. For whom did they fight? Not the Untans, nor the Cawnese. Then who? Skinner on the throne, and through him, what else?

Riding out alone into the night from the remains of the Sanctuary of Burn, Lieutenant-Commander Ullen felt extremely ill at ease until the detachment of Talian cavalry escortinging him rode up to rendezvous. Leading them was Commander Amaron, accompanied by Toc's new aide, Captain Moss.

‘They rejected the offer?’ Amaron called.

‘Yes.’

A sour shake of the head. ‘The fools. They're going to get themselves wiped out.’

‘You're so sure?’

Amaron smiled knowingly, signed for a return to the fortified encampment — Fort Urko, some called it. ‘You are not?’

Ullen merely raised a brow; he motioned to the ruins. ‘I've just come away from speaking with Skinner, Amaron. I never did meet him before, and I have to say he looks every bit as nasty as his reputation.’

‘Oh, I don't doubt that.’ The commander shifted his considerable broad weight on his tall horse. ‘I'm not saying we'll pull down the Avowed. What I'm saying is that if they are so foolish as to take to the field their regular force will be broken and the surviving Avowed will have to withdraw alone. Then what can they do? A handful of men and women cannot hold territory. They will have to flee once again. No, the whole thing, their recruiting and return, will all have been for nothing. A sad waste, really.’

Behind the commander's mount, Ullen and Moss shared a glance, saying nothing. Moss flicked his eyes to indicate the fifty troopers walking their mounts along behind and Ullen nodded. Amaron was not speaking to them; he was speaking to the men, fulfilling one of the obligations of command, bolstering morale.

The Napan turned to Moss. ‘So, Captain, served in Genabackis, did you?’

‘Yes, Commander.’

‘With Dujek?’

‘No, sir. Not directly. I remained up north. Rotated out.’

‘Up north? Why, so you've faced the Guard before, then! Didn't they have a contract with a warlord there, that fellow named Brood?’

‘Yes, sir. I've faced them.’

‘And they were beaten there, weren't they?’

Moss shot Ullen a glance of veiled amusement. Oh yes, sir,’ he responded loudly. ‘They were beaten.’

Half of the cavalry officer's expression told Ullen that he could play Amaron's game too — and had said what the men would be helped to hear. The other half of the expression told Ullen just how far from the truth were the man's words.

The Wickan camp occupied a stretch of the east shore of the River Jurd, just north of Unta. Circular yurts dotted hillsides in a sudden new township of some four thousand. The surrounding Untan villages and hamlets supplied fodder for horses, firewood and staples. Nil and Nether promised eventual payment in trade goods. Rillish and his Malazan command occupied a large farmhouse and compound in the middle of vineyards where bunches of white grapes hung heavy on the stems. Since his night foray with Nether, his sergeant, Talia, had been even more insistent on their intimacy — to his great relief and pleasure, he had to admit.

So it was they lay in bed together one morning when a discreet knock sounded on the door of his room. He pulled on his trousers, while Talia dressed as well, quickly strapping on her swordbelt. ‘What is it?’ he called.

‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir. Riders from the south.’

‘Yes?’

‘They carry the Imperial banner.’

‘I see. Thank you, sergeant. I'll be down shortly.’

He turned to Talia and she laughed at the embarrassment that must have been obvious. He splashed his hot face in a basin. Outside in the courtyard, horses readied by Chord waited. Rillish mounted, invited Chord to attend him, gave command of the compound over to him, and rode off with a troop of ten.

Wickan horsemen had already met and stopped the small column, which consisted of some twenty Untan cavalry. Room was made for Rillish to edge to the front. He inclined his head to the man leading the column, who, by the markings on his helmet, held the rank of Imperial Fist, though Rillish did not recognize him. The man's dark eyes glanced to him but in no other way did he acknowledge Rillish's presence. Eventually, Nil and Nether arrived from their more distant camp. They pushed through to the front, nodded to the Fist who saluted, bowing. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Fist Tazil Jhern. I am come as envoy from the capital, empowered to discuss terms.’

Nether inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘I am Nether, this is my brother Nil. And this is Lieutenant Rillish Jal Keth. Greetings.’ The man continued to studiously ignore Rillish.

‘What terms, may I ask?’ Nil inquired. Terms of your surrender?’

‘Terms of cessation of hostilities. You have grievances, conditions you wish to discuss, surely?’

The twins exchanged narrowed glances. ‘We have demands and conditions, Fist,’ Nil corrected.

‘You say you are empowered, Fist,’ Rillish asked. ‘Empowered by whom?’

The envoy said nothing, continued to stare straight ahead. Nether's brow furrowed. ‘The lieutenant asked you a question, Fist.’

‘I am sure you understand that I feel in no way obligated to speak with a traitor,’ the man told her.

Nil flinched, stung, and tightened his reins. ‘Then I am sure you understand that we-’

So, the day has come when I am repudiated. Rillish raised a hand. ‘It is all right. Please, take no offence. I will go.’

‘Stay where you are!’ Nether ordered, startling Rillish. ‘You will remain and listen to all this envoy has to say. Then, my brother and I will expect you to advise us afterwards.’

Struggling to keep his astonishment from his face, Rillish bowed stiffly. ‘As you order.’

Nil invited the Fist onward. ‘This way, envoy.’

Later that day, the Fist begged off early to retire to the quarters prepared for his party. Once the man left the large tent a fury of debate leapt to life among the gathered clan representatives, elders and surviving warlocks. The twins sat quietly, letting the storm blow itself out. Rillish was alarmed by some opinions he overheard: sacking the province, ravaging the countryside, even claiming the Throne. When that suggestion, taking the Throne, was called across the tent to Nil, he merely observed, ‘What would we do with it? It's too heavy to sit on a horse.’

A new round of debate began, this time peppered by escalating retorts, condemnations and insults. It seemed to Rillish that the discussion was veering further and further into the territory of past transgressions, slights and ages-old grudges. He glanced to Nil and saw him watching — the lad winked, tilted his head to invite him outside. Rillish uncrossed his numb legs, bowed to the assembly and ducked out of the tent.

Without, twilight was gathering. The hillside sloped down like a dark green swath of silk to the Jurd, which glimmered, tree-lined, wide and black. The air was thick with the scent of ripeness, pressing into rot. Night moths and flies clouded around, attracted by the light. It occurred to Rillish that he was home yet this was no longer his home. Where could he call home now? The Wickan plains? They could hardly be expected to be welcoming at this point. Nil ducked out, joining him. The lad hugged himself over his plain deerskin jerkin. His unkempt black hair was a tangle, yet Rillish said nothing — one does not tell the premier Wickan warlock that he needs a haircut.

