Return of the Crimson Guard

CHAPTER I

Skinner had selected Shimmer and one of his avowed mages, Mara, to ride out to with him to discuss terms with the Empress. Just after dawn on a slight rise south of her encampment he pitched the tall cross-piece standard with its long crimson banner and they waited. They had dismounted and Shimmer walked a distance off, her thoughts very far from the coming meeting. The Brethren of course were triumphant. Soon would come the fulfilment of the Vow. All they had dedicated their lives and deaths to. Not one whisper of reserve or disquiet could she detect among them. Smoky's and Greymane's case, so compelling at the time, now seemed utterly implausible, even shameful. Smoky, the Brethren whispered, jealous of Cowl now that he stands next to the commander, not him. Greymane — Outsider! — they sneered. Ignorant. What does he know of us? And yet, she wondered, what of Stoop? Deserter! He must have snuck away, abandoned the Vow!

‘Shimmer,’ Skinner called. ‘You have been quiet of late, reserved. I have noticed. Now is not the time to be troubled — we are close to achieving our ambition.’

She adjusted the fit of her silver-chased helmet, its hanging camail. ‘I wish we had more men to achieve it with.’

‘We Avowed will rule any engagement.’

‘Any engagements, yes. But our reception in Unta-’

A dismissive wave from Skinner. ‘We do not need their approval.’

Shimmer turned to study the man more closely. Approval? For just what… ?

‘Someone comes,’ Mara called, pushing back her thick wind-tossed curls. ‘Four. No mage.’

‘Has she any worth the name at all?’ Skinner asked, more to himself.

‘Very few. But Heng is close. And there are extraordinary presences there.’

‘Thank you, Mara.’

The Dal Hon woman bowed, adjusted her robes. ‘They come.’

Four riders closed. All four male, Shimmer noted. So, no Laseen. Not that she'd expected her to come, but still. It rankled. Surely she and her councillors must understand that they were not to be brushed aside. The lead rider was a Napan, as was common enough among the highest ranks of the Imperium — predictable cronyism, Shimmer knew — and rode under the banner of the Sword of the Empire. So, here the man was, the inheritor of Dassem's position come to treat with one of the very few opponents, if not the only one, who had survived a clash with his predecessor. She wondered whether this was a man capable of appreciating such finely layered irony. Probably not.

With him rode one surprise — a Moranth Gold — perhaps the very commander who had opposed Laseen yesterday. Ah yes, the notoriously businesslike, or perhaps adroit, attitude the Moranth take to alliances now showing through. The two others, one tall, poplar-slim older commander and one younger, appeared commonplace.

They reined in; the Sword drew off his helmet, inclined his head. He appeared flushed, sweaty. ‘Korbolo Dom, Sword of the Empire. Gold Commander V'thell, High Fist Anand, Commander Ullen.’

‘Skinner. I command the Crimson Guard. This is Mara and Shimmer.’ The four inclined their heads in greeting. ‘So, the Empress does not deign to speak with us. Did she give a reason?’

‘The Empress does not treat with hirelings.’

Skinner's arms uncrossed with a scraping of armour. The gauntlets clenched at his sides. ‘I wonder if you have any idea with whom you are dealing.’

‘To the contrary — I know a great deal of you,’ Korbolo answered, undeterred. ‘It is you who knows nothing of me.’ And the man glared his challenge, his hands twisting in his reins, his breath short.

Studying the man, the Crimson Guard commander slowly nodded his helmed head, re-crossed his arms. ‘I believe I now know all I need know.’ He raised his voice, addressing all four. ‘Our terms are these: The Empress Laseen is to formally abdicate all authority and to stand down as sovereign over any and all lands or holdings, or we will prosecute her forces in the field into unconditional surrender.’

The Sword of the Empire openly sneered his disdain. ‘And these are our terms, mercenary. You are an unsanctioned body of armed men and women, no more than brigands in our lands. You will throw down your arms to be escorted to the nearest port for transport or be crucified to a person. The choice is yours.’

Shimmer almost laughed aloud. Gods, could a greater gulf be found this side of the Abyss? This is the man the Empress sends to treat? Did she deliberately wish to goad them beyond endurance?

Skinner had gone still, as had the others of the Imperial delegation. The Moranth remained a mystery to her of course, but the older man, the High Fist, showed flinching reservation in the face of such a blunt statement, yet he did not dispute the terms. The younger commander, Ullen, made no effort to disguise his dislike of the Sword but his face held no reservations, only a measure of… regret. Reconciled to battle and his probable death this one was, perhaps all are, if for foolish or supportable reasons. A shame. They cannot win.

Nodding ponderously, as if in reluctant acquiescence, the Crimson Guard commander, raised a gauntleted hand in dismissal. ‘Very well. The Gods, it seems, are determined that blood shall be shed on this day. We must not disappoint them.’ And he bowed.

The Sword yanked his mount around. V'thell, the Gold commander, bowed as well, saying, ‘A privilege to meet with you upon the field.’ The older High Fist merely inclined his head, his mouth sour and tight. The young commander Ullen's reaction was the only one which gave Shimmer pause; he studied them for a time, an expression in his eyes that one might hold when seeing for the last time something rare or precious. She watched him go, wondering just what he had intended by such a regard. Was he saying goodbye to his own life? Or was there more here than she was aware of? These unknowns troubled her.

Skinner mounted. ‘We will deploy across the south. We must keep the Kanese force bottled up.’

‘Agreed,’ Shimmer said.

He turned to her, gathering his reins. ‘And I am in no rush. I hope to extend this into the night.’

‘I understand.’ Yes. The night. The men exposed, pinned down in the open field. The dread of Ryllandaras's return may alone win the battle for them. ‘Cowl, the Veils and the mages?’

‘Will all be unleashed. I mean to inflict the lesson here, Shimmer, that none should oppose us.’

‘What d'you think they're saying, Sarge?’ Kibb asked, his gaze shaded to the south.

They're steppin on each other's bloated ideas of their own self-importance and now we're all gonna die because of it! That's what they're talkin’ about!

‘Nothin’ important, Kibb. Just a formality.’ A formality before we all get buried by the Guard. Still, Nait had a hard time putting aside what he witnessed last night. Those two old veterans actually blocking Ryllandaras! How'd they do that? How could anyone? It was like the old stories of the clash of champions from before Dassem's fall. Like he'd heard some of the Talians saying they saw at Heng. Then the beast moving so fast — they only brushed it with their munitions — and it was gone like a ferret down a hole. How could anything that big move that quick? Because he's a damned Ascendant, that's why, Nait my boy. And those two stopped him cold for a time, think about that! It occurred to him that the survival potential of his own skin — and that of his squad — might go way up the closer he managed to get to those two. Something to keep in mind out there on the field. In the meantime, though, he had to select a corporal. He'd rather not — no need to give someone the actual authority to sniff at all your commands and dispute all your plans… but he had to select someone to take over when Hood finally managed to pin him down long enough to squash him. Not that he'd care after that anyway! He'd be holding tight with both hands to Hood's Gate then.

Other than Kibb on watch his squad was all splayed out, snoring. Let ‘em sleep a little longer — they'd earned it. None of the new recruits, that was plain. Not Martin or Tranter. Calling them saboteurs was like calling a shovel a jeweller's pick. No, have to be one of the regulars. May, he supposed. She was smart. Too smart, truth be told. He didn't like the way she watched him. Saw right through him, she did. So how was he gonna shut her up? Make her part of the hierarchy, that's how! Shame she was no Hands with her hair all hacked short, the old scars on her nose and chin, all bones and angles she was. Yes, he didn't think he'd be like to meet another like Hands; she'd been the one for him. What a Hood-damned fool he'd been! This May, though: a hard life, he supposed, before she'd joined. Beat on all her life growin’ up by her da probably. He'd seen it before.

He stood, groaning and stretching, and kicked May's sandalled foot. The slight woman sprang up into a fighter's crouch, a belt-knife in her hand. More than just beat on by her da, most likely. He waved for her to follow him. She picked up her padded gambeson and weapons to follow.

‘Finally worked up the guts to run off?’ she said as they crossed the encampment.

‘Kept us all alive so far,’ he answered from the side of his mouth.

‘Well, I haven't decided whether we'd all be better off with or without you, frankly.’

‘Well, you're corporal, so you are officially now part of the problem.’

‘Thank you so much.’

They came to a crowd of officers and noncoms — a general briefing for Braven Tooth's command, now 7th Battalion. Nait pushed his way into the circle. He searched for familiar faces — saw Least and Lim Tal, and Heuk with two very nervous-looking old gaffers he presumed to be the sum total of the company's mage cadre. Poor bastards — soon to be smeared by the Guard Avowed.

Braven Tooth, his hair a black and curly tangle standing in all directions, was talking: ‘So, a new kind a battle so a new strategy. Truth is, it's an old strategy — one we used to use when confronting mage-heavy enemies. Been a while since we faced such so it must seem new to everyone here.’ He cracked his hairy knuckles, scanned their faces. ‘Main order of battle is this: no concentrations of forces! Any big mass is an invitation to the mages. Stay broke up in small units, companies and squads ideally. Circle yourselves, watch all directions. Keep any eye on the flow of the field — move towards any strong resistance to blunt it — but don't bunch up! Wait your turn!’

‘What's to stop them from overwhelming, encircling?’ one officer asked.

‘Because we'll be moving within the screen of our own skirmishers try in’ to do the exact same thing to them, only we'll succeed! That's why, right? OK. Now, the Guard veterans will be doing the same — moving in small units, their “Blades”. The new recruits they'll probably have form line and flanking phalanx. OK?’

‘What about the Kanese in the south? They helpin'?’ asked another officer Nait didn't know. In fact Nait knew none of them, only his own, Tinsmith, who was keepin’ quiet and not asking any damn-fool questions that Braven Tooth would be getting to answering anyway, in good time.

‘Right, the Kanese,’ said Braven Tooth with a look that said the same thing Nait was thinking. ‘If we can be said to have an objective — that's it. We want that bridge! There's twenty thousand Kanese infantry on the other side just wettin’ themselves to prove how loyal they are to the Empress. We want to let them through and the Guard wants to stop us. Simple as that. All right? OK.’ The commander adjusted the soft leather shirt that served as an armour under-layer, crossed his arms tucking his hands up under his armpits. ‘Dismissed! Except for you saboteur sergeants. Want a word with you.’

Nait waited for the crowd to thin. Lieutenants and captains passing gave him a nod of approval — some a shake of their heads — in acknowledgement of last night's action. Apparently, word going around was that he'd snuck out with his men to try to ambush Ryllandaras. Come on! How could anyone be so stupid?

Not that he was gonna disabuse them.

Least passed, cuffed his shoulder in a gesture of consolation; Nait was surprised and touched — he didn't think his past behaviour warranted anything like that. It must have been damned ugly in that phalanx.

Braven Tooth cast a gimlet eye over the slouching, grimed, disreputable assortment left behind. Nait knew none of them. One greasy fellow was slumped under a dirt-smeared wool cloak; a fat Dal Hon wore a rusted iron pot helmet and a shirt of rent mail that was nothing more than a ragged patchwork of wire, leather ties and cloth knots. The last was a swarthy, skinny woman who had the look of a constipated stork.

‘Introductions, I suppose,’ Braven Tooth rumbled. He waved to the fellow in the cloak, ‘Gant,’ the Dal Hon, ‘Bowl,’ the woman, ‘Urfa. This here's Sergeant Jumpy.’

‘So you're the guy,’ Urfa said, studying him like he was something she'd found growing inside a damp felt boot.

‘The guy who what?’

‘Stupid enough to go after Ryllandaras.’

‘I ain't that stupid.’

She nodded, squinting cross-eyed. ‘Good. I hoped you weren't.’

‘Naw,’ Gant opined, leaning back. ‘You was just out hunting dropped munitions, weren't cha? An’ Ryllandaras jumped ya…’ and he winked.

‘Yeah. Something like that.’

Bowl's bulging eyes narrowed to slits. ‘How many did you find…?’

‘All right,’ Braven Tooth cut in. ‘You'll all get your fair share. But I have to warn you — the Gold keep most of it. They know it best. Now, as to you sorry-assed excuses. We're short on mages — that's no secret — so you're going hunting. That's your assignment and the assignment of the saboteur squads in all the other companies. You keep your heads down and wait for an Avowed to show him- or herself then you let them have it. You got it?’

Nods all around. A chorus of slovenly ‘Ayes’.

Braven Tooth scowled his disappointment from under his matted tangled brows. ‘All right. Dismissed — all except you, Jumpy. A word.’

The other saboteur sergeants sauntered off, Gant offering a mocking laugh to Nait. Braven Tooth waved him close. ‘Met someone out there, did you?’ he said, his voice low. So close was the man Nait flinched back — he stank of rancid animal fat, old sweat and stale beer. Gods! Has he never washed?

‘Yeah. Met the master sergeant, Temp.’

‘No, you didn't, right?’

‘That's what no one out there told me.’

‘Good… Now, what was he doin’?’

‘He met up with some old Seti veteran he knew from before.’

Braven Tooth's bhederin-like brows climbed his blunt forehead to his greasy tangled mane. ‘This Seti,’ he rumbled, his voice oddly faint, ‘what did he call him?’

‘Called him his “sword-brother”.’

The commander stepped backwards as if reeling. ‘Hood's bony prang!’ he breathed, awed. ‘Two! Two of Dassem's old bodyguard here with us now! The Avowed have no idea what they're facin’.’

‘What's that?’ Nait asked.

The man's faced clouded over. ‘Nothin’. You saw nothin’- heard nothin’. Clear?’

Nait shrugged his indifference. ‘Fine. Anything else?’

‘Yeah. You've got munitions. They're all supposed to be handed in for distribution. Return ‘em.’

‘I'll return half.’

‘Half!’

‘Deal?’

Nait swore he could hear his commander's teeth splintering and grinding. ‘Deal,’ Braven Tooth spat. ‘Now get outta my sight before I throw you in the brig.’

Nait saluted and sauntered away. Out on the compound grounds May edged up and said aside: ‘I'm comin’ around to thinking maybe you're not so bad for the unit after all.’

‘All this lovin's making me just dippy,’ Nait grumbled. ‘Now let's take a look to the south.’

They climbed the south palisade wall. Far out of sight beyond the gently rolling hills the Guard were deploying. Within the compound horns blared to sound formation. Laseen's combined forces, the remaining Talian, Moranth and Falaran soldiery all now serving beneath the Imperial sceptre, were gathering to march south.

‘All open ground,’ Nait said, thinking aloud. He stroked a thumb across his lips. ‘Lousy for us.’

‘At least they got no cavalry to speak of,’ said May.

‘Who does? Horses are as rare as gold these days.’

‘So won't be much manoeuvring, then, maybe.’

‘No. Toe-to-toe. It'll be ugly. Nothin's gonna be held back today. Say — remember that siege equipment in the train? Take a few of the lads and get a hold of one of those stone arbalests. Biggest you can find. Break it down if you have to. I want to be able to reach anywhere on that field.’

May's thin lips crept upwards at the images that came to mind. She tilted her head in agreement. ‘Aye, Sarge.’

Silk had settled Storo in a better-class inn. That dawn Hurl paced the hall outside the door. She was leaving, nominally commanding a Hengan detachment of volunteers to join the Empress's forces to the east. It seemed probable to her that she'd never return so now was her only chance to say goodbye. Still, she could not bring herself to enter. It had been days and all this time she hadn't yet come to see the man. Now maybe it was just too late…

‘C'mon in, Hurl,’ he called through the door. She froze, cursed the noisy floorboards. She opened the door. He lay on the bed. An open window let in the early morning light and air. She stood in the entrance. He waved her in. ‘C'mon, I don't smell so bad now.’

She didn't want to and didn't mean to but she flushed, embarrassed. She came and sat at the end of his bed. The man's face was torn, a great ragged zig-zag that had taken an eye, cheek and edge of his mouth — he now spoke with a slur. That side's arm was gone as well, amputated. An abdominal wound was covered by the sheets. ‘I hear you're headin’ out. Wish you wouldn't. The Seti will probably attack — it's their last chance.’

‘Rell's staying, and Silk and Liss. And the city's full behind us now. You have full cohorts and Captain Gurjan. More than enough men and women for the walls.’

‘Still don't like it.’

‘I'll be fine. Got a good sergeant in Banath.’

‘You won't be safe. You're safe here in the city. And you're takin’ those three. I don't trust them.’

‘Can't say I like them myself but they fought for the city and Silk agrees Laseen's short on mages — these three could make a real difference.’

He took a laboured breath — was this tiring him? He was weaker than she thought. ‘Still don't trust ‘em. Why go? Why're they all so eager to go?’

‘I don't know. But they are. So we're going. Now take care — heal up.’ She stood.

He struggled to straighten himself higher. She came and gently eased him back. ‘What… V

‘Come back. Y'hear? Come back. I don't want… this fight to take you.’

‘All right. I'll keep my head down. Now, we'll see you later.’

His hand on the sheet rose to her, opened, fell away. ‘Yeah. Be careful out there. Real careful.’

‘I will.’ She backed away, closed the door. Pressing her back to it, she considered the very real possibility that they were both of them damned cowards.

Outside, her escort of twenty waited; she was, after all, second in command of the city. They rode to the Gate of the Dawn where six hundred cavalry were assembling in a double column. The call had gone out some time ago and, with Rell's very vocal support, six hundred viable mounts had been selected from the city's remaining horses. Many were on their last legs, hardly better than swaybacked nags. But they would do for a day's ride on a good road. At the gate, a sliver of dawn's light still slanting through, Hurl pulled up short. There waited the three brothers, but also Rell and Liss, both mounted. Near them stood Silk, his arms crossed over his still unmended tattered shirt, and Sunny, his glower even more sour than usual.

‘What's this?’ Hurl asked of Rell.

‘We're coming,’ said Liss.

‘I asked them not to,’ Silk cut in.

‘You shouldn't. The city-’

‘He won't come here this night,’ Rell said from behind his visor, his voice still harsh and distorted from his scarring. ‘We know where he's going to be.’

Hurl nodded. True, from all she'd heard there was no way the monster could resist all the blood about to be spilled. Obviously Rell and Liss wanted to be there when he came. So be it. At this point, with so few, she wouldn't turn anyone away. She raised her shoulders to Silk who hugged himself tighter, frowning his helpless disapproval.

Sunny came to her side. ‘I ought to be the one goin‘,’ he growled.

One of us has to stay and I seem to be the field commander.’

‘You weren't such a week ago.’

‘No, but somehow suddenly I am. Keep any eye on the north wall.’

His sneer told her not to tell him his job. She signed to Sergeant Banath who raised himself in his stirrups, waving. The banner-men dipped their colours forward and the column slowly made its way out of the east-facing Gate of the Dawn. Hurl raised a hand in farewell. The mage bowed, arms tight about himself, a strained smile of encouragement at his lips. Sunny raised a fist.

Lieutenant-commander Ullen's brigades had already marched, but he rode with his aides to the battlefield where a detail was piling corpses for burning. The bonfire nearest the compound contained wounded who had succumbed since the engagement. And among these was the body of Commander Choss, once High Fist under Laseen.

Ullen reined in, crossed his mail-backed hands before him on the pommel of his saddle. Such a damned waste. So much knowledge, cunning and experience gone now just when it was needed so vitally. The Empire was marching to face its oldest — possibly its most dangerous — foe and it had lost one of its most gifted commanders of men in what now seemed to him useless internal squabbling. Nothing like an external foe to put things into perspective, hey, Choss? He'd probably appreciate the irony.

An aide's mount nickered in what Ullen hoped was inadvertent impatience. To these youths just beginning their officer training this man was nothing more than a name, a last remnant of legendary times as distant to them as the T'lan Imass. What did they know of campaigns more than twenty years old — before some were even born? But Ullen had been there. He'd been younger than they on his first posting, just a messenger attached to Choss's staff during the final conquests.

To one side two soldiers stood up from where they'd been sitting in the grass and pulled on their helmets. Come to offer their own respects no doubt — old-looking veterans — men whose memories go back even further with Choss, perhaps back to the earliest campaigns. The urge to speak with them washed over Ullen, to share memories of the man they'd come to see off, but they didn't seemed eager for company and so he had to respect that. Still, watching them go, there was something familiar about seeing the two of them together. Perhaps they'd crossed paths more than once over the years.

One of his staff cleared his throat and Ullen tightened his lips, exhaling. The smoke from all the burning was thick and he had to fight his own urge to cough. Goodbye, old friend and mentor. You deserved better. But then, so may we all. He clicked his tongue to urge his mount onward and pulled the reins aside.

They rode alongside the main line of march south, passing first the laden wagons of the train and the camp-followers on foot, a ragged mob of the combined Talian and Malazan noncombatants. Wives with children in tow waved, as did girlfriends and prostitutes, even husbands of some female officers who held down a trade, smithing or leatherworking, or cooking. Then came the rear guard and the Empress's personal train surrounded by its own guard of Malazan heavies and troops of noble cavalry. Securely ensconced within rolled the Imperial carriage, pulled by a team of eight oxen. Idly, Ullen wondered whether Laseen was even in the damned thing and whether it was all just for show. What little he knew of her made him suspect such to be the case. After this they came to the columns of the reserve elements; here was to be Ullen's assignment, coordinating with High Fist Anand. But he was curious to see the grounds ahead and so continued on. Crossing the east-west trader road they next came upon elements of the main body, spreading out, forming up. Ahead, the ground sloped gently downward. Here awaited the Guard, straddling the south pilgrim road. Beyond, the slope continued on to meet the cliffs of the Idryn River valley.

The mercenaries had deployed themselves in a broad arc, widely spread, with large phalanxes holding their extreme flanks. Clearly they were inviting a thrust down the middle. The Avowed appeared supremely confident in their capability to blunt and pin down any advance. Ullen was inclined not to doubt them. He cast a glance to the sun — close to noon and the day was humid, fast heating up. Not a good day for any long-drawn-out struggle. To the east rose the enormous eroded butte upon which the ruins of the Great Sanctuary of Burn could just be made out. Idly, he wondered whether the Guard intended it as a retreat and rallying point — but they did not seem the type to set contingencies for defeat.

The Imperial skirmishers, the Untan Militia, call them what you like — the murderous midges, his own heavies named them — had already spread out over the hillsides of tall sun-browned grass. Ground-nesting birds took flight, disturbed by their movement. Stooping down, many of the crossbowmen disappeared entirely from sight and Ullen had to smile: yes, good cover, but it won't last. The Guard's mages will burn it away. He'd seen it before. Unlike most here he'd witnessed full-scale mage clashes where Warren battled Warren and swaths of ground and men were churned under. He'd been there when the Falaran island capitals fell and his stomach clenched in dread of what was to come. Still, he consoled himself with the knowledge that such a full-on field engagement was not to the Guard's style; they never were a stand-alone force. More an attachment to any main army, a special service good for narrow, specific objectives or duties. He hoped this less than ideal position would help even the odds.

Lead elements of Malazan, Talian and Falaran infantry spread themselves out. They had already broken down into units of just one or two or three companies. They pushed their way through the irregulars like ships through a heaving sea. Many of the units had organized themselves with hollow centres — a good strategy when facing battle-mages. Urko was down there somewhere on the west flank with his Talians, V'thell on the east with the Gold. He studied the distant Crimson Guard formations: they too followed such dispersal, mixed with lines. Yet the Guard must know that Laseen was weak in mages. The Claws remain! Don't forget them! Simply because she elected to spare the League officers such culling doesn't mean that her forbearance would extend to the Guard. No, on the contrary, the Avowed will no doubt find themselves swamped. And thinking of that Ullen suddenly knew why not one Claw had assaulted him or any other League officer. She needed them for this! All this time! She'd been planning even for this!

He almost fell from his horse, so great was the anger that clamped his chest. Had they no chance all along then? All useless? For nothing? Stopping, he pulled off his helmet, wiped the sweat starting from his brow. His staff pulled up as well, to cast him curious glances. But no — she could not have known for certain. Just plain prudence. A husbanding of resources. He and Urko and others of the League had been spared. Laseen had intended all the time to win over their men and assassinating beloved leaders such as an Urko or a Dujek was no way to manage that. No such considerations, however, applied to the Guard. All the Claw shall be unleashed upon them.

While he watched, the standard of the Sword reached the centre field, this time dismounted. This new Sword, Korbolo Dom, had elected to fight on foot backed by a legion of heavies. Ullen knew little of the man except what he'd heard before and seen just recently. The man's ferocity and fighting ability were certainly not to be doubted; but he appeared to lack that certain aura or elan that had so bonded the men to Dassem. With the old Sword, the soldiers had known that should they come to a tight spot Dassem would be there to defend them no matter what. Ullen knew this. He'd seen Dassem trailed by his Sword bodyguard repeatedly cut a swath across battlefields to come to the aid of hard-pressed formations and positions. One could not confidently expect the same from this Sword.

‘Sir?’ one of his staff ventured, rousing him from his reverie.

‘Yes?’

‘Should we not be returning?’

Ullen squeezed his eyes. Already he was tired. ‘Yes. No doubt High Fist Anand is wondering where we've got to…’ He gently urged his mount around.

Harbour-Assessor Jenoso Al'Sule of Cawn, newly appointed, gauged with something akin to horror the wallowing, limping progress of this current entrant to their busy docks. God of a Thousand Moods, please do not sink in a berth! His superiors would note the loss of income! Still, if it did sink, it would technically be occupying the berth and its owners would then be legally obliged… Jenoso smoothed his crisp new uniform, Imperial black trimmed with burgundy, and waited while harbour launches towed the vessel in. Once lines were firmly secured to bollards he started forward, fully expecting a gangway to come out to meet him, yet none came. He stopped abruptly at the edge of the dock, scanned the railing. Gods! What a wreck! Had it been in a storm?

‘Hello? Vessel…’ Jenoso scanned for the name — Beru, no! Who would name a vessel that? ‘Ah, Ragstopper?’

A pale-faced, sickly-looking sailing hand appeared at the rail. ‘No one comes aboard!’ he fairly howled, pointing.

‘Very well — that is your business. Mine is registration and inspection. Now, let me aboard.’

‘No! Go away!’

‘Do not be ridiculous. Your cargo must be inspected, fees levied. Come, come. I haven't all day.’

The man yanked at his long, unkempt, mangy hair. ‘Plague!’ he shouted. ‘Yes, that's right! We've plague! Look out! Ooo!’

Jenoso blinked his confusion. ‘Well, in that case you are in contravention of standard procedure. You must anchor in the bay, raise a black flag…’

An old man with a shock of grey-white bristly hair and a seamed, wind-darkened face pushed the sailor aside. ‘Did I hear the words “standard procedure”? What's happened to all the ports these days? Why, times were in Cawn a few silver moons would — Holy Dessembrae forfend!’ the man cried, staring at the town. ‘You must've tried to tax the wrong people!’

Jenoso struggled to ignore the accuracy of that off-the-cuff observation. ‘Never mind — more so, greater funds are now needed for reconstruction — ergo, the matter at hand.’

The old captain, his thin, sun-faded shirt barely hanging on his bony frame, gestured a clawed hand to him. ‘Why the Imperial colours? I thought Cawn was open to the highest bidder. Or has the bidding closed?’

Again Jenoso struggled to keep his features, and tone, even. ‘I'll have you know that not just yesterday a massed army of close to thirty thousand Cawnese provincial forces marched through here on their way west to the support of the Empire.’

The captain rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing. ‘That so. Yesterday or not yesterday? Which?’

‘Ah… pardon?’

‘You said “not yesterday”- so, which was it?’

It seemed to the harbour-assessor that somehow control of the situation was slipping away from him yet he couldn't exactly put his finger on just how and when it happened. ‘Ah, yesterday, or so…’

‘Well, why didn't you just say so, man! Gods!’

Jenoso's grip tightened so hard on his wax tablet he felt his hot fingertips pressing into it. ‘Sir! The matter at hand…!’

‘What's the matter with the hand dealt to us here is that we're throwin’ in our hand. Looks like the Empire's got all the ports in the fist of her hand so we're pushin’ off!’

The harbour-assessor's knotted brows hurt. ‘I'm sorry…?’

‘So am I. Cast off!’

‘What — me?’

‘Why? Are you enlisting?’ He gestured aside, ‘Cast off!’

‘Aw, no, Captain! Please!’ someone pleaded. ‘Soliel's mercy, sir! We want water, food…’

‘What you want is a chance to desert! Now move!’

‘Sir…’ Jenoso called, ‘Sir!’

‘Yes? You still here?’

‘Sadly so.’

A fey laugh from the captain. ‘That's the spirit, lad.’

Sailors, barefoot, dressed in ragged trousers and shirts climbed over the sides to slide down the mooring ropes. Jenoso pointed. ‘Wait. You can't do that — wait. Mooring and unmooring at a whim! You owe fees — docking, launch crews must be paid…’

‘Tell you what,’ the captain announced, ‘here's a down-payment,’ and he tossed something, a small ball of some kind.

In his panic, Jenoso dropped his tablet to catch the dark ball. He juggled it in his hands, staring. ‘What is this?’ he fairly squeaked.

‘It's what you think it is.’

Jenoso froze, the ball, or ovoid, held at arm's length. His mouth gaped but no sound emerged.

‘Raise sails!’ the captain ordered, ‘we've a seaward breeze. It's less than the gas passed from a countessa during a reception, but it'll do.’

Canvas and ropes rasped, feet pounded the deck. Jenoso remained frozen. His arms ached.

‘Farewell to all these bureaucracy-choked lands!’ The captain bellowed. ‘A curse upon all you assessors and collectors and all you state-run bandits! May you choke in Hood's craw! Goodbye to all fees, tithes, taxes, bills and levies! Damn you all to the darker side of the Abyss!’

The sails caught the weak breeze. Sailors struggled to push off with poles. The captain continued his rant. Unavoidably, this strange activity attracted the attention of the harbour guard and a detachment marched down to investigate. Its sergeant found the harbour-assessor white-faced, arms quivering, a death-grip on an object in his hands. The sergeant gently pulled it from him to study it. ‘Stamp of the Imperial Arsenal,’ he said musingly.

‘Is it…’ the harbour-assessor stammered, weak-voiced, ‘is it…’

‘It's just a smoker,’ the sergeant said, tossing it hand to hand. He raised his chin to the ship easing into the bay. ‘Who was that?’

‘The Ragstopper^ Jenoso gasped as he flexed and massaged his hands together. Peering down he saw that his tablet had slipped neatly through a gap in the dock slats to drop into the harbour. He pressed his hot hands to his face and fought an urge to cry.

The Ragstopper, you say? Well, we'll be waiting for him. No matter where he puts in — we'll be waiting for him.’

The seas were climbing and heavy clouds prefaced a squall, but Yathengar stamped his staff to the deck of the Forlorn regardless, calling assembly of the ritual participants. Ho sat at the stern with Su and Devaleth; the Wickan witch perfectly miserable in the rough weather and the Korelan sea-mage perfectly at ease.

The participants, some twenty-three, not including Yath, shuffled together and again Ho was struck by the sad spectacle. We look like a collection of village idiots, all of us. Hair hacked and badly shaved, dressed in rags scrounged on the ship — all old clothing and sandals and such thrown overboard. Some men even shaved their body hair. Those pale are sun-burned. The skin of all is raw, cracked and bleeding from repeated scrubbing. You'd think plague had broken out on board. Yet it's working — that and having left the islands far behind. I can feel my powers returning. They are there; I just have to dare to reach for them.

The participants arranged themselves in rows before Yath, Seven Cities priest and mage. Ho, of course, had researched ritual magics to a degree far greater than most scholarly mages and Su, he knew, must also be familiar with its demands. Wickan warlocks and witches employed it regularly. Devaleth, he imagined, must also be conversant — Ruse was infamous for the complexity of its rituals.

And none of them had elected to participate. Was this the mere product of personal dislike of Yath, or was there more here — a deeper suspicion, or healthy dread, of the consequences for any participant should things go wrong? Maybe both.

It began well enough. Ho detected only the most negligible interference from the presence of any lingering traces of Otataral. Around the sitting, concentrating mages, the mundane sailing of the vessel continued. The Avowed crew shortened the sails and secured everything against the coming storm. Blues was at the stern-tiller with Treat while Fingers sat beside them propped up against the side. The skies darkened, the thick low clouds churning. Ho wanted to call it all off, but he understood that time was pressing. Events were converging on Quon. A cusp of a kind was approaching during which they must act or thereafter lose any chance of influencing its outcome.

He studied his own rasped-raw palms and the soles of his feet, his bloodied nails cut short by a knife — and all self-inflicted! Was there a metaphor here of some kind for the pursuits of him and his companions? If so, it was not a pleasant one.

Mouthings pulled his attention to Grief — Blues — at the stern tiller along with Treat and Dim. The man's eyes were on Yath, his lips moving as he followed along in the invocation, nodding to himself at Yath's choices in his groundwork for the merging to come. Ho straightened, amazed — the man's a mage! Yes, one of us indeed!

‘You're a mage as well,’ he said to Blues.

The man shared a glance with Fingers, a sardonic smile raised one edge of his lips. ‘Don't spread it around. Fingers and I like to surprise people with it.’

‘What Warren, may I ask?’

A shrug. ‘D'riss.’

So, the Paths of the earth. A Warren very appropriate to their researches in the Pit. Was this how the man was able to so shrug off what happened to him there? Yet had he? He also, Ho noted, was not participating in the ritual. But Blues and his fellow Avowed now fought the heavy tiller arm, swinging it hard over. Devaleth stood, studied the waves surging towards them like slate towers.

‘Shorten the sails further,’ she called to Blues. ‘Now.’

Blues did not waste time thinking or reacting, he merely nodded to Treat who ran to relay the order. ‘We're much too damned light,’ the woman grumbled under her breath. ‘Should've taken on more ballast at the Pit…’

‘More Otataral?’ Ho asked of her, mockingly.

As an answer the sea-mage gestured ahead. ‘This will kill us just as surely.’

Icy spray slashed Ho's face. He wiped it away. ‘Then let's hope Yath succeeds.’

The Mare mage was now the only person standing unaided on the deck. Everyone else was sitting or clung to ropes or the sides. She stood with her feet widely spread, her hands clasped at her back. She looked down to Ho. ‘You and I both know it'll take all day to bring everyone into harmony for the casting. A wave could swamp us any time before then.’

‘Then you best help us,’ Su said, her dark face wrinkling up in a smile.

Devaleth raised her eyes to the clouded sky, muttered curses to her self in Korelan. Ho thought he heard echoes of the old Malazan accents in the language. ‘Oh, very well,’ she hissed in Talian. She took the tiller arm, pushed at Blues. ‘Let go, you damned oaf.’ He shot an uncertain glance to Ho who gave his assent. Taking a deep breath, he and Dim relinquished the arm to Devaleth's control. Immediately the Forlorn steadied, its progress smoothing. She pushed the arm with just the finger and thumb of one hand and the prow fairly leapt to meet an oncoming wave. ‘Too light,’ the woman muttered, distastefully.

‘Is there no interference?’ Su called, eager.

‘Yes, there's bloody interference!’ the sea-mage snarled. The Otataral is a rasp gouging my mind! But I can push that aside — no, there's something else…‘ Her eyes narrowed to slits as she sought within, searching. ‘… Something I cannot identify. But it's there. It's pulling, like a tide or current, urging me aside…’ She shook her head. ‘Too ephemeral. Can't spare the time or effort — you chase it down!’ And she turned her back, putting an end to any further distraction.

Su offered Ho a knowing conspiratorial smile, and again he wondered: what did the old woman mean by such gestures? Was it no more than an invitation to read whatever suited his own fears or plans? Would she later claim to have known all along how everything was going to unfold? The affectation annoyed him no end. No one can know another's mind or their own deepest motivations, hopes or feelings. People were all of them strangers — sources of continual surprise — at times disappointing but at other times affirming. And so it must be for everyone, he imagined.

At the mid-deck Yath had sat as well, staff across his lap, struggling to weave the commingled contributions of the participants into one seamless flow of channelled power to be held, coalesced and distilled, then released in one awesome revelation of willed intent: the transference of the ship through Warren from one physical location to another.

‘What're they waiting for?’ Brill asked, an arm over his shovel, gazing off at the Guard lines to the south.

Nait didn't stop hacking furiously at the dry earth. ‘How in the Abyss should I know? Now stop your shirking and get to work!’ Grinning, Brill set once more to deepening their trench. Just hold up a while longer, Nait pleaded, an we'll have us a nice defensive perimeter. Just a mite longer… He swung a leg up and crouched in the grass, peering left and right. Not much movement. Pot-shots from the skirmishers, nothing serious. What's everyone waiting for? It's damned unnerving is what it was. No one eager to get killed, I guess. May had chosen a good hill — not high enough to attract unwanted attention, but not too shallow neither. Not close to the centre, but not too far to the side. Once he'd snuck his squad down Nait had set everyone to digging a long semicircle of trench — their hidey-hole when the mages and Veils came hunting. May and the regulars were setting up the stone arbalest. This engagement, instead of stones, it will be throwing something far more deadly at any Avowed or mage who's fool enough to reveal his or her position.

Speaking of mages, Heuk was with them. A number of saboteur squads had been assigned cadre mages, though what use the old soak was going to be was beyond Nait. He pulled at his iron and leather brigantine — liberated from the quarter-master wagons by his light-fingered recruits. They too now sported better armour, as well: padded and layered leathers set with rings and studs, iron helmets, greaves and boiled leather vambraces. Too much armour, in truth. But they were young; if they lived long enough they'd come to find the proper balance between protection and weight.

Mixed League and Malazan cavalry patrolled the outlying edges of the field — too few to do anything more. Most of the field commanders had dismounted to stand with their battalions. At centre front the Sword standard threatened advance but never quite committed; waiting word from Laseen. Nait wondered how long that would last. What was the woman waiting for? Why not unleash the skirmishers, sound the advance? Mid-afternoon now and still no one had exchanged blows in anger.

A brown grasshopper landed on Nait's mailed sleeve and he blew to send it flying. Get along, little fellow — things are about to get far too hot for the likes of you. Untan militia fire, he noted, was thickening to the west flank. Some Guard Blade or line had pushed forward or done something and the irregulars responded. Now, seeing their brothers and sisters firing, more and more of the crossbowmen and women were popping up to fire. The flights of bolts became a constant pattering, then a darkening rain, thickened to a punishing storm. This was how it would start: some inconsequential move would invite retaliation, would spur a countermove, would become an escalation in resources and before either side knew it they were committed. Being utterly without personal delusions Nait knew he was a neophyte, but such a scenario of chaos, of blind forces groping at one another in the dark and reacting without thought, made sense when compared to what he'd seen so far. And it would be dark soon enough — shit! As if things couldn't get any worse! The dark! There's no way they'd be off this field before night.

Nait cast about for the cadre mage. ‘Heuk! Get up here!’ The old man appeared, greasy-haired, squinting. ‘What good you gonna do us anyway?’

Heuk shaded his eyes from the afternoon sun. ‘You pray you don't need me-’

‘Yeah, yeah. That's all we ever hear from you. Well, you know what I say? I say bullshit! We're gonna need everyone!’

The mage scanned the field from under his palm, bobbed his sour agreement. ‘I think you're right.’

‘So?’

‘So…’ he ducked back down into the thin trench, ‘wait for night.’

Nait restrained himself from tossing a shovelful of dirt on to the man. He kept one eye on the gathering firefight. From the unit absorbing the storm of bolts on the flank came twin arcs of flame that shot skyward then came crashing down, bursting into billowing orange-red infernos. In their wake arose swaths of flames as the sun-browned grasses took up the fires like the rarest of tinder. Skirmishers ran like ants from a kicked nest.

Nait squeezed himself down into the shoulder-width trench. Lady save them, it's started. And things were not looking good. ‘Water!’ he bellowed. ‘Douse yourselves!’ He fought with shaking hands to unstop a bulging skin.

The popping of distant sharpers sounded: his cohorts punishing whichever mage that was — as if he or she was still there! Yet the pattern was now set. Mages would reveal themselves to smash any point of strength and the saboteurs would seek to stalk and hammer them. The hammering part Nait loved… but he wasn't too keen on that stalking part. Gonna get hammered ourselves draggin’ our asses across this field. No — won't do. ‘Heuk!’

Jawl showed up, crouched above Nait, her long hauberk touching the ground down past her knees. ‘Do we have to keep diggin’? We've been diggin’ all the damned day. I mean, the fighting's startin’.’

‘Will you get down! Fire's comin’!’

‘Naw — it was snuffed out.’

Nait straightened. ‘What do you mean, “snuffed out”?’ He squinted out over the field. Plenty of smoke hanging in the still air but very little fire. Heuk had dragged himself over, hugging his tall brown earthenware jug. ‘What happened to the fire?’ Nait asked.

‘Put out by one of ours.’

‘We got one c'n do that?’

A shrug. ‘Sure. Sere Warren. Maybe Bala.’

‘Bala? Who's that?’

A rotten-toothed grin: Oh you'll know her when you see her.’

Jawl was still squatting next to the trench. Nait gave her a glare. ‘What in the name of Rotting Poliel are you doin’ there? Get to work! Keep diggin’ — it's what saboteurs do.’ The youth pulled a long face, sulked away. Nait studied Heuk. ‘Listen, I don't want to be run all over Hood's playground out there…’

‘Sound policy.’

‘But we need a way to spot the targets ‘n’ such. Can't you do anything to help us out?’

The mage lowered his greasy seamed face to the open top of his jug as if studying its depths. He looked up, winking. ‘I think I can maybe do that.’

Nait's brows rose. Damn — we're gonna actually see some action out of this broken-down old fart? ‘So? Do it.’

‘Wait for night.’ And he ducked down.

Smartarse. Nait studied the lines. The Sword standard kept edging forward yet not quite committing. The Guard lines remained immobile. Why'd they put their backs to a cliff? True, they gotta hold the road to the bridge, but still… Neither side wants to get bloodied. We know there's Avowed waiting for us; and they're outnumbered more than four to one.

Shimmer could not believe the punishment these Untan irregulars were inflicting on her lines. They were like biting flies — or hornets — and her forces the blundering bhederin attempting to swat them. Something had to be done; how much longer must her men and women hold the line — no more than obliging targets?

Brethren! She called within her thoughts to her fallen brother and sister Avowed. Speak with Skinner. We must advance! Sweep the field of this threat! We cannot delay any longer.

Your concerns shall be conveyed, came the distant response.

Concerns? Her tactical judgment no more than a concern? Was she not second in command?

Skinner warns you to put aside your panic. These pests shall be dealt with in good time.

Panic! Panic! She took hold of the grip of her long whips word. Who did he think he was? She almost set out from her flank commander position to confront the man, but refrained knowing she could not abandon her post. Damn him! Well, she would act, even if he wouldn't! Brethren! Orders for Smoky, Twisty and Shell: you are given leave to punish those skirmishers — and keep moving!

Orders shall be conveyed.

Damn right they will be conveyed. Skinner may have no regard for the third investiture common soldiers of the lines — but she was going to do everything she could to protect the men and women of her command!

Orders acknowledged.

Good. Now those pests will be made leery of approaching her flank!

Moments later a great sheet of flame arose across the intervening field and began sweeping north. Distant figures writhed, caught in the sudden eruption. The great mass of skirmishers recoiled, fleeing. The wedge of fire broadened, swelling, a runaway grass fire threatening to engulf the entire field. Then, just as suddenly, the flames were snuffed, as they had been before. Who in the Queen's Mysteries was that mage? The irregulars crept forward once more, began targeting her lines where her soldiers hunched behind shields. Damn, they're brave bastards! Sudden wails of surprise and alarm — the barrage stuttering, thinning. Twisty and Shell at work. Less showy than Smoky but just as effective. She could imagine Twisty ruining their weapons, Shell softening the ground beneath their feet. Enough to send them running.

Something flashed across her vision then. Men and women of her bodyguard fell, one clutching at a bolt in her neck, another in his chest. Cold iron punched into Shimmer's back and she spun, pinned the attacker's arm and struck, crushing the man's throat. Claws! Two full Hands! Another crouching figure aimed and she ducked; a bolt sang overhead. She leapt, rolling to take the woman down, clasped her head and twisted, breaking the neck. She stood, drawing long-knives from her belt and something struck her, a wave of pressure that when it passed left her surroundings darkened, quiet. Suddenly it was dusk, the sky colourless. The field remained but now stretched empty. Shadow! She spun, found what she searched for: the mage some distance off. Ignoring the pain of the thrust in her back, she made for him.

Shadows closed, coalesced before her. She pushed through. Something clutched her throat, cutting off her breath. She felt at her neck but found nothing. Shadows throttling her! How to… She fought to breathe but nothing came. Her lungs charred. Her chest tightened in a rising frenzied panic. But still through the blurring haze she saw him, the Claw mage, and she made for him. Amazingly the man did not move; he watched her advance with disbelief in eyes that widened and widened as she closed. The shadows tightened like a hangman's noose. She felt her pulse throbbing, clenched off.

‘No… impossible…’ the man breathed, astounded.

A more thorough briefing may have been required regarding the Avowed, Shimmer reflected as she swung, slitting his throat in one slash, then she fell, her vision blackening.

Brethren! I join you…

Olo sat smoking his pipe, lying back in his skiff, his arms crossed, legs out, hat pulled down over his eyes against the sinking late afternoon sun. ‘Boatman,’ someone called, ‘for hire?’ His boat rocked slightly, and he roused, reluctantly.

‘What?’ A fat man in rich dark-blue robes stood on the dock peering down at him, a strange unnerving grin on his thick lips. Olo stared back, suspicious. What in the God of a Thousand Faces was a rich fellow like this doing hailing him? He looked like some kind of eunuch or functionary from the Empress's court. Was he lost? ‘Ah, what can I do for you?’

‘Use of your craft, good boatman, to take me across the harbour.’

‘Across? You mean to the spice and silk docks p'chance?’

‘No. I mean straight across. West.’

Olo sat up straighter, glanced over, shading his gaze. ‘But there's nothing there

‘My concern, do you not think?’ and the fellow produced a gold coin. Olo goggled at the coin then held out a hand. The man tossed it. It felt hefty enough, not that he'd held many gold Imperial Suns in his life. ‘Be my guest.’

Whoever he was, the man was at least familiar with the water as he smoothly eased himself down on to the light craft of hand-adzed planks. Olo readied the oars, pushed away from the dock. ‘Been quiet since the attack and the Empress leaving, hey?’

‘Yes.’

‘A course, she took all of Unta with her, didn't she!’ and he laughed.

Silence. Olo cast a quick glance to his passenger, found him moodily peering aside, a slight frown of puzzlement wrinkling his pale face. Olo squinted as well: the fellow appeared to be watching a shoal of clustered leaves bobbing in the waves. Old prayer offerings. Not a man for small talk, obviously. Olo rowed on, taking a moment to pull down his loose woollen hat. A bottle of Kanese red maybe, and that Talian girl — the one who was so full of herself. Or maybe rice-piss for as many days as he could stomach it. And thinking of that — Olo shot a quick look to his self-absorbed passenger, pulled out a gourd and took a quick nip.

‘What are you up to, Mael?’

Olo gasped, choking. ‘Me sir? Nothing, sir! Just a touch thirsty ‘s all.’

But the eunuch wasn't even looking his way; he was turned aside, looking out over the water. Olo squinted as well but saw only the smooth green swells of the harbour, the forest of berthed ships. The boat slowed.

Without so much as turning his head the man said, ‘Row on or jump out. Your decision.’ And he held his hands over the side.

Olo gaped at the fellow. What? Who was he to-

The water began to foam under the man's hands. It churned as if boiling, hissing and paling to a light olive green.

Olo almost fell over backwards as he heaved on the oars. Gods forgive me! Chem Bless me! Thousand-fold God favour me! What have I done to deserve this — other than all those things Vve done but never told anyone?

‘Those folded leaves. The flowers and garlands on the water. What are they?’

Pulling harder than he had in thirty years, Olo gasped a breath. ‘Offerings. Prayers.’

‘Offerings to whom?’

‘The God of the waters, sir. God of all the seas. God of a Thousand Moods, a Thousand Faces, a Thousand Names.’

‘No! Mael! You shall writhe in agony for this!’

Olo gaped at the man. Mael who? Then, remembering, he renewed his pulling. The skiff bucked, bobbing in suddenly rough waters.

‘Speak! I command you!’

Olo somehow knew that his passenger was not addressing him. The tiny skiff sped up, but not from any efforts on Olo's part. The water was swelling, climbing upwards, bulging beneath them like a blanket billowed by air, and his skiff was sliding down its slope. He abandoned his oars in futility, scooped up the gourd and emptied it over his face, gulping. And horribly, appallingly, he heard something speak: ‘Mallick. What is there for us to talk of?’

‘What have you been scheming!’ the passenger demanded.

‘I? Nothing. Your prohibitions forbid this. I have merely been here — awaiting your summons. Am I to be blamed that others have sensed me, sent their offerings? Their prayers? Is it my fault that somehow have been recalled the ancient titles and invocations?’

‘What are you babbling about!’ his passenger fairly howled, hands now fists at his temples.

The voice took on a harsh edge. ‘I am free of you now, Mallick. Your bindings upon me have frayed, unravelled by the plucking of countless thousands. We are done, you and I. Finished, We shall speak no more. I could crush you now — and I should for all the crimes you have committed. But I will withhold my anger. I have indulged it too much of late. My last gift to you is this passage. That, your life, and my mercy — may it gall you.’

The skiff suddenly spun like a top, whirling on foaming waters. Olo had the sickening sensation of falling, then water heaved over the sides, the boat rocking, settling. He scrambled to use his cupped hands to toss out the water. His passenger sat slumped in the stern, soaked in spray. Olo then grasped the oars, rowed for his life. The west shore was close now, though it looked too wild and steep. Had they drifted out into the bay? As his boat neared the rocky shore he looked around and gaped, stunned. Where in the Queen's Teasings was he? This was not Unta! There was a town to the north, but it was much too small. Though it too did look as if it had seen an attack. He steadied the craft at a rock, setting a sandalled foot out to hook it. Waves threatened to break the skiff on the shore but he pushed back, fighting the surge. Movement announced his passenger stirring.

‘We're lost, sir,’ he called over the waves.

A long pause, then, ‘Yes. I am. But perhaps not completely.’

The man was obviously one of those crazed mages he heard all about in songs and somehow his insanity had touched him — Gods, may it pass! ‘What I mean, sir, is I don't know where we are.’

The man edged his way forward, set a cold damp hand on Olo's shoulder. ‘We are in Cawn,’ he said, and he pushed off Olo to reach the rock.

Olo gaped up at him. ‘Really, sir? I mean, I've never been.’

The fat fellow pushed back his wet hair, clasped his hands across his broad stomach, his fingers weaving, and he regarded the town to the north through lowered eyelids. ‘Well, you have now.’ Something must have caught his eye then for he stooped, reaching down, and came up with a folded leaf votive offering. It held an old wilted geranium blossom. So, even here in Cawn too, Olo reflected. The fellow regarded it for a time, quite pensive, his fat lips turned down. ‘Patience, this lesson. Patience, and — acceptance of the unalterable. Will I finally learn, I wonder?’

‘Pardon, sir?’

But it was as if Olo had not spoken at all. The fellow tossed the offering back into the waves and turned away. Further up the shore, where a short cliff rose from a steep strand of gravel, driftwood and black, angular rocks, a group of men and women now waited where just before none had been. Olo recognized the dark-cloaked figures from stories and was now glad to have simply been left alive. He lifted his gourd for a drink but found it empty and threw it aside in disgust. Then he remembered the coin and fished around inside his shirt. He found it and shouted his glee then glanced hurriedly to the shore but the figures were gone, and his eerie passenger with them. May they fall into the Abyss!

He pushed off from the slippery algae-lined rock and back-oared. Now for Cawn. He hoped they were civilized enough here to boast a brothel or two. And what a tale he had to tell! It might even be good enough for one on the house.

Ullen picked up a fallen soldier's helmet only to find it heavy with gore. He dropped the wet thing. Four of Cowl's Avowed assassins. The reserves in turmoil. Some sort of flesh-bursting Warren magics only stopped by an end of bodies to feed it. He caught the eye of the healer treating High Fist Anand, bloodied and prone on a cloak, cocked a question.

The healer rose to put her face to his ear. ‘He may live.’

Ullen turned to the pale, shaken staff officers, Imperial and Talian. ‘Reorder the brigades.’ Relieved jerked nods all around. ‘The rest of you, follow me. From now on we'll keep moving.’

Salutes. ‘Aye, Commander.’

He headed south to the best vantage of the field he could find. Ahead, smoke draped the entire slope where fires rose raging only to suddenly whip out as if by invisible tornadoes. The heaving mass of irregulars still fired their withering flights of bolts into the hunched lines of Crimson Guard soldiery. So far the thrumming and singing of the crossbows was the main noise of battle. Behind the lines, the Blades waited, veterans and Avowed all. On the west, Urko's command of Talian heavies had broken through and now faced a number of coalesced Blades. Good luck, old friend. The tall standard of the Sword was still pressing in the centre, now facing the thickest of the lines. Ullen had to admire the man's bravery and martial spirit, even if it was accompanied by a rather appalling lack of imagination. He waved forward a messenger. ‘Ride to V'thell. Give him my compliments and have him break that east phalanx at all costs, then head west to the road to cut the main Guard elements from the bridge.’

‘Aye, sir.’

A staff lieutenant cleared his throat. Ullen turned, a brow raised.

It was an Imperial officer. ‘With all respect. That is not Korbolo and Anand's battle plan.’

‘No, it is not. But I served under Choss who has faced the Guard before and his lesson is not to treat them as an army but as individuals. Separate the Blades, isolate them, bring superior numbers to bear and bury them.’

The Imperial staff command officers stirred uneasily. ‘Again, with all due respect, Lieutenant-commander. We defeated you.’

Ullen merely blinked, puzzled. ‘We were not the Guard.’

Another staff officer, a young Dal Hon woman, spoke. ‘Should we not check with the Empress? What if she is not safe?’

Ullen returned his gaze to the field. ‘That is not my concern. My job is to win this engagement if at all possible.’ And he headed off again — he'd been standing in one place long enough. The assembled staff and messengers of command could choose to follow or not.

He climbed up on to the south road, a high point, its bed raised by Imperial engineers. The deep amber slanting light of late afternoon now gathered over the broad slope. Cries snapped his attention to the centre field where a swirling in the light revealed a Warren opening. Darkness blossomed and out came something night-black and angular, winged. A demon. And not one of ours. The staff officers shouted their alarm. Ullen turned on them, ‘Have the skirmishers concentrate their fire on that thing!’

The Dal Hon woman saluted, ‘Aye’, ran for the nearest mount.

Good. A lesson from Choss: even if you know it's not enough — do something! And where was their damned mage cadre? Done in by the Veils already?

While the entire field of gathered men and women watched, the thing swooped over Urko's heavies and stooped, slashing left and right. It then rose, carrying a victim that it dismembered in full view of all, limbs spinning, fluids splashing. Ullen swore that his complete command flinched at the spectacle. Damn it to Hood! They had to show everyone they possessed the firepower to counter that thing! That display alone was enough to break morale,

Wings beating heavily, the demon swung next to the east where V'thell's Gold were mauling the Guard phalanx. Sharpers burst beneath it among the ranks indiscriminately, revealing missed throws of munitions. Where was their blasted mage cadre! As the creature passed over a hillock something struck it and a flash of actinic light made Ullen wince and glance away. A grating shriek such as cracking stone echoed over the slope. When he looked back the thing was flailing, white flames engulfing it, pieces dropping away in fluid globules. It began to sink, limbs spasming as its outline changed, thinning, drooping. It struck the ground, bowled over irregulars and crashed into a shieldwall of Malazan regulars who hacked at its twitching flesh. A great cheer went up among the Imperial forces. Everyone on both sides had paused in horror and fascination to watch the spectacle. Gods, a melter. What an awful way to go. He marked that hillock, bare but ringed by a dark line, a trench. Something odd about the crest struck him. The grasses bowed, fluttering as if in a constant hard wind — fanning! Bala.

‘Name a strong reserve unit,’ he called out.

‘We have a detachment of Gold,’ someone answered from the mix of Ullen's own personal guard and the command staff surrounding him.

‘Send it to defend that hillock on the east flank. Someone's established a redoubt there on the field.’

‘A redoubt, sir? Isn't our goal to advance?’

‘Push back the Avowed? Hardly. But we can break them up. Penetrate their lines. As to the redoubt,’ Ullen lifted his chin to the west, ‘night is coming.’

His thoughts obviously returning to the horrors of last night, the officer paled and bowed. ‘Aye, sir.’

A disgraced ex-High Mage and a saboteur squad dug in. A strong position. Should V'thell succeed they might be able to lever the Guard from the road. ‘What news from the bridge? What of the Kan forces?’

A pause as staffers discussed things among themselves. ‘Latest intelligence is that they've yet to commit,’ the Imperial lieutenant said.

Ullen stopped pacing the set cobbles of the road. ‘What?’

Confusion, exchanged panicked glances. ‘Sorry, sir-’

‘You are all agreed on this?’

Nods all around. Damn the tightfisted calculating bastards! ‘Send messages across the river. By arrow, if you must. The Empress demands they initiate an attack on that bridge! Further — any continued delay will be considered rebellion and we will march on Kan next!’

‘Sir!’ someone objected, shocked. ‘Ah, that is, do we have the authority…’

Ullen pointed to the south. ‘We could lose any and all Hood-damned authority we may have thought we had. Now go!’

‘Aye.’ A man ran for the mounts.

Movement on the road caught his eye. A pink mist had appeared, swelling, rolling towards them like a cloud. It engulfed screaming soldiers who disappeared before his eyes, their flesh, armour, even bone, flensed into a suspended mist that was heading straight for them. Soldiers jumped aside. Too long in the same spot, fool! ‘Magery!’ Ullen leapt from the road.

Shimmer did not lose consciousness but after a moment's reflection this did not surprise her. She was after all joining the Brethren. The dead Avowed chained to their living brothers and sisters. Enslaved by the Vow, by those awful impetuous terms — eternal opposition. Cheating Hood, yes, but unable to rest, ever agitating for the Vow. Remember, they had always come to whisper in her sleep, tormenting her.

You swore! Remember your Vow… Remember…

A hand turned her over. She blinked up at a pewter sky occluded by a skeletal, withered face. Hood himself? ‘You are dying,’ said the vision of death. ‘Despite your great vitality, it is draining away.’

‘Are you… Imass?’ she whispered, hoarse.

The dried flesh of the face could not express emotion but Shimmer had the impression of surprise. ‘No. I am Edgewalker.’ Shimmer had nothing to say to that as the name meant nothing. ‘I am sending you back. Your engagement is spilling over into Shadow and that I cannot allow. I want all of you gone. You, that murderous trespasser — even the binder of your Vow — though he is being shielded.’

Shimmer stared up at the bizzare entity. ‘Binder of my Vow? You mean K'azz?’

‘Whatever his name. He must go. I will send you now.’

K'azz! Shimmer cast out her thoughts as she did when summoning the Brethren. Are you there? K'azz?

Distant shocked surprise. Shimmer? Is that you? In truth?

K'azz! Where are you?

Shimmer — I am close, I'm coming! Listen. It was Skinner and Cowl! They betrayed me!

‘You go now,’ Edgewalker intoned in a voice like dry dust falling. A dessicated hand, all sinew and bone, rested upon her chest.

Shimmer tried to move — the effort blackened her vision. ‘Wait!’

Pain made her gasp. Hot smoky air choked her and she coughed, wincing with the memory of the stab wound. ‘Here she is!’ Someone threw herself down next to her: Shell. ‘Back with us!’

‘What's happened?’

‘Shh now.’ She nodded to someone out of Shimmer's vision; she turned her head — Twisty — their best healer. He gave her an encouraging nod. Shell eased her up, handed her a gourd of water. The cacophony of battle assaulted her: closer now, much closer. The Imperials have been advancing. And it was dark, sunset. Twisty opened her armour, slid a hand in around her side. ‘The east flank's collapsed,’ Shell explained. ‘Those Imperial allies, the Moranth, they're pushing to the centre, trying to cut us off from the bridge. And we are hard pressed in the west. But reports are that Cowl and the Veils have a free hand. They say that the High Fist has fallen, the Sword has fallen, Urko has fallen-’

‘Who says!’ Shimmer cut in, wincing and gasping for breath.

Shell wiped smeared dirt from her face and short blond hair, her brows wrinkled. ‘Why, the Veils, of course…’

Shimmer stood, rolled her shoulder on the side Twisty had healed. ‘Yet the Claws found me.’

Further puzzlement, the lines at the woman's mouth deepening. ‘And others, yes…’

‘Who else?’

‘Sart, Betel, Ketch. Those I know of.’

None friends of Skinner. ‘Summon Greymane and Smoky to me — now. And remain with me.’ Shell bowed. Who else could she count on? The majority of her command, she imagined — and hoped. How she wished Cal-Brinn's company had come through! They'd understood each other. Bars and Jup Alat would make a great difference. And Blues’ Blade — what in the Mysteries of D'rek has happened to them? They seemed to have disappeared from the face of the world.

She took hold of Twisty's arm and gently pushed him away.

‘Not yet, Commander,’ he said, anxious.

‘It will have to do.’

He shook his head, moved to speak, but stopped himself and nodded. ‘Very well.’ He helped her up. She studied the field. The current assault looked like a very strong effort to take command of the ground. The Guard could not fight the Empress and themselves at the same time. Should that happen she must consider how to withdraw — but to where? Skinner's arrogant disposition had crippled them. The bridge was too narrow and the Kanese were waiting for them in any case. A fighting withdrawal, then, to a defensible position. And the only real possibility within reach lay to the east…

Still, ought she not make one last effort? She faced a still puzzled Shell. ‘Stay here. Ask Greymane and Smoky to await me here as well. Will you do that?’

‘Of course. You're not…’

‘Await my return. Tell Smoky — he was right all along.’

The mage caught at the mail of Shimmer's arm. ‘Don't go.’

‘What?’

‘You're going to him, aren't you. Don't.’

Shimmer studied the nest of winkles at the woman's entreating eyes, her mouth bracketed by furrows, wanting, perhaps, to say so much more. ‘I have no idea what you're talking about.’

The hand tightened. ‘Shimmer! You're not the only one Smoky spoke to.’

‘He spoke out of place, then.’ She gently removed the hand.

‘Twins take it, woman! What are you hiding from?’

‘We are wasting time here, mage. See to your duty — as I must mine.’

Shell urged her off with curt wave. ‘Go then, fool! He'll not listen to you.’

Shimmer turned and walked away. The Vow. Remember your Vow. She picked up a shield from some fallen soldier, held it between her and the skirmishers as she crossed the field of assembled Blades. Avowed called but she did not answer. Thrown sharpers burst, scattering shards and dirt, but she did not flinch. Bolts hissed, hammering the shield and plucking at her, but she did not pause.

And we were so close… so close to finally, utterly, being rid of the Vow that has damned us all.

She found him at the standard, arms crossed, helm lowered as always. Crossbow bolts slashed the air. One struck him full on, glancing away, unable to penetrate the strange night-black glittering mailed armour. His company Avowed were gathered around him — though what Claws would marshal an attempt upon him she could not imagine. Dancer, of course; Topper, perhaps, if he was still competent — their intelligence told them he'd let himself go completely. Who, then, was left? No one. For an instant she wondered if the man was fully justified in his almost magisterial self-assurance. Who was there to face him? Save — and the thought came with a gut-tightening shock — herself.

‘Shimmer,’ he called. ‘You have left your post.’

‘A full Hand has taken out my guard. The Gold have broken through. We need reinforcements.’

He inclined his helmed head. ‘A timely request. I am collecting blades to meet the threat. I will go with fifteen of my Avowed to break them.’

A wave of tossed munitions suddenly blasted earth and sod skyward over everyone — all ducked save the Avowed. ‘And after that?’ Shimmer shouted, her ears ringing.

‘Then we march north on the Empress's position.’

‘She'll hardly remain to meet you,’ Shimmer said with far more scorn than she intended to reveal.

The man's arms uncoiled, an iron gauntleted hand going to the black stone — polished jet? — that served as his blade's pommel while the other reached to her, clenching. ‘Then Cowl will hunt her down and slay her like vermin!’

Shimmer flinched away. I see, ‘And then what?’

‘Then? Why, then our ambitions will have been fulfilled.’

‘The Vow will be fulfilled, you mean.’ Two bolts struck her shield, momentarily pushing her weight over on to one foot. She hefted the massive rectangle to straighten it.

A pause. The man gestured forward his guard of Avowed mages: Mara, the Dal Hon, her wild matted hair like a lion's mane; Gwynn, in his severe black tunic, sash and trousers; and Petal, grey-haired, crippled Petal leaning on his staff. ‘Do your thoughts not cast beyond the Vow, Shimmer? Have you not considered — what then?’

‘We return to Avore.’

‘Avore has been wiped from the map! There is no more such entity. Kellanved was quite thorough.’ Skinner waved the possibility aside. ‘So, the question remains… what then?’ The helm edged aside to look beyond her and he backed up a step. Shimmer turned. Avowed approached through the dusk and smoke: Halfdan, Bower, Lucky, Shell, Smoky, as well as the broad hulking Greymane who had yet to draw his sword.

No, not now! Now while we dance with the Imperials, Shimmer bowed to Skinner. ‘My command from the east flank. You say you march on these foreign allies from across the sea. Very well. We will master the west. What say you?’

Skinner's mail-backed fingers flexed upon the grip of his sword. The helm swung to the west. ‘Very well, Shimmer. Take control of that flank and I will do so in the east. Between the two of us we should hold the field by midnight. Done?’

‘Done.’

The two bowed slightly — the Avowed, all equal in theory, held to no salute. Waving to his gathered Avowed, Skinner marched away. Shimmer watched after him, slowly let out a long oh-so-taut breath that sent agony through her side. She regarded Smoky — the man was scorched and sweaty, robes torn, his nose bleeding — so far of all the Avowed mages he had been pressing the assault, and receiving the brunt of the mage cadre counter-attacks. ‘I told you to remain on post.’

He jabbed a finger after Skinner. ‘Who knows what he might have done…’

‘Now is not the time.’

‘Then when?’

Dare she tell them? But what if it were no more than delirious wish-fulfillment? K'azz indeed? So close? Gods, let it be true! Yet… No… it would be too cruel. ‘After the night is won. Agreed?’

A sour scowl. ‘Agreed.’

Shimmer twisted aside as a crossbow bolt shot across her front, plucking at her crimson surcoat. She gestured close Smoky, Bower and Shell. ‘Gather all those you can. Bring them to me on the western flank. There will be a choosing of sides come the dawn!’

They bowed, hurried off. She turned to the Malazan renegade, studied him, hands on hips. He too had picked up a large Malazan infantryman's shield. ‘And what of you? Will you kill Malazan soldiers?’

The man glanced away, his bright sky-blue eyes clearly troubled. ‘I will fight to defend myself,’ he rumbled.

No. Not good enough. Not good enough by far. ‘Then stand in the way and defend yourself, Hood take you!’ She snapped a wave, calling loudly to all, ‘Come! We march to take the west! Smash every unit! Break all organized resistance!’

A great roaring shout answered her, swelling through the ranks. ‘For the Duke!’

Aye — for the Duke. May he return and not prove a mere spectre of all my hopes and fears.