Return of the Crimson Guard

CHAPTER II

The breath of Rillish's mount fogged in the cool night air. He stroked her muzzle, waiting in the courtyard alongside his readied troop. Prepare for travel and battle. Nil's message had said and so he'd had Sergeant Chord fall everyone out. Though where within riding distance could any battle be found? Negotiations were still proceeding with the envoy along predictable lines — the same phrasings as in earlier treaties signed decade after decade and similarly broken one after the other. Were the twins so fed up they planned an attack on Unta?

‘Riders,’ Chord said aside though Rillish could hear them just as well.

Shortly afterwards the twins followed by a guard of some twenty veterans thundered into the courtyard. They reined in close to Rillish. The brother and sister wore thick dark-blue tunics sashed with trousers and leather boots. Nether's long hair was pulled back and tied in leather strips. Horn-handled long-knives thrust forward from under their arms. Nil looked down at him and the severe set of his mouth tightened further. ‘Just you, Captain.’

He glanced between them — something had changed. They looked… intent upon something neither were happy about. Talia appeared at his side, took his hand while disguising the gesture between their bodies. ‘Just me?’

Nether motioned to the road. ‘Come. We must hurry.’

‘Very well.’ He mounted, caught Sergeant Chord's eye. ‘Take care of things for me here, Sergeant.’ Chord tilted his head in assent, spat on to the ground.

Talia had a hand on his boot. ‘What's going on?’ she asked, her voice low.

‘I don't know. Listen to Chord.’ He adjusted the weight of his new hauberk of banded iron, the hang of his swords. ‘Take care of yourself. I'll… I'll see you later.’

‘Come back to me,’ she said, her voice so tight as to be almost breathless.

‘Yes.’

The twins urged their mounts onward and the troop exploded forward, hooves hammering the beaten earth of the court. Rillish noted that almost all the guard accompanying Nil and Nether were old veterans of the Seven Cities campaigns — a hard-bitten if ancient lot. They drove hard, taking the road south, and as they went they passed contingent after contingent waiting strung out along the darkened road. Sweet Fanderay! Must be a thousand! All waiting in the night. He urged his mount forward and room was made for him next to Nil at the van.

‘What's going on?’ he shouted.

He was relieved when Nil offered him a familiar smile. ‘You remember our conversations some days ago? We are setting out to seal our agreement with the throne. And in such a way that cannot be denied! We, above all, have reason to detest Laseen but here we are riding to her deliverance.’ He shook his head. ‘Such is politics.’

‘Is this what the envoy-’

A negative wave. Nil pushed his wind-tossed hair from his face. ‘No. This is nothing to do with him. We and the witches have been sensing the west. All are agreed a confrontation is gathering such as Quon has not seen in a century. We go to tip the balance and our price of Laseen will be sovereignty!’

Sovereignty? Oh, Nil, Nether, I hope so for your sake. A high goal for your people. Worthy of… Rillish craned his neck, scanning the riders within sight… all the oldest of the lot, many bearing what would otherwise count as incapacitating wounds: crippled arms, missing hands, eyes. So. They ride to give their all in this one last throw to win the highest goal for their children and grandchildren. Self-rule.

And he rode with them. He leant to Nil once more. ‘I am honoured, Nil. But why me? Why am I here?’

A fey, easy laugh. ‘Should we win through, Captain, someone must negotiate. You know your own court's ways. You must study every word, every statute. Make sure the terms are binding!’

‘I shall, Nil.’

‘Good! I know you will,’ and he laughed in a completely unrestrained boyish manner. That's why I'm so relieved — I won't have to do any of that!’

The column reached a bridge and rumbled across, the hooves sounding like a thunderstorm over the cut and set limestone blocks of its sturdy arches. Torches appeared at nearby guardhouses, inns and farmhouses, but the column passed on, heading west into what was once the sovereign state of Bloor.

Rillish knew, of course, that the Wickans had no intention of riding all the way to Heng. That left travel through Warren — another reason perhaps that he alone had been chosen to accompany them, having just recently endured such a mad journey. And he frankly dreaded any revisit.

Yet he had to admit to some curiosity: how would it be done? All some thousand of them? Such a passage would be unheard of. From what he had pieced together mage-invoked travel through Warren was similar to that of a mouse daring a daylight raid upon a cat's milk-pan. Done most timorously.

Again, however, the grim and deadly intent upon the faces around him determined his answer: none intended a return in any case. Therefore, no price, no matter how high, would prevent their going. Gods! And he was part of this charge!

He urged his mount close to Nil once more. ‘What Warren?’ he called.

The young warlock pulled his gaze from ahead, appeared puzzled for a time, then grinned. ‘Much debate and snarling surrounding that, Captain. Which would afford quickest passage? One was finally agreed upon — the one least likely to invoke the wrath of any guardian — the Abyss itself!’ And he laughed, kicking his mount on ahead.

Stunned, Rillish let his horse ease back into line. Yes, least likely to arouse the wrath of anyone: because there was nothing there! Would they fall for ever, as some said? Ride off the edge of the world? Or sink into the great ocean that some believed encircled all lands? Which would it be? Well, soon he would find out. Though he didn't imagine he'd have the chance to pass the knowledge on.