‘A rich land,’ the youth said, viewing the green hillsides. ‘You people have done well by it.’

Rillish eyed the Wickan adolescent, blinking. ‘Pardon…?’

A blush and duck of the head. ‘Sorry. All this once belonged to my ancestors.’

‘No, Nil,’ Rillish managed, his stomach clenching, ‘It is I who am sorry.’

The youth blew out a breath. ‘So different from Seven Cities.’

‘So, what will you do?’ Rillish asked, gesturing to the tent.

‘We will let them talk, then give our opinions, then let them talk some more, then give our opinions again and let them talk. Once they begin saying our opinions back to us as if they are their own, then we will agree with their wisdom and we will have their unshakable support.’

Rillish eyed the lad, who was looking down the slope, unmindful of his regard. ‘Nil?’

‘Yes?’

‘You are far too young to be so cynical.’

A bright smile. ‘My sister and I are far from young, Lieutenant.’

Yes, you have come so far too swiftly and for that I am sorry. ‘What are those opinions then? What should you do?’

‘Ah… you've hit upon the problem. We aren't sure yet.’ Horses nickered in a nearby corral, stirring restlessly and the lad's eyes moved to the noise. ‘What do you think of our envoy?’

‘It's possible we're intended to judge the offer by its bearer — candid, honest and practical.’

A boat appeared floating down the Jurd, sail limp, long sweep raising a bright wake. The eyes of both tracked it. ‘Yes,’ Nil said. ‘An honest offer honestly given, to be just as honestly disregarded at earliest convenience.’

In that statement Rillish listened for echoes of sullen resentment, sneering disdain or suppressed rage, but heard none. Only a sad sort of resignation that the world should be so ordered. ‘You are caught,’ he said. ‘You've done everything you can but you still have no true leverage.’

A long slow assent. ‘We are in a strange situation, Lieutenant. We ought to have all the advantages, camped as we are on the capital's doorstep, yet we find ourselves a sideshow. Unta has been sacked already. We can hardly threaten that. What will be our fate is in fact being determined far to the west — and we are not even there.’

‘You must still work to achieve the most advantageous terms you can.’

‘Yes,’ the lad sighed. ‘We must. Yet I wonder — have we done all that we can?’ Nil turned to face Rillish, and his gaze slid to the tent then back, cautious. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’

‘For what?’

‘For listening. Unlike many of my countrymen I think it useful to talk through things. I find that it helps unravel knots.’

Rillish motioned to the tent once more. ‘Your countrymen do not seem averse to talk.’

‘Most use it only to tighten existing knots.’

‘Ah. I see.’

The warlock took hold of the tent flap. ‘You need not endure any more of this tonight. Nether and I will manage things. I understand you have much more pleasant company awaiting you,’ and he grinned.

An adolescent effort at adult banter? ‘Yes, thank you.’

The grin faltered. ‘Now, if only I could find someone for my sister…’

Rillish bowed quickly, ‘Goodnight.’

On the dark road back to the farmhouse Rillish found two mounted figures waiting. Sergeants Chord and Talia. Sergeant Chord saluted, turned his mount, and rode off ahead. Rillish brought his mount alongside Talia's. ‘Sergeant…’

‘Lieutenant…’ She leaned aside and they kissed. There was something about her tonight; her smile was so bright in the dark, her eyes so full of a hidden humour.

‘You are looking… mysterious… this night.’

She turned her mount while watching him sidelong. ‘I have a secret.’

He stilled, his eyes narrowing. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I am, as they say in your fancy aristocratic society — with child.’

‘What?’ He stared, utterly shocked. ‘But that's impossible!’

An arched brow. ‘Has no one told you how all this works, then?’

‘No! I mean, what I meant was… how could you know so soon?’

‘The horsewives told me. They're beside themselves. You should've heard them clucking over me.’

‘Well, you'll have to leave the ranks, of course.’

She faced him squarely. ‘I certainly will not. I'm a sergeant now. Got a pay increase.’

‘I could bust you down.’

‘For what?’ she snapped. ‘Misconduct with an officer?’

Rillish opened his mouth then quickly shut it, thinking that perhaps another assault would be inadvisable at this time. Reconnoitring and observation were clearly called for. Perhaps some judicious probing. Talia rode in a loud pointed silence, her back stiff, face averted. He cleared his throat. ‘Not the reaction you were expecting, I imagine.’

‘Damned straight.’

‘I'm sorry. It's just… quite a surprise. My first reaction is that you don't take any risks…’

‘You think I want to?’ She sighed, eased her mount closer, took his arm. ‘Old Orhan and I can swap duties.’

Orhan, Rillish reflected. The company quartermaster and horse-master. Demanding work, potentially dangerous, but not a battlefield position. A gimp leg and getting slow, yet a canny veteran who'd been in the service all his life. Was a sergeant on the listings.

‘… then I'll find a wetnurse among the Wickans. After that the little tyke can go to stay with my brother in Halas. He's a wood-wright there. Or what about your people?’

Rillish thought about his people. He thought of the high-season house in Unta and the off-season house in Haljhen. The family lands along the Gris River where vineyards, fields and orchards stretched for more than a day's ride in any direction. He thought of the barrels of wine ageing beneath the great manor house, the countless families who lived on and worked those lands.

All lost to him. Lost to Rillish Jal Keth, the family traitor.

And now he had an heir. An heir to the two swords he carried, the bag of coin under his shirt and a name he or she could never claim. He took Talia's hand. ‘So where is this Halas?’

One of their remaining Seti scouts came roaring up and pulled short at the last moment, his mount stamping, sweaty and lathered. Ghelel recognized Toven, the young smartarse who had teased her and Molk earlier. Now, she was grateful for the lad's love of excitement.

’They're headed for Heng,’ he reported.

The ‘they’ in this case was a huge Kan Confederacy army that had come marching out of the south, consisting of some four thousand lancers and twenty-five thousand infantry. The ‘they’ being the reason the Marquis and his command were now hunkered down in a copse of trees south-west of Heng.

The Marquis nodded his acknowledgement.

Thank you, scout. Get yourself a fresh horse.’

‘Aye, commander.’ A leering grin to Ghelel and the lad kicked his mount onward.

‘Going to get himself killed,’ Prevost Razala said with a kind of reluctant affection.

‘I hope not,’ the Marquis murmured, ‘we're running out of scouts.’

‘So this Kan force — they're our allies?’ Ghelel asked.

The Marquis drew his pipe from his shoulder-pouch, clamped it unlit between his teeth. ‘Not necessarily, they may be with Laseen. But, if I were to lay any wagers on the matter, I'd say they're on the side of the Itko Kan Confederacy.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning that they may be here to try to take Li Heng.’

‘What? But that's ridiculous! With our army here, and Laseen's!’

A thoughtful frown. ‘Not at all. Itko Kan has always resented the establishment of the Free Cities. Heng is the only reason the entity exists. Now's their chance to rid themselves of it. Not to mention possibly keeping hold of Heng. No, I imagine they plan to negotiate with whoever wins up north, using Heng as their card. Sound strategy.’

‘That's-’ Ghelel stopped herself from saying anything that would reveal any more of her lack of… well, cold-bloodedness.

‘Makes me wish the beast would cross the Idryn,’ Razala grated.

Jhardin shot the woman a look. ‘Believe me, Prevost, you do not wish that.’

‘What of us, then, Marquis?’ Ghelel asked.

‘We withdraw west. To the Falls.’

‘West? West to Broke Earth Falls?’ Ghelel repeated, disbelieving. ‘But that would take us completely from battle! We are needed up north! Choss is facing off against Laseen. Every man and woman is needed!’

‘Five hundred would make precious little difference, Prevost Alil. In any case, our way north is blocked. We are cut off from the Pilgrim Bridge, from Li Heng. The only place we may be able to cross is the Falls.’

‘I differ with you on that point, Commander. A charge of a hundred heavies could make all the difference in any battle. Razala? What of you?’

The commander of heavy cavalry held her gaze long and hard on Ghelel, who caught a storm of suppressed emotions writhing just beneath her sweaty, plain, scarred face: resentment, anger, shame and finally regret. Then the woman lowered her eyes as if studying the backs of her gauntlets crossed before her on the pommel of her saddle. ‘I wish it more than I can say, Prevost. But… I'm sworn to follow the Marquis.’

‘So we go west,’ Jhardin said. ‘The Seti will keep us informed.’ And he kicked his mount into motion.

‘Kanese forces,’ Sergeant Banath snorted next to Hurl. ‘Ploughboys, fishergals and runaway ‘prentices. Not a backbone in the lot. Don't know why they bother. Might as well pack up and go home.’ He spat over the edge of the tower next to the South Outer Round gate. ‘ ‘Cept their mages. Plenty tricky, them Kan mages. Like the Dal Hon — only not so bad.’

‘Thanks for the tip, Sergeant,’ Hurl said, head in hands. It still hurt. Liss said she was all healed up, but it still hurt. And this Kan parley did not help at all. Gods help its commander; she was in a mood to bite stone. ‘All right. Let's go.’

Hurl rode out accompanied by Silk, Sergeant Banath and a detachment of twenty Hengan cavalry — a good fraction of all that remained to them. Liss was watching the north, Sunny was handling repairs and reconstruction, while Storo lay in bed, barely alive, recovering from the savaging the beast had inflicted upon him. And Jalor; Jalor had fallen doing his job — standing next to Rell. As for Rell, he made it plain these sort of negotiations were not for him. And so it came to Hurl, now Acting-Fist, and commander of the city's defence.

Kan outriders stopped them just a short ride along the road south. Here they waited for the Kan representatives. They had a long wait. Hurl took the opportunity to get as much room as possible between her and the horses. She walked to an abandoned farmhouse and grounds — the trampled garden plot picked clean, the rooms emptied of all furniture, tools. All hints of the family that had occupied the homestead gone. Standing in the thatch-roofed, single-room house, watching the dust swirl in the light from the open door, all she felt was a sense of sadness and loss. Who had lived here? She wondered if their own scavenging parties had been responsible, or the Talian force reportedly in the south, or these very Kanese outriders keeping an eye on them. Eventually, a large carriage drawn by four oxen came rumbling up the south road. Lancers escorted it, and a van of five horsemen preceded it. Hurl went out to meet them.

One dismounted and approached, a man wearing functional armour of banded strips and a long jupon bearing the seven entwined blossoms of the Itko Kan Confederacy — an insignia last seen some hundred years ago. He pulled off his helmet and cloth cap revealing a middle-aged man, darkly featured with a moustache and closely trimmed beard. He bowed to Hurl. ‘Commander Pirim ‘J Shall at your service.’ He motioned to the riders. ‘Invigilator Durmis.’ The short robed man bowed. The rest of the riders were obviously guards. ‘Within the carriage is Custodian Kapalet. Sadly, the demands of the expedition have proved wearying for the custodian and she is indisposed.’

‘Acting-Fist Hurl.’ She motioned to her own escort. ‘And this is Silk.’ The commander bowed. Exhaling noisily, he sat on the edge of the broken water trough.

‘Congratulations in forestalling the Talians. It must have been very difficult.’

‘Accepted.’

‘Yet…’ and he was looking off to the west, ‘it has no doubt left you sorely diminished. You must ask yourself, how much more can your men take? How much more must they have left within them?’

‘Enough to turn away your dog and pony act.’

He flashed a tolerant smile and motioned to the surrounding countryside. ‘We of the Confederacy did not come empty-handed, Acting-Fist. We know these lands well — they used to be ours. We know of the shortage of wood and so we brought our own. Enough for many siege towers.’

‘There's nothing I like more than a good fire.’

Again, a smile of forbearance. ‘Consider, commander, can you face us in the south and keep adequate watch on your north? I very much doubt it. Consider well, and offer terms — if only for the sake of your men.’

Hurl pulled on her gloves. The formalities had been observed; she had no interest in jousting with the man. ‘Our terms are that you withdraw to a day's march to the south. Otherwise we consider you a target. Am I understood?’ She finally succeeded in wiping away that smile. The man stood, gave a curt bow and gestured to the horses. Hurl led.

Readying her horse, Hurl saw that the fat bald Invigilator and Silk were locked in something of a staring match. As she mounted, the Invigilator addressed Silk: ‘Many of my brothers and sisters in the south say that now that the Malazan peace has been broken the man-eater has returned, summoned by the bloodshed. What say you?’

‘I would say the current hostilities have much to do with it, yes.’

‘Those responsible for his return deserve to die in his jaws,’ the Invigilator called as Silk turned his horse. ‘Just as the ancient curse prophesies. Wouldn't you agree?’

Silk did not turn. His back stiff, he snapped his reins and rode off.

‘How many has he taken so far?’ the man yelled.

Hurl followed, but she could not help glancing back: the Invigilator pointed a damning finger at her. She urged her mount on to catch up to Silk.

‘What in the name of D'rek was all that about?’

Looking ahead, the mage pushed aside his wind-tossed hair. ‘Nothing, Hurl.’

‘Nothing? You mean there's a real curse? Jalor's dead. Storo is nearly. Shaky's gone-’

‘Shaky died before we did anything, Hurl.’

‘Don't split hairs. I see a trend. How long have you known about this curse?’

Silk gestured helplessly. ‘Hurl, it's nothing to take seriously. Nothing specific. It's probably just something made up by minstrels and such who love the subject. That's all.’

‘Probably… probably? How do you know?’

‘Because neither Kellanved nor Tayschrenn deal in curses, yes? It wasn't to their taste.’

‘So I'm supposed to trust to that?’

‘Yes.’ He faced her, gave his best reassuring smile that she'd seen him lie through hundreds of times. ‘Listen. He was just trying to shake you up. Undermine your confidence. That's all.’

‘Yeah, well, he succeeded.’

They met up with the rest of their detachment and by mutual consent neither said anything more on the subject. Reaching the city, Hurl travelled with her newly assigned six bodyguards to the North Outer Round to check on the repairs. There the seething activity astonished her. Hundreds of workers clearing up, repairing walls, salvaging material. It seemed that the residents of Li Heng had finally come around to their own defence. The cynic in Hurl wondered whether Ryllandaras's appearance had anything to do with their sudden new enthusiasm. But there was another explanation. She could not deny that after Rell's performance forestalling the beast the city had embraced him. It was now common to hear them shouting ‘Protector!’ after him and even throwing flowers. It had got to the point that he didn't go out on to the streets any more. The city, it seemed, had convinced itself that, in its hour of most dire need, it had found its new Protector. And for her part, Hurl was not entirely certain that they hadn't.

At the North Plains Gate she spotted Sunny surrounded by a crowd of shouting tradesmen, and he raised a hand to acknowledge her while heaping insults on them. She climbed stairs to the wall ramparts. The gate, beyond repair, was being permanently sealed. A wall of stone blocks was being raised up behind temporary wood and rubble outer barriers. At the battlements she found Liss. The Seti shamaness, or mage, or whatever she might be, was staring north over the prairie, empty now but for broken, abandoned equipment, humped burials and wind-lashed tatters.

‘How's Storo?’ Hurl asked.

A cocked brow. ‘As good as can be expected. Mending a clean sword cut, a blade puncture, or knitting a broken bone is easy compared to trying to align flesh torn and mangled by talons. He's lost his arm, an eye, and we may yet lose him to his internal wounds. But why ask me? You should go to see him yourself.’

Hurl shook her head. He would not want her to see him as he was, helpless and broken. Liss pursed her lips but said nothing. She returned to moodily watching the plain.

‘Will he be back?’ Hurl asked. Both understood that by he. Hurl now meant someone else.

Liss nodded weakly. ‘Yes. Eventually. Right now there's easy pickings out there.’ The shamaness's demeanour seemed to be falling by the hour. Her hair hung in greasy strings, her skin looked unhealthily pale and, unbelievably, she smelled worse than when Hurl first met her — something which had she been asked at the time she would not have thought possible.

‘And the Seti? Are they safe?’

A tired smile. ‘Thank you, Hurl, my gal. Yes. For the time being. They are safe. Yet can a people be said to be safe from themselves?

This White Jackal worship must not be allowed to gain its stranglehold once more. It is a regression for us — a childlike dependency.’

‘I'm sorry.’ Indeed, she felt very sorry. More and more it was coming to seem that they should not have done what they did. That she had made a terrifying mistake that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Perhaps there really was a curse.

The shamaness slapped Hurl on the back. ‘Don't worry yourself, lass. What's done is done. Now, it's up to me to do something.’

‘You?’ She eyed her suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

Liss turned her hands back and forth before her eyes, examined her layered ragged skirts. ‘Just something I've put off for maybe too long, that's all. Maybe the time's come.’

For what? Hurl wanted to ask but something stopped her, a vague unformed dread that whispered you do not want to know. It occurred to her that perhaps she was a coward after all.

The journey north had been smooth, though the Kite did not perform nearly so lithely as before without Ereko's steady hand at the tiller. Jan, Stalker and Kyle traded off keeping the sail as taut as possible. The brothers kept to the middle of the open boat, preparing the food and generally getting on each other's nerves. Traveller was a dark brooding presence at the prow that everyone avoided. It was as if Ereko, though not human himself, had been the only thing keeping a human presence within the swordsman. Kyle knew that the Lost brothers believed he blamed Traveller for Ereko's death. And for a time he had. But now he wondered how much choice the man had — the entire confrontation had had the air of an inevitable convergence, the long-delayed closure of a circle. Unavoidable. And Ereko had warned of the melancholy spell of the weapon at the man's side. It was clear now to him that what had happened had been just as hard on Traveller, if not harder. Hadn't he been friends with the Thel Akai for so much longer? It seemed to him unhealthy that the man be allowed to brood for so long and he realized that if anyone was going to do anything, it could only be him. On the fifth day he worked up the resolve to approach and sit near the prow.

‘So, Quon,’ he said after a time.

Through his long black hair hanging down, the man's dark ocean eyes shifted from his hands hanging limply at his legs to

Kyle. Something stirred, flickering within them, a kind of distant recognition, and a hand came up to squeeze them. He raised his head. ‘Yes. Quon.’

‘May I ask why?’

A tired shrug. ‘You have a case to make with the Guard. That is where the Guard is headed.’

‘And you?’

‘I will make my way from there.’

‘Will you help?’

A smile of amusement. ‘No, Kyle. My presence would only… complicate matters.’

‘Cowl will just kill me out of hand.’

‘No. You'll be safe enough with the brothers. And there is the blade you carry. You have no idea what you really have here and that I think is the way things were intended.’

His sword? ‘What do you mean?’

An easy shrug. ‘It is a powerful weapon. Others might have used it to gather riches, power. But nothing like that has even occurred to you, has it?’

Kyle thought about that — the fact was he didn't have the first idea how to go about such things.

‘Then, what about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

The man took a deep breath, scanned the waters. ‘I'm hunting someone, Kyle. Someone determined to avoid me. But eventually I will corner him. Then there will be an accounting long delayed.’

‘Vengeance?’

A sharp glance, softened. ‘Yes. But not just for me, for a great deal. A very great deal.’

An errant wave sent spray across Badlands who howled his shock. Coots laughed uproariously, his mouth full. A smile touched Traveller's features, though it appeared to Kyle to be the wintry, distant smile of an adult watching the amusing antics of children. Or… what was that word he'd overheard the Guardsmen using when discussing the leader of the race they called the Andii? And the Magus? An Ascendant.

‘Well, perhaps we can help?’

Traveller looked to him, his smile holding. ‘Thank you, Kyle. But no. This is something I have sworn to do. I must pursue it in my own way.’

‘Well, if that is as it must be.’ He rose to go.

‘Kyle?’ Traveller called after him.

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you. And… I'm very sorry. I know you were very fond of him.’

‘Yes. I'm sure you were too.’ Kyle turned away and his eyes met those of Jan, watching from the stern, who looked away, back out over the water, as was his habit.

The next morning Kyle awoke to find Stalker at the tiller, standing, peering ahead, and at the bow Traveller standing as well. ‘What is it?’ he asked Coots. The man was tending the small cooking fire in a metal bowl, cutting up the roots they boiled for a starchy stew. He gave an unconcerned shrug.

‘Some kind of storm ahead.’

At the stern he caught the eye of Stalker, who gestured forward. A dark bruising of clouds darkened the sky. ‘Can we go around?’

The scout merely arched one dusty blond brow. ‘This is my third course correction since dawn. Each time — there it is.’ To one side Jan lay curled up in blankets. Kyle considered questioning him but decided against it; if Stalker or Traveller wanted to, they could do it.

‘What does Traveller say?’

‘He said to stop trying to go around. Just head on north-east.’

Kyle went to the bow. Traveller's gaze was fixed ahead. He was wearing his armour coat beneath his leathers and his sword belted at his side. A sizzling anger rode his taut shoulders and stare. ‘What is it?’

‘Someone's interfering. Someone who should know better than to get in my way.’

‘Who?’

The man looked about to answer but stopped himself, shaking his head. ‘Never mind. Just keep your eyes sharp.’

‘What should we do?’

‘Do? Eat, check your weapons.’

Coots prepared a meal of boiled mush with fish and mouldy old bread. The Lost brothers busied themselves testing the edges of the multitude of blades each carried at belts, vests and boots. Jan had no weapon at all that Kyle could see so he fished around to come up with an old long-knife that he never used and offered it to the man. Jan looked up, surprised and pleased. Then his gaze slid aside and Kyle followed it to find Traveller watching, his face held rigid, unreadable. Jan pushed the weapon through his belt.

The edge of the unnatural cloudbank drew close. The sea curving around its front held its normal swell and trough of tall smooth waves touched by the thinnest of spume at their crests. Beneath the clouds, under the gathering dark of thick shadow, the sea appeared calm, the wind diminished. Traveller turned from the prow. ‘Get down. Secure yourselves. Tie the rudder.’ Stalker roped the rudder's long arm. The brothers twined their arms in taut ropes. Kyle found a secured rope and pushed an arm through. Jan sat against the ship's side, his legs out. Eerily silent, the tall looming wall of darkness rose above them like a cliff, severing the light. The Kite was engulfed.

Loss of headway was immediate. Kyle was thrown forward. Equipment and stores shifted, tumbling. The Kite groaned, planks creaking, the sail flapping loose. Waves surged around them, flooding the freeboard. In the disorienting diffuse light everything seemed flat and distant, colourless. Traveller was shouting something from the prow but his words sounded strange, distorted. Kyle was punched forward once more. Stores crashed over the brothers who roared their anger. The grinding of the keel and planking announced the Kite scraping up on a shore where no shore should be. A savage blow stunned Kyle.

After a time his vision cleared — he'd been disoriented for a moment. Blinking, he stood, steadying himself. A dark plain of mud stretched into the distance to an even darker treeline. Behind them, a sullen sheet of water as flat as black glass but for the wake of their passage. Overhead, dull sky the colour of slate. ‘Cheerful place,’ Jan observed, rubbing his shoulder.

Coots erupted from a pile of stores, cursing, a hand pressed to one eye. Badlands laughed uproariously. Stalker rubbed his hip. Traveller was examining the planking at the prow. ‘Damaged?’ Stalker called to him.

‘Can't say. We're stranded in any case.’

‘Travellers! Greetings!’ someone called in Talian from the distance. Kyle peeked over the side. A man was standing in the muck. A great thatch of black hair framed a long pale face. His robes hung down in the mud and he was either very short or sunk in the slime.

Traveller vaulted the gunnel to land before the fellow only to promptly sink past the shins of his boots. Regardless, he managed to grasp hold of the front of the fellow's robes and twist a grip. The man flailed at Traveller's arm, the long loose cloth of his sleeves — long enough to hang in the mud — slapping wetly.

‘Take us to the scheming rat,’ Traveller snarled. ‘He's finally earned a few choice words from me.’

‘Yes!’ the man squawked. ‘That is, no. No screeching bats here. They're in the woods.’

Startled, Traveller released the fellow, who straightened his robes, smearing mud all over his front. ‘I am come to deliver you to my master, Shadowthrone. You are blessed by his condescension.’

‘Who are you?’ Traveller asked.

‘Whorou?’ the man said, squinting. ‘Damned awkward name. Common enough though, isn't it?’ He stuck out a muddy hand. ‘Hethe.’

Traveller did not raise his. After a time the fellow lowered his, wiped it on his smeared robes. ‘Yes, well. We must be off! Come!’ The fellow waddled away, his robes dragging behind, curls of green-brown mud falling from its trailing edges. After a few paces he turned, beckoning. ‘Come, come!’

‘Aw, for the Lady Thief's sake,’ Coots grumbled. He collected a few stores and skins of water, and lowered himself from the side. His sandalled feet sank entirely beneath the quivering gelid surface. He shivered, gasping. ‘Damn, that's cold!’

The rest followed, dropping one by one into the muck then labouring on after Traveller and their guide. Soon Kyle was almost short of breath as each foot became encased in a leaden weight of clinging mud. Stalker and Badlands had drawn knives and were shaving the layers from their feet and flicking it away. The stink was ripe with the fetid reek of decomposing sea creatures. Kyle had to turn his face away when he reached down to shave off the mud.

‘Damned undignified, hey?’ Badlands said to his brother, and Traveller turned sharply at that, his gaze narrowing, only to snort as if at some joke known only to himself, and set off again slowly shaking his head. The brothers exchanged mystified looks.

Ahead, the mudflats yielded to a climbing strand of black gravel. To the left stretched a dark forest of tangled grey underbrush and squat trees. Their guide was leading them to the right where the shore climbed to eroded hillocks thatched in thick tangled grasses. Kyle wondered if he was falling behind. Either that, or their guide was sinking further and further into the mud, or getting shorter. Most of his robes now trailed him in a long train and his sleeves dragged as well. Stalker and Kyle exchanged uncertain looks.

Beneath his hanging robes, the man, or whatever he was, now clearly stood no more than waist-high to Kyle. Taking a few quick steps Traveller lunged ahead to grab the sodden trailing cloth and yank it. It came away revealing a short, hairy, winged, monkey-like creature that spun, hunching and snarling.

Everyone froze, staring.

Surprised, the creature drew itself up and, with an uncanny mimicry of wounded dignity, snatched the robes back from Traveller and marched off. Traveller turned to face everyone, completely astonished. He bent his head back as if entreating some unknown blessing from the sky — patience, perhaps — then rubbed his neck and exhaled loudly. ‘Apologies. It's my fault. An old argument between myself and the one awaiting us. He was always of the opinion that… I took myself too seriously.’

Ahead, the creature had reached the gravel and now struggled to dress itself. The effort degenerated into a battle of life and death between beast and garment. The creature flailed amid the wet folds, hissing and kicking, squalling its rage. Its bullet-head emerged, fangs clenched on a mouthful of the cloth. It mimicked throttling folds in its hairy hands then disappeared again amid the sagging wet mess. Traveller simply walked on past. Everyone followed, stamping the mud from their sandals and boots. Last, Kyle saw the creature pop its head up. Its yellow eyes deep beneath prominent brow ridges blinked their confusion. It scampered ahead dragging its tattered adversary after it.

Cresting the eroded hillock, Kyle saw a plain dotted with abrupt hills, or what resembled hills. Their sides appeared too steep to be natural. Traveller was walking on, heading in the direction of a dark lump in the distance, though just how far away it might be Kyle had no way of judging. Everything seemed strangely distorted here, wherever here was. He jogged up to Stalker. ‘So, where are we?’

The scout was adjusting his studded leather hauberk and kicking mud from his knee-high leather moccasins. He scowled his disgust. ‘Shadow Hold, I'd say.’

‘Shadow Hold? What's that?’

‘That's what we call it where we're from. You could call it the Warren of Shadow, or Meanas, or whatever you like. Take your pick — it don't care a whit.’

Kyle slowed. So, Shadow. The Wanderer, Trickster, Deceiver. A power to avoid, or treat with most carefully, according to the shamans and warlocks of his people. Now they were in its grip. And the swordsman with them claimed to know its master personally — and to have an argument with him. True, so far it did not strike Kyle as particularly menacing. If anything, it struck as, well, disorganized and slightly deranged.

The beast had gained the advantage once again and, throwing the ragged robes over its shoulders, stuck its chest out and marched in a direction slightly askew of their line of advance. Eventually, finding itself off alone, it would squawk and run to gain the front once more, raise its chin and set off resolutely in the wrong direction. All these antics took place under the very nose of Traveller who displayed no outward hint of noticing, though Kyle thought his back increasingly rigid and sword-straight as the journey continued.

The hills proved to be domes constructed of cyclopean stones, ancient, overgrown, some displaying cracks or collapsed sides where the blocks scattered the plain as if having been thrown outwards by some tremendous force.

At one point a sudden cloud of darkness boiled over them as if the unseen sun were obscured even further. Kyle was unnerved to see shadows flickering over the dry dusty ground, even over his arms and legs. It was as if someone were waving tatters of cloth between him and the sun. Just as suddenly the ‘storm’ of shadows swept on. Seeing that no one appeared harmed, he and Jan exchanged uncertain shrugs and continued.

Their goal resolved itself into one of these domes, larger than the rest and with straighter sides. Reaching the open dark portal, the creature scampered in without a backward glance leaving a trail of mud across the threshold. The party halted by mutual unspoken consent. Traveller turned to them, his eyes lingering on that portal. ‘I'll go in. No one else need come. Though I can't forbid anyone from choosing to do so. It's up to you.’

‘I'd rather remain out here. If you don't mind,’ Jan said with something like distaste in his voice. And he sat on a nearby block.

‘Us, too,’ Stalker said. Coots and Badlands gave their curt agreement.

Traveller looked to Kyle.

‘Is it dangerous?’ Kyle asked.

‘Dangerous? Well, if you mean will we be attacked… no, I don't believe so.’

‘All right. I'll come. I mean, we're kind of in already, if I understand things aright.’

Traveller's brows rose, impressed. ‘True enough. I believe so.’ He started to the portal. Kyle followed.

The entrance tunnel was dark, cool and humid. Torchlight flickered ahead. They entered the main chamber, a round domed vault containing shattered stone sarcophagi, the occupants of which lay scattered about the chamber, desiccated limbs askew, clothes dusty dry tatters, teeth gaping in yellow grins. Traveller scanned the chamber and his fists clenched.

‘Enough!’ The eruption of his voice shook the stones and brought down wisps of dust. ‘Was that your wizened monkey face we followed all this way?’

‘Wizened!’

A shadow against the far wall started forward, rising. ‘I'll have you know I am quite well preserved.’

‘No more games — Ammanas.

‘Games? No more games? What, then, to do? All is a game.’

‘Ammanas…’ Traveller ground out.

‘Oh, very well.’ Translucent shadow arms gestured. The chamber blurred, shadows churning, to resolve into a long hall, stone-walled, a roof of sturdy timber crossbeams sunk in gloom, and at the far wall a broad stone fireplace. ‘More to your liking?’

A shrug. ‘Yet another facade, but it will do. And Cotillion?’

‘Here.’ A soft voice spoke from behind Kyle, who spun to see a man in a doorway, unremarkable but for a rope coiled around one shoulder. Traveller bowed shallowly to the man who continued to watch, motionless.

‘And who is this?’ Ammanas asked. Kyle was alarmed to see the figure approach, a walking stick now in one insubstantial hand. Its features resolved into that of an elder, darkly hued, mouth a nest of wrinkles. ‘Kyle,’ he said, his voice faint. Could this be the Deceiver himself? He struck Kyle as dangerous, yes, but also oddly frail, even vulnerable.

‘A companion,’ Traveller said.

‘And why are you here?’

Kyle had no idea how to answer that. Why was he here? Curiosity? Hardly adequate. No — he came simply because Traveller did. Kyle motioned to the swordsman, ‘To accompany Traveller.’

‘Ah yes.’ The figure, no more than a gauzy patchwork of shadows, turned to the man. ‘Such a valuable quality. So… useful it proved.’

Traveller merely snorted his dismissal. ‘Do not speak possessively of that which you never possessed.’

‘That is open to debate.’

‘I did not come here to debate.’

‘Then why did you come?’

‘You brought me here!’

‘I merely invited you — you did not have to come.’

‘Did not-’ Traveller bit the words off, pressing a fist to his lips. He exhaled a great harsh breath, flexing his neck. ‘You have not changed a damned bit. There's still nothing for us to discuss.’ He turned away. ‘Come, Kyle. My apologies. This was a mistake from the beginning.’ He faced the other man, Cotillion, who stood aside, a mocking smile at his thin lips.

‘Come, now,’ Ammanas called out. ‘Let us stop this bickering. You know what I offer.’

Traveller stopped, turned, keeping both Ammanas and Cotillion in view. ‘No, I do not. You haven't made your offer yet.’

The shadow figure's shoulders slumped their exasperation. ‘Really, please! I rather thought my hairy messenger made it all quite plain in his eloquent pantomime… you can never succeed in your goal, my friend. I'm sorry, but there it is.’ The figure shook, giggling. ‘Quite inspired, his display. Emblematic, you might say.’

Kyle had decided that he really ought not be where he was. Traveller, however, blocked the exit. Since he was stuck, then, he decided he ought to be useful and guard the man's flank. He rested his hand on the grip of his tulwar and found the sword surprisingly warm — hot, almost. He yanked his hand away, alarmed.

‘And your offer?’ Traveller ground out.

‘My offer?’ Ammanas fairly squawked. ‘Gods! Need I spell it out?’

‘From you? Yes. Exactly so.’

The god — yes, the god of deceivers, Kyle reminded himself — hissed a string of curses beneath a breath, drew himself up as tall as he could manage — a height yet far below even that of Kyle, who was considered squat — and swished his walking stick back and forth through the air, mimicking swordplay. ‘You strike at shadows. You chase ghosts. Yet always your quarry eludes you… Well, I know something of shadows and eluding. I can help you along, old friend. A nudge here; a hint there. What say you?’

‘And the price?’

The walking stick set down with a tap. Translucent hands rested upon its silver hound's head grip. ‘A mere service. That is all. One small service.’

Traveller was silent for a time, his gaze steady upon the wavering transparent figure. Kyle's sword had become intolerably hot. He pulled it away by stretching his belt. Yet instead of alarm what he felt was embarrassment — how dare he interrupt such talk so far above his ken with a complaint about his weapon?

‘I will agree, Ammanas, provided you agree to a condition.’

The shadow figure hunched, almost wincing. ‘A condition! What's this of conditions? I ask no conditions of you! One does not raise a finger to the one you seek and insist upon conditions!’

‘Hear me out. Don't fly to the winds.’ A harsh laugh sounded from Cotillion at that. The figure turned a dark glare upon the man. ‘What is it?’

‘Two requests.’

‘Two! Two!’

‘Hear him out,’ Cotillion said wearily.

‘I'm handling these negotiations.’

‘Is that what you call this?’

The figure wavered closer to Cotillion. ‘Don't-’ Though appearing to float, Ammanas seemed to suddenly trip, stumbling. ‘What?’ He poked with his walking stick and came up with limp folds of muddy torn robes. ‘What is this mess? Look at it! Mud all over the floor! Who is going to clean this up? Where is he! I'll skin the rat.‘ He shot a finger into the air. ‘Wait!’ The finger lowered to point to Kyle. ‘What are you doing?’

Kyle could not help but back away. ‘Nothing. Nothing! It's just my sword. Something's-’

‘Cotillion! I sense an emergence!’

A hiss accompanied Cotillion's coiled rope seeming to come to life of it own accord. It leapt to twist around the sheathed weapon at Kyle's side. A flick and Kyle's belt snapped, the tulwar flying loose. A coil then snapped around his neck, tightening. Traveller motioned and the rope parted, snipped cleanly in two. Cotillion and Traveller faced one another, Cotillion spinning his foreshortened length of rope, Traveller with his sword held in a two-handed grip above his head, point down. Kyle yanked the now limp coil of rope from his neck and gasped in a breath.

‘Halt!’ Ammanas bellowed. Surprisingly, both men obeyed the Deceiver, edging back into guard positions. He raised a finger it to where the tulwar had fallen. ‘An uninvited guest.’

The sheathed weapon had fallen in a tangle of Kyle's leather belt. Smoke now climbed from the equipment, then flames as the wood and leather burst into fire. Incredibly, molten iron poured out over the stones, bubbling and hissing. It steamed like boiling water. The clouds became biting, forcing Kyle to cover his eyes and nose. Even Traveller, at Kyle's side, was batting an arm through the mixed steam and smoke.

As the smoke dispersed Kyle caught sight of a tall shape hunched where the sword had fallen. The figure slowly straightened, climbing taller and taller, stretched out his long arms. A bunched mane of white hair fell down his back. He was barefoot in loose trousers and a long loose shirt.

When the newcomer turned, Kyle was astounded to see the Archmagus of the Spur. It was he! The Wind King! Closer now, Kyle was certain that he must also be the figure from his dreams.

Ammanas, Cotillion and Traveller all edged together to face the intruder and Kyle almost laughed to see them shrinking from the entity. His second thought was: all that is Holy! Who was this being? Ammanas eventually slid forward, planted his walking stick. ‘Osserc! You are trespassing upon my demesnes!’

So! It was he! Sky father of his people. Alive after all! Known to these — an Ascendant?

The blunt, almost brutal features of the being did not even register recognition that anyone had spoken. His gold eyes scanned the room, avid. A smile of satisfaction tightened his heavy lips. ‘After so long…’ he rumbled in accented Talian.

‘You must go! You are not permitted here!’

Kyle's stomach clenched in dread upon seeing Cotillion and Traveller, flanking Ammanas, exchange narrowed glances. The doorway was now unoccupied but Kyle did not move. He longed to approach yet dared not interrupt. From the distance, muted by the walls of the ruin, or building, or whatever sort of construct it was, came the long and low baying of hounds. Ammanas straightened to rest his hands on the handle of his walking stick. A creamy satisfied smile crept up his lips.

Osserc merely turned his back upon everyone, stretched his hands out, running them over the walls. ‘Yes, yes. I see…’ he breathed, his tone almost reverent.

Ammanas's insubstantial features twisted his frustration. He stamped his walking stick. ‘Do not be so foolish as to provoke me!’

‘And do not be so foolish as to repeat the mistake you made with my compatriot Anomander not so long ago,’ Osserc growled. ‘How many guardians did you lose bickering with him, little shadow crow? Two? Three?’

Flinching away, Ammanas turned to Cotillion. The two appeared to share unspoken communication. The rope in Cotillion's hand twitched as if it were part of the thoughts. Traveller slid forward, sword raised, the light gleaming from the oily magenta blade. His back to the room, Osserc murmured, ‘I know that weapon better than you and we have no business, upstart.’ Traveller carefully edged back, his eyes slitted.

A rumbling snarl shook the stones beneath Kyle's feet. He turned his head aside to see there in the entrance a crouching hound, a monstrous one that appeared as if it could be fully as tall as Kyle himself, mangy brown and scarred. Its snout, longer than Kyle's forearm, rested on its outstretched forepaws. Ammanas crossed to it, set a hand on its head, murmured reassuringly.

Into this tableau came the little monkey-like messenger. He was pushing a mop ahead of himself as he came from further within. All eyes, but for those of Osserc, moved to track the creature as it became increasingly obvious that his path would take him straight into the giant. The mop bumped up against Osserc's bare foot. The giant did not move, though he clasped his hands behind his back in what Kyle thought might have been irritation. The creature repeatedly banged the wet mop-head against Osserc's foot. Its face screwed up in vexation. The giant edged his head down. The monkey-like thing jumped up and down, waved its arms, stamped a foot. Letting out a deep rumbling sigh, Osserc stepped aside to allow the fellow to pass. The creature slathered the mop over the flagging, muttering to itself.

Ammanas straightened, his gauzy face relieved. The House is unconcerned. We need not bother ourselves with this rude intrusion. We may ignore it as one might an irksome fly.’

Osserc snapped a glare to Ammanas that just as quickly eased into indifference and he turned away. His gaze found Kyle and the eyes swirled molten, his lips pulled back in what one might generously call a smile, revealing prominent tusks at his lower jaws. ‘Well done, son of the steppes. I am in your debt.’

‘Father of Winds,’ Kyle began, stammering, ‘I had no idea…’

‘You were not to. And I am not father to winds or to your people. Your ancestors merely adopted the ancestral totems of sun, sky and winds — all of which shine, turn and blow without my intervention. So are traditions invented. It is up to you to keep them — or not. Here,’ and he gestured and a weapon appeared in his hand. ‘I owe you a weapon. Take mine with my thanks and we are even. Goodbye.’ The giant abruptly turned and walked away, disappearing into the gloom further within. Kyle stared after him as one might a phantom.

‘Good riddance!’ Ammanas called loudly. ‘Now, the rest of you, out as well! Out! Is this a grubby tavern? Am I social host?’

The hound had left and so Kyle backed into the doorway. It opened on to a hall that led past an alcove containing a huge and ornate set of bronze armour, then on to another door that opened as Kyle approached. Kyle almost stumbled here as he glanced back to see the same old beehive-like tomb behind him.

Outside, Jan and the Lost brothers sat up, weapons out. ‘Thank the Dark Hunter,’ Stalker called. ‘A hound as large as a horse came running in after you.’

‘Yes. It didn't attack.’

‘And Traveller?’

Kyle looked back, surprised. ‘He should be with me…’

After a moment the swordsman did emerge. He glanced anxiously among them, then relaxed. ‘Good. I was worried that perhaps the hound…’

‘It ignored us,’ Stalker said. ‘So? What happened?’ and he looked between them.

‘An agreement was reached and you are free to go,’ Traveller said.

‘You?’ Kyle and Stalker echoed.

‘Yes. I am not going with you.’

‘I didn't agree to that,’ Kyle said, his voice rising.

‘Don't worry. There's no danger — either for you or for me.’

‘No danger? That man, or god, or whatever he is, is a lunatic’

‘I've had that impression for some time, Kyle.’

‘So, just like that? You'll stay?’ The scout could not have been more sceptical.

‘Yes.’

‘Do we go back to the boat?’ Jan asked.

‘No.’

‘No? Why not?’

‘You no longer need it.’ The swordsman scanned the horizon, inclined his head to indicate a direction. ‘You should go that way.’

‘What do you-’ Stalker began but something flew out of the open portal to land in the dust with a wet slap. A torn muddy robe.

Everyone traded glances. ‘I suppose,’ Coots said, ‘that means we ought to be on our way.’

‘Yes. You should.’

‘Traveller,’ Kyle begged. ‘Don't…’

‘It's best this way. I'm endangering you. Attracting unnecessary attention.’ He walked to stand before Jan. The two locked gazes for a time, neither looking away. Finally, taking a deep breath, the swordsman studied Jan directly for the longest time, his gaze moving up and down; the old man did not move at all, his mouth clenched tight as if he dared not speak. After a moment Traveller sighed, nodded at some unspoken evaluation and turned to Kyle. He set his hands on Kyle's shoulders. ‘Farewell, Kyle. Bring your case to the Guard. I hope they will prove worthy of you.’ He released Kyle's shoulders.

‘Please come with us!’

The swordsman gently reached out to touch the amber stone hanging at Kyle's neck. ‘You were right to pick that up. But I know he will always be with you regardless. I know he will always be with me. Farewell.’ And he turned away, blinking.

Kyle felt the hot tears at his cheeks. ‘Traveller…’

The man's shoulders tightened. ‘It is how it must be, Kyle. I… I am sorry.’ He faced the brothers. ‘Stalker, Coots, Badlands. An honour.’

They tilted their heads in goodbye.

Traveller ducked into the tomb, disappearing into the darkness.

‘Farewell Whorou!’ a voice called from aside. ‘Fare thee well!’ Kyle spun. Their guide, the dirty-robed fellow, had returned. As they all watched, he blew his nose on the arm of his torn garment. Kyle glanced back to the entrance; it was of course gone. ‘Come, come,’ the man beckoned, the loose wet sleeves hanging empty. ‘Come.’

Reluctantly, Kyle last, they started away from the beehive-shaped tomb, striking a direction that to all appearances seemed no different from any other across the flat dusty plain dotted by its ancient sepulchres. Overhead, in the slate sky, things flew, looking like nothing more than folded shadows.