Ahead, the starry sky swirled, blurring and smearing in a sickening way. The road broke up in wavering lines like those of heat-mirages, though the night was cool. Rillish chanted prayers to Fanderay, Soliel, the Queen of Dreams, Dessembrae, and Trake: may they find a firm something under the hooves of their mounts and air to breathe. The column's van, led by Nil and Nether together with a troop of other warlocks and witches, disappeared into the void revealed beyond, opening the way. The column pressed onward, unflinching, and Rilllish felt a scream gathering itself in his chest. It clawed its way up to his throat as his place in the ranks neared the void, then burst forth along with other shouts and calls from those alongside him as many drew swords, mounts leaping, ‘Hood look away!’

From cover lying flat within tall grass at the crest of a hill, the setting sun behind, Hurl, flanked by Sergeant Banath, scanned the battlefield. It looked to her as if the Imperials were doing far better than she'd imagined. The Malazan forces controlled the ground in the east and the west, but the Guard still held the centre. Banath motioned to where the Pilgrim Way descended into the Idryn river valley. ‘Will they move on the bridge, you think?’

‘I don't think so.’

‘What if the Guard breaks through — what's to stop them from heading north?’ and Banath raised his chin to where the tall glowing pavilion advertised the presence of the Imperial person herself.

‘They might. But I don't think she'll hang around for them.’

‘So, what's the objective here?’

Hurl motioned him back down the hillock. ‘Annihilation.’ They jogged back down to the copse of woods where her troop waited with Rell, Liss and the three brothers. Hurl came to Liss's side. ‘You'll keep us hidden?’

The shamaness nodded. ‘As well as I can, but I'll confess, the magic unleashed on the far side of those hills is like a return to the old campaigns where the mage cadre ruled the field. And I fear we'll see much worse through the night.’

‘We're just here for Ryllandaras.’

‘Oh? What of relieving the Empress?’

‘Keeping him occupied would be more than enough of a contribution, don't you think?’

Liss's gaze skittered aside and she pursed her lips. ‘Too true.’

Hurl came to Rell who had dismounted, out of necessity, for Hurl had never before seen a more awkward rider — other than herself. ‘Regret coming?’

The man edged his helmet and gilded visor side to side. ‘No, I do not. Though I do regret not having the chance to match swords with the Avowed. I have heard much of them.’

Hurl studied the man for a time, his repaired armour, the twin milky spheres serving as the pommels of the swords at his sides — said by Silk to have been the very weapons carried by Li Heng's ancient Protectress. ‘Why did you ever leave your homeland, Rell? All these years it's been obvious to me that you miss it greatly.’

The man clasped his hands at his back, his visor sinking as he peered down. ‘I had no choice. I was exiled — no, that is not true. I left of my own choice, for to stay would have been untenable.’

‘I don't understand.’

‘No.’ In Rell's tone Hurl imagined a regretful smile. The man turned half-aside as if he could not bear to speak aloud to her — or to anyone. ‘I was young. Very full of myself. I had been promoted to the highest martial body of my people. One of the youngest ever to have been so honoured. I fought many duels — but not as you and your people seem to understand them, to the unnecessary death or sloppy exhaustion. At the level I fought, blood was rarely spilt. All could be decided by the judging body in a mere one or two passes. Speed, technique, execution. Perfection of form and precision of application. Indeed, some matches were lost merely because of what one contestant failed to do. An opening overlooked. A technique not pursued to its uttermost realization. For us, in short, fighting had become a form of religious dedication and expression.’

Hurl's mouth had gone dry. Ye gods! This would explain a lot. She swallowed to speak, said, her voice rough, ‘Well, then, why leave?’

‘As I said. I was full of myself. I did the unthinkable — I disputed a ruling. The judges, all my superior in rank of course, re-emphasized their judgment. I, then, dared to question their interpretation. For this presumption I was expelled from the martial order of my society. Forbidden to carry arms. All that was left to me was a life as a craftsman, farmer or servant. I would remain free, but would never fight again. Well, you can imagine… How could I in my hot youth bear to watch my peers — men and women far less skilled than I — walk by exalted in rank while I bowed before them? No. I chose exile instead. Now, however, I would return if I could. I think I would farm. Raising something from seed to fruitful crop would, I think, prove very satisfying.’

Yes, Rell, you have come a long way. But perhaps your only failing was being too headstrong in a society too rigid to accommodate it. ‘You could think of Heng that way.’

A tilt of the helm. ‘My thanks, Hurl.’

A grating shriek echoed through the twilight from hill to hill and Hurl's back shivered, the hair on her arms rising. She ran to Liss. ‘What was that?’

‘Another summoned creature met an ugly end over there. Things are heating up. We can expect Ryllandaras soon, though I suspect that even he would think twice before stepping out on to that conflagration. Mage duels, I think, to the misery of all, will settle that engagement.’

Hurl looked to the east where the crests of hills flashed in silhouette lurid red and yellow and where the echoes of sharper bursts staccatoed like falling rocks amid the roar of battle. Above the field swirled an eerie reflected glow such as that of the green and blue banners that sometimes flickered in the northern sky. Earthquake, firestorm and typhoon all rolled into one. Gods aid the common soldiers in that maelstrom! All they can hope to do is keep their heads down and avoid notice while the Avowed mages flex their muscles to clear the field.

‘What in the name of stinking Poliel was that!’ May called out from down the trench.

‘I don't know and I don't wanna know!‘ Nait shouted. ‘Just keep firing!’ A gaggle of skirmishers ran past, heads down, and Nait called to them, ‘Over here! C'mon, take cover!’

They dived into the trench. ‘Gettin’ hot out there,’ one said, an idiotic grin on his smoke-smeared face.

‘Just fire!’ Nait told him. As far as he could see all order had been lost. The lines were intermingled. No clear front remained. But hanging smoke, real and damned Mockra illusion blocked his vision of portions of the field — he knew when the smoke was Mockra because he couldn't smell it. Crimson Guard Blades stalked the field breaking all resistance where they found it. Since May's lucky toss with that melter took out that demon they'd been getting a lot of unwanted attention. So far the focused fire of Nait's squad had driven off three attempts upon them, blunted and deflected the Guardsmen to seek out softer targets. That, and the Moranth Gold who showed up out of nowhere to help defend their position. And speaking of fire, it appeared to be thinning to his left — Nait rose up out of the trench to squint down the line. Heuk was there, talking with Jawl and the boys at their lobber. What in the name of Hood's all-too-close breath was the damned fool up to? The mage then headed to him. ‘Will you get down!’ Nait yelled.

‘Drink this,’ the old drunkard said, shoving his jug at him.

‘Go to the Abyss.’

‘Drink!’ and crouching he pressed it into Nait's hands.

‘All right!’ Nait took an experimental sniff and pushed it away. ‘Gods, no!’

Heuk was unsympathetic. ‘You want help? This is it.’

Reluctantly, Nait raised the jug to his mouth, forced himself to take a mouthful of the cloying fluid, swallowed, gagging. He swiped his leather-palmed gloves across his mouth. ‘Gods! What is that?’

‘Horse blood, mostly.’

‘Horse blood? What're you trying to do? Poison us?’

The mage slapped him on the back, chuckling. Since the battle began the fellow seemed to come into his own; where everyone else ran ducking and wincing he strode straight and unconcerned. He motioned Nait up out of the trench. ‘Come with me. There's someone who wants to talk with you.’

‘Talk with me? What'd you mean?’

‘C'mon.’ And the man took hold of Nait's arm and lifted him from the trench.

Nait stared, rubbing his wrenched shoulder. ‘Take it easy…’ Heuk pushed him up the hill.

The wind that had been blowing constantly down the hillside now intensified. Something came throbbing overhead, a pressure, and he ducked, but Heuk gestured, muttering, and the pounding retreated. Nearby, the ground shuddered, dirt and ash flying into the air along with a few fleeing irregulars.

‘What in the Abyss…’ Nait gaped.

‘Never you mind — just keep the boys firing,’ Heuk said. ‘Here we are,’ and he pushed Nait forward. Suddenly, the air stilled and he saw that someone sat in the grass at the crest of the hillock. A very broad and heavy Dal Hon woman, a fan in one hand waving furiously at her sweaty, glistening, dark face. Sweat also drenched her silk clothes, darkening them and draping them over her wide bosom. Despite being absolutely terrified for his life, Nait was instantly captivated. Dear Gods, what a figure of a woman!

‘This is Bala,’ Heuk said. ‘She's the reason you're still alive.’

‘Yeah? Well, I'm the reason she's still alive!’

The mage's sweat-beaded, thick arms shook as she laughed a throaty chuckle that made Nait faint with desire. ‘Well said, soldier. Your fighting spirit remains, I see. Good — you'll have need of it. To be brief, I am exhausted. I have defied, deflected and blunted the Avowed mages’ efforts to turn this slope into one long killing ground all this long evening. But now I am done. Finished. I thought I was up to anything — that I was a match even for Tayschrenn, but now I find I must withdraw where before he alone faced down these and more. Heuk here will be taking over for me.’

At Nait's obvious alarm she threw up a hand up for silence. ‘If half of what he has shown me is true then you are in good hands. In fact, if any of what I suspect is true I am frankly glad to be withdrawing. So, soldier. Goodbye and good luck. I see from your stupefied gaze that you are of course entranced by our meeting. I would be pleased to remain to torture you with my unattainability but that will have to wait until we meet again.’ She snapped her fan closed with a loud snick like that of a sword sheathing and she disappeared. Nait stared blinking at the empty flattened seat of grass. Just my luck. Meet the woman of my dreams the day I'm gonna die. He knelt to press a hand down on the earth where she'd sat. It was warm to his touch. Lady, let me meet that one again!

Heuk cleared his throat. ‘So you could see her.’

Nait turned on him. ‘Yeah, I could see her!’

‘Good. Look around. What more do you see?’

Wanting to tell the old man to stuff it, Nait reluctantly glanced away to scan the field. Lights moved through the dark of gathering twilight — bright glowing figures among those milling, running and fighting. ‘I see people all lit up.’

‘Good. You have a touch of the talent now. The blood has given you this, as it has everyone down in the trenches. You can see anyone with raised active Warren magics. Now get down there and use that arbalest to blow them to Hood.’

Nait did not have to be told the advantages of this. He grasped hold of his shoulderbag and jogged down the slope. ‘Kibb! Load the lobber!’

Laseen had been very strict in her last orders: do not enter the Imperial Pavilion. No matter what. And though Possum was dearly tempted to edge aside the thick layered cloths of its walls to peek within, he restrained himself. No sense offering myself as a target to whatever awaited hidden inside. Planted torches lit its outside perimeter, Malazan regulars stood guard at intervals. No messengers or attendants came or went. Possum watched, as before, hidden half in veils of Mockra and slanting shadows of Meanas. Night gathered, thickening. He would wait. Eventually someone worth his attentions would make a mistake; then he would pounce. In the meantime he entertained himself imagining tableaus of what was occurring within. Had Havva Gulen woven multiple layers of wards and Warren-sprung traps for any attackers? Gods knew she didn't seem useful for anything else; he hadn't seen her dirty, lank hair or stained robes since they'd arrived. Perhaps the Veils had already taken her out. How would they ever know? In any case, he could wait. The Hand-commanders all had their orders — the sum total of which amounted to little more than hunt down any isolated Avowed and take them out. What more could they do? Laseen had ordered no Claw bodyguards remain with her. Very well. Who was he to disagree? Technically, he wasn't really with her, was he? He was watching from a safe distance. And should anything untoward happen… well, someone would be needed to step in to take charge…

Movement of the thick overlapping cloths brought Possum to the balls of his feet. A shriek tore from within, inhuman, gurgling, bubbling down into the mewling of incandescent agony. Possum ran for the pavilion. Guards backed away, swords out, as something dragged itself out from under the staked edgings of the cloths. A demon, its limbs and taloned hands twisted, almost melted. Smoking patches ate at its shaggy pelt. It trailed smears of ichor and dustings of red earth behind as it writhed free of the pavilion. Possum knelt, touching the strange rust-red dust. He rubbed it between his gloved thumb and forefinger. Smooth, like chalk.

Sighing, the tortured thing expired. Its flesh melted into a bubbling, hissing mess before everyone's eyes. Possum backed away. Queen preserve them! What could do such a thing to a summoned creature — an inhabitant of Gods knew what Warren or Realm? Then the thought struck him: summoned! A creature of magic! As if stung Possum wrenched off his glove, turned it inside out and flicked it away like a viper. Gods! He'd almost… too horrible even to consider! He backed away further — at least none of the guards appeared to have perceived him — his Warren magics remained active. He found another vantage point, his back covered by the spear wall of an impromptu horse corral.

Pure Laseen. Vicious and efficient. A floor dusted in Otataral and she in the centre. The dust negates the magics of any entering, levelling the field. As to the fight that followed, well, she had been mistress of the Claw after all. And the pavilion's thick cloth walls disguised the fates of all who entered from those who waited without. How many have fallen within? Five? Ten? And by dawn how many? How many would Cowl send before entering himself? And when he did… the vaunted Avowed High Mage would find himself crippled — as would that mystery female mage who'd got the drop on him before. Yet Cowl duelled Dancer in his time. It was a pairing Vd almost step within to watch.

Almost.

It appeared that for the meantime Laseen had things well in hand. Perhaps there was time for a tour of the field fishing for targets of opportunity. Yes, perhaps so. And he ought to gather a feel for the engagement — in case the situation was such that discreet withdrawal was called for. Warren raised, half within natural shadow and half within Meanas, Possum jogged unchallenged on to the field.

What he found appalled him. Never had he witnessed such indiscriminate slaughter. Hanging curtains of Mockra drifted about, perhaps bringing to those it covered a crushing demoralization, or certitude of defeat. Thyr-induced walls of flames stalked the already burnt embers of the ravaged grassland. Skirmishers huddled in defensive knots firing on all who approached. Malazan regulars were digging in, forming shieldwalls against attack from roving bands of Crimson Guardsmen. Smoke wreathed all amid the dark. As far as he could make out things had descended into little more than chaos, murder and mayhem in which anything that moved was a target.

An enormous eruption of munitions battered his ears and buffeted him. He ran for the nearest vantage. The explosions rippled on in an incessant crashing that seemed to grow and grow in waves, climbing into a continuous roar. He reached the top of a modest hill to see down the slope toward the cliff to the Idryn valley. There, the Moranth Gold phalanx had been met by a Crimson Guard force ludicrously small by comparison. But it was not the mundane attack that captivated and horrified: the phalanx was under assault by ritual battle magics. A tornado of Sere squatted over the unit plucking up Moranth into its gyring maw. There they twisted, doll-like, limbs flailing, some being swept down to bowl over entire ranks. There they collided and, sometimes, erupted, disappearing in clouds of burst flesh and fragmented armour. Hood refuse this! This was not war. This was slaughter. And the thought clenched his chest, almost stopping his heart: they have no mages!

They have no mages. Stop this! Someone must put an end to this!

‘It's begun,’ a coarse, gravelly voice announced beside him. Possum leapt, spinning: an old bearded man in dirty robes hugging a chipped brown earthenware jug.

‘Who are you?’

‘Heuk. Cadre Mage. Sixth squad, Second Company, Fourth Division, Fourth Army.’

‘What's begun?’

Our duel.’

Possum eyed the man up and down as if he were mad. ‘Your duel? There are at least twelve Avowed mages out there.’

‘Less than that. The boys got maybe three. In any case,’ and his eyes looked directly into Possum's, ‘that's not your concern, is it?’

Possum could not help but back up a step: that smell, blood? The man's eyes — midnight black upon black? And at his mouth — blood? ‘Who are you?’ he breathed.

The fellow gestured to the south. ‘Look. They've broken.’

Indeed. The Gold phalanx was disintegrating under the pressure of the widening ravenous cyclone. Knots of soldiers fled in all directions.

The man's smile twisted, revealing black, crooked teeth. ‘We're next.’ His glance returned to Possum. ‘Who am I? Your recruiters named me a mage, but I am no mage. And now,’ he hiked up his jug, ‘you'd best fly away, little death crow. Keep to your games in the shallows of shadow. As for myself — I plumb the infinite depths of Night Eternal!’

Possum continued backing away. ‘No — that Warren is beyond us.’

‘Fool! As I said, I am no mage. I am a mere worshipper of Night. And as the old saying goes, my blood is up. Now flee, because I am about to call upon my God for he has returned and the time is long overdue for a demonstration of his gathering presence upon this world.’

While Possum watched, revolted, the man upended the jug over his head. Thick fluid — clotted blood, he imagined — ran down over the man's hair, face and shoulders. Possum turned away, his gorge rising. Madness! Utter insanity. And the night had barely begun! At the base of the shallow rise he stopped short as cocked crossbows in the hands of tens of soldiers kneeling and lying in the grass jerked to train themselves upon him. He froze.

‘Lower your Warren,’ someone shouted. ‘Or die.’

Possum complied. They see him. How could they see him?

‘Ach!’ someone snorted. ‘It's only a fucking Claw.’ The crossbows all swung away.

Feeling rather piqued, Possum sought out the owner of that voice. He found the man — a sergeant — in a trench arguing with a Moranth Gold who towered above. ‘I don't give a rat's ass,’ the sergeant was saying. ‘Your orders are to stay, so you stay!’

’Our brothers need us,’ the Moranth rumbled. They are sorely pressed.’

‘They've broken,’ Possum said. Both looked over, annoyed, it seemed to him, by his interruption. The sergeant made a tossing away gesture. ‘There you go.’

‘You could have them rally to this position,’ Possum suggested.

The Moranth swung his helm down to peer to the sergeant who glared at Possum then waved the Moranth away. ‘Fine!’ And he muttered under his breath, ‘Might as well paint fucking bull's-eyes on our heads.’

‘Too late for that, Sergeant…?’

‘Nai-’ The man took a deep breath. ‘Jumpy. Sergeant Jumpy.’

Ah! Of course, the man crazy enough to go out into the night to try to stalk Ryllandaras. Who else would it be? ‘You already have the Guard's attention. I can guarantee you that. You have a lunatic mage, or priest, above your heads with delusions of omnipotence. And with the Moranth broken, yours and the centre are the last remaining Imperial strong-points in the field.’

The man was scanning the dark field before the trench where mixed Moranth and Malazan regulars held lines defending coalesced skirmishers against probing Guard infantry. ‘Then I guess you best run away,’ he said, offhanded.

Possum's mouth clamped shut; his hands twitched to fill themselves. ‘Do not presume to be beyond the reach of the Empress,’ he ground out.

‘Don't you presume yourself safe.’ And he pointed down the trench. Possum glanced aside: four saboteurs held crossbows trained upon him, each set with a sharper. ‘We're in the trench and you ain't,’ the sergeant observed laconically.

Possum straightened, carefully adjusted his dark-blue tunic. ‘Continue defending this position, Sergeant,’ and he stepped over the trench, raising his Warren to pass through the lines of assembling Imperials. The sergeant called after him, ‘No kidding! Like I was going to go for a blasted swim or something.’

Impertinent shit. Possum calmed himself with the certainty that — even with the deluded priest's claims — they would all be dead by the dawn. He just hoped they would savage the Guard brutally enough for the Claws to then at their leisure pick off the remaining exhausted and drained Avowed.

Her Blades found the west flank in a shambles. Shimmer sent her lieutenants ahead to organize what scattered forces remained. All that stopped a solid Imperial advance was the lack of support from the rest of the field — the Guard centre still held and the appalling display of battle magics on the east was a pause for every ordinary soldier.

Shimmer advanced with Greymane, Shell and Smoky, gathering to her a growing following of Avowed, most of which she sent ahead to help firm resistance. The closer they got to the front, or scattered sections of the front, the thicker became the punishing flights of crossbow bolts. Every Avowed, and many regular Guardsmen and women, had picked up a Malazan heavy infantryman's solid rectangular shield, which they hunched behind like moveable walls. Shimmer had to occasionally sweep away the bolts hammered into hers in order to keep it usable.

An Avowed, Daneth, waved her over to a pile of fallen Guardsmen. ‘Look at this.’ On her knees, she raised a corpse to rest its head on her lap. Despite the man's mangled features Shimmer recognized him as an Avowed, Longlegs. The body displayed a number of wounds, as one would expect, but what was surprising was that fatal head wound: it was singular. Someone, or something, had struck him a blow on the face shattering his nose and jaw, driving the fragmented bones back into his brain, killing him instantly. ‘A club or mace?’ Shimmer opined.

‘The heel of an open hand,’ Daneth said, her flat tone matching her set grim face.

‘What? Who could possibly…’

‘Urko!’ Smoky gasped as if the name itself were a curse. ‘He's here.’

Urko — the man who needs no weapons. No wonder the west was in such disarray; no unit could hold against him. She glanced around, caught the gaze of nearby Avowed. ‘Halfdan, Bower, Lucky! Find him and kill him.’

They three inclined their heads in concurrence, jogged off.

‘They won't find him,’ Smoky said aside.

‘No? Why not?’

‘He's probably standing in line like any other heavy infantryman. He's already hiding from the Veils. He could be any of them.’

‘Lucky is no fool. He'll wait and watch.’

A shrug. ‘I hope so.’ He motioned to Shell. ‘In any case, Shell and I have done a few head-counts and we think we have some thirty of our brothers and sisters.’

‘And Skinner?’

‘Slightly more.’

‘I see. So, we remain split in our sympathies.’ Again, doubt stabbed at her, squeezing her breath and churning her stomach almost to the point of retching. What if she'd been dreaming? Hearing voices? It was Shadow after all. She turned on Greymane, snapping angrily, ‘What of you? Are you a match for a man who breaks armour with his bare hands?’

Nearby eruptions from a wave of tossed munitions shot dust and dirt over everyone. Greymane hefted his scavenged shield, shook dirt from his shoulders. ‘I've never met him,’ he shouted. ‘But from what I've heard — no.’

‘No?’ She was incredulous. ‘Just like that — you admit you could not defeat him. Is this a refusal to fight?’ All remaining nearby Avowed turned to watch warily.

‘I did not say that, Shimmer,’ Greymane said calmly, his hands kept loose at his sides. ‘I merely said there would be no match between us.’

‘So, all you have heard of him leads you to fear him that much.’

‘No, Shimmer. All that I have heard leads me to admire him that much. But I will say this. I vow that I would give my life in defence of you.’

Shimmer remained motionless for a number of heartbeats, her dark gaze slitted on Greymane's own pale unguarded eyes. She let her shield fall then hiked it up again as a crossbow bolt sang past, biting at the crimson silk tail that hung from her helmet's wrapping. She let go a snarled exhalation through clenched teeth. ‘Damn you, Greymane. Must you always walk the knife's edge?’

‘I must be true to myself.’

And look at what it has brought you, renegade! But she left the retort unsaid. The man seemed all too desolately aware of it. She gripped her sheathed Napan whipsword. ‘Then I'll have to take you up on your offer and head to the front ranks until we find our friend…’

He rubbed his broad, flattened nose, wincing. ‘I was worried you'd propose that.’

‘Father Light preserve us!’ Smoky breathed, suddenly fixed upon the east. Shell too stared, speechless. Her hands rose as if to fend off what she was seeing. Shimmer squinted but could only make out a darker patch against the general night. ‘What is it?’

Eyes still on the far edge of the field, Smoky murmured, almost inaudibly, ‘The impossible.’

‘Explain yourself, mage,’ Shimmer snapped.

Blinking, the man turned back to her, ran his soot-blackened hands up through his tangle of wild hair. ‘Someone has unveiled Kurald Galain here on the battlefield. And whoever that mage is, he or she ain't one of ours.’

‘Kurald Galain?’

‘The Tiste Andii Warren of Elder Darkness,’ Shell explained. ‘Home of their Goddess, Mother Dark.’

Shimmer eyed the coalescing, gently turning smear of darkness low over the field. ‘But there are no Tiste Andii here…’

‘Exactly. The impossible.’

Buffets of wind announced the arrival of mages through Warren: Opal, Lor-sinn and Toby. The gathered Avowed mages all cast taut glances to Smoky who agreed with a tart downturn of his mouth to whatever had been communicated. He faced Shimmer. ‘The escalation in magery has begun. Skinner's invoked ritual magics, the Imperials have responded. We, all five of us, together with the recruited mages, Twisty, Palla and whoever else — we'll probably all be needed here.’

‘All of you?’

Smoky dragged a hand across his face. ‘Whoever raised that, Shimmer, is beyond me.’

Shimmer forced herself to remain rigid. Show nothing! They are all looking to you! Could no battle go as planned? We expected sword and shield to settle this engagement. Now Smoky claims things have spiralled to a clash such as the sorcerous conflagrations of old. Well, so be it. Short of the appearance of Tayschrenn she was confident of the Guard's mage cadre. At least that thing, whatever it was, was now Skinner's concern as it stood directly between him and the Imperial pavilion. K'azz, if you really are close — we need you, ‘Very well.’ She nodded to the sergeant with her, Trench, who raised a hand signing ‘advance’.

‘For'ard!’

Greymane followed Shimmer, obviously meaning to guard her back, while the assembled mages flanked her. The Avowed of her command spread out through the phalanx of second and third investiture men and women, rallying all the disparate knots into one swelling, widening wedge of shielded soldiers.

‘Great Goddess protect us,’ Liss murmured, her head turning abruptly to the east. The three brothers, Hurl noted, had all turned as well.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Amazing… Like nothing I have ever seen, nor expected to see.’

‘What, dammit!’

‘Elder Darkness, Night Eternal, unveiled there on the battlefield.’ She pulled her gaze from the silhouetted hills to look down to Hurl who stood next to her mount. ‘Things, Hurl, are rapidly sliding out of control out on that field. Forces are being summoned that would give even Ryllandaras pause. He is, after all, just one creature.’ She pointed. ‘But out there, magery such as that which consumed armies is being primed for wielding.’

‘So?’

‘So — we must find him before we ourselves are consumed.’

‘Let us…’ said one brother.

‘Leave him…’

‘To die,’ finished the last.

Liss turned on them. ‘He's too cunning. He will flee. I intend to make sure of it!’

‘I, as well,’ Rell added.

The three shrugged, their indifference raising the hairs of Hurl's neck. They moved not one after the other, or raggedly, but identically, at exactly the same moment in exactly the same way despite the sagging paralysis of shoulders, lips and arms. It was as if they were one. And there had always been something eerie about them. Something unsettling. Everyone felt it. For Hurl it was a prickling that struck right at the very centre of her being but which she couldn't exactly pin down. Intuitive. Something was very wrong about them.

Yet what could she do? They'd done nothing suspicious. Nothing to call them on. Quite the opposite, in fact. They'd been vital to the city's defence. And so she was stuck with them. Like horses, she reflected, sourly. They made themselves useful so you couldn't just kill them all. But she knew their true side — she was on to them. ‘So?’ She sighed. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘We should move. He's close. In the north. The brothers and I should be able to find him.’

Find him? Great Lady, they're actually going hunting for him! Well, it was what they came for. Personally, she'd hoped to wait till he got himself tarred by the Imperials then they could just step in and finish him off But there was still hope.

She went to her mount, gathered the reins. The red mare turned its head, watching her. Try anything and I'll kill you — you know it too. The mare shook her auburn mane. Hurl patted the bulging saddlebags strapped tight and padded in sheepskins. Yeah, she meant to make sure of it too.

A squad healer, name unknown to Ullen, gave his left arm a squeeze to let him know he was done, then moved on the next wounded man. Standing, Ullen spared a glance from then field to see that the man had fashioned a sling to tie the dead meat that was his right arm to his chest. One of Cowl's Veils, a tall slim woman with long white hair, had appeared out of nowhere, slaying guards and staffers, making for him until a saboteur sergeant briefing him, Urfa, had thrown something that burst a spray of razor fragments, some of which had lacerated his arm, slicing tendons and nerves. It left the Veil staggered, slashed in zig-zags of blood, then, and only then did a full Hand appear to jump her. The resulting melee had tumbled away into the night in a frenzy of leaping bodies, thrown blades and tossed Warren magics.

Ullen saw in that same all-encompassing glance that his command staff of relatively green lieutenants and messengers had been profoundly shaken. First time's always the worst. He cleared his throat, drawing their attention from the night. ‘Now we know what a visit from Dancer must have been like, hey?’ and he offered a self-mocking, almost sad smile. The gathered men and women eyed one another; some wiped at their shining sweaty faces. Then: appreciative chuckles and even blown breaths.

A chorus of ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Reports, people! What's going on?’

The Imperial lieutenant brushed at a trail of blood from a slashed cheek. ‘Reports are we're losing ground in the west. Urko is pulling his people to the centre.’

‘I have unconfirmed accounts that the Sword is wounded, possibly fallen,’ added the Dal Hon lieutenant, Gellan.

‘Moranth and other elements remaining in the east are rallying to the redoubt,’ said another. ‘I have also had intelligence from the Claw that Skinner is leading a phalanx north, making for that very strongpoint.’

Gods, what a clash that will he. It could determine the victor. ‘And that darkness gathered there…?’

‘We have confirmation that it's one of our own cadre mages, apparently,’ came the grudging admission.

Don't count the mongrels out, you son of an aristocratic house. Even though they don't have vaunted titles like High Mage many actually know their trade. ‘Very good. Have all broken elements assemble on the redoubt. Order the skirmishers to concentrate fire on that phalanx — grind them down!’

‘Aye.’

‘What of the Empress?’ a staffer asked. ‘If the Veils have-’

‘Never mind the Empress,’ Ullen replied, angered. ‘She is fighting her battles as we must fight ours.’ And if you think we've been cursed by Veils — you don't want to be anywhere near her.

‘The Empress sends her compliments,’ said a new voice and Ullen turned, surprised — and pleased — to see the scarred figure of Captain Moss. He extended his left hand and they shook, awkwardly. ‘I have been seconded to your staff.’

‘You are most welcome.’

‘She bade me inform you that you have her fullest confidence. She commends your actions as field-commander.’

Ullen's brows rose. Just what the Imperials on his staff needed to hear. Thank you, Moss. He cleared his throat into his left fist again. ‘Very good, Captain.’ He turned to his people. ‘What of the Kanese?’

‘They have attacked but Avowed still hold the bridge,’ said one.

‘How many?’

‘Reports are,’ and the fellow swallowed, his voice failing, ‘… five.’

‘Five? Five Avowed against twenty thousand?’

‘Ah, yes, sir.’

Hood — are you pleased? What a ferocious confrontation! He didn't envy the Kanese the effort it would take to lever the Avowed from that narrow pass. And how many did they face — thirty? Forty? No, don't go there! Avoid the scenarios of despair. At least these are in the open. These can be cut down from afar. ‘The Kanese will break through soon enough,’ he said. ‘We just have to hold on.’

At least a few of his staff mustered the effort to murmur, ‘Yes, sir.’

His haunting the field, scanning in turn through Meanas then Mockra, paid off when Possum sensed his quarry to the north-west. Moving quickly through Shadow he arrived on the darkened slope to see Coil bent over still forms lying twisted in the grass — a full Claw Hand. Damn the woman! They need all their strength and here she is eliminating rivals! That is more than enough justification… Drawing his blades he launched himself forward through Shadow. Just as he arrived her own senses moved her to twist, but not quite quickly enough to avoid the thrusting iron as it entered through her ribs in the back and front, puncturing lung and pricking her heart. He wriggled the knives, lacerating the organs to make sure of it.

Coil stared back at him, stunned, horrified, eyes full of the knowledge of her own coming death. ‘You fool…’ she breathed. He thought nothing of such death-babblings. Strange things are said as life flees. Curses, claims to innocence, innermost longings. ‘These… Mallick's… I was all that stood between them… and her.’

Possum withdrew the blades, straightening. What?

Life dimmed in the woman's dark eyes and she fell. She smiled, her teeth red with blood. ‘Chance,’ she gasped, chuckling ruefully. ‘Chance…’ Her shape writhed, blurring, changing. Possum recognized artistry of high Mockra — and that far greater than his — until the body resolved itself clearly once more for him to see lying at his feet the fat messy form of High Mage Havva Gulen.

Soliel forgive him! What had he done? Why hadn't she told him? Told anyone? Because — fool! — she was running her own game just as he. Now what? First, go! Let the fog of war obscure all. He raised his Warren and stepped into Shadow-

To be hammered down by a blunt blow to his side.

He lay gasping amid dirt and clumps of sharp cactus-like grasses that gouged at his exposed skin. A tall thin shape loomed over him. Blinking, he made out a dead ravaged face of desiccated skin, peeled-back lips, yellowed teeth and empty sockets above tattered torn armour and hanging rags. An Imass? Here?

The Imass reached down, grasped a handful of his shirt and pulled him upright. ‘Your trespassings annoy me,’ the thing hissed. ‘Shadow is not to be used so lightly.’ The being shook him like a child. ‘Now go, and do not return.’ And it thrust him away.

Possum staggered, righted himself. He straightened his clothes. ‘And who are you?’

The Imass — was it, though? — clasped a fist of bone and sinew to the sword sheathed at its back. ‘Go! Keep your disputes out of Shadow!’

‘Yes! Yes.’ And Possum waved, removing himself from the Warren. The night slope reasserted itself around him. The cacophony of battle returned. Who — what — in the Enchantress's Name had that been? Renegade Imass? Ascendant of some kind? Revenant? Never mind. Irrelevant. Focus! He attempted to centre himself, calm his breath. Gods, what had he done! Slain the High Mage. A woman who claimed to be helping! Drop it, man. Think of your own back. According to Havva, Mallick held the Claw while he was the puppet! What options did he have? Laseen! She was all that was left to him. He had to reach her.

Possum summoned his Mockra Warren. Shortly afterwards just another soldier of uncertain allegiance scrabbled hunched across the slopes. He was in the west and found the field now commanded by the Guard. The Avowed had entered the fray, sweeping all before them. Skirmishers and Imperial heavies still ran in clumps here and there like field mice, but the only solid formations were Guard squares, and these far separated as a precaution against mage assault. In the east, the cadre mage's deep unmitigated darkness still hung like a flat cloud over his hillock, apparantly doing nothing — a slowly turning vortex of night — while Malazan forces coalesced around the mage-protected strongpoint. To the south-east the tall silver dragon banner of the Guard was advancing before a broadening phalanx.

Just then from the north a brilliant yellow-orange light illuminated the darkness — the Imperial pavilion bursting aflame. It pushed back the night for a half-league all around. The flames climbed like those of an immense bonfire, a celebration of light and vitality, if short-lived. Possum stared, his arms falling to his sides. Oh, Cowl! Master-stroke! So much for such careful preparations and precautions! I bow before your unbending ruthlessness.

What now for poor Possum? Imperial forces routed, the pavilion aflame, and he himself assassin of the Imperial High Mage. What could possibly be left? Was not all lost? A giddy, almost fey mood took him and he laughed aloud. He felt like dancing amid the dead. His anxious oh-so-important worries of rivals amid the order? Utterly irrelevant! A life-time of scheming, positioning, manipulating? A life wasted! His own ambitions, hopes, dreams? Completely thwarted!

He walked down on to the field between the fallen, laughing aloud. Come Cowl! Come Lacy, Tarkhan or Isha! Let us put an end to the comic tragedy!

Nait knelt in the trampled grass just up from the trench together with a mixed collection of sergeants and officers from three different brigades. Captains Tinsmith and Jay K'epp, or Captain Kepp as everyone called him, and a battered Moranth Gold who gave the name Blossom, were the highest ranking officers present; Commander Braven Tooth was reportedly still active but elected to remain in the field to help rally splintered elements; the Sword was reportedly wounded somewhere amid the carnage of the centre strongpoint where Urko, it was rumoured, was organizing resistance.

Captain Tinsmith lay having his slashed leg re-bandaged while Kepp sat silently by — he could only sit silently as the fist of an Avowed had shattered his jaws.

Of the lesser officers and sergeants present, Nait shared nods with Least, Lim and others, and watched while these conferred in whispers and grunts. Everyone was whispering because they squatted on the border of the Darkness. All was quiet here; even the battle's roar just a few paces away was a feeble distant murmur. And it was cold; Nait's damp sweat-soaked shirt and padding chilled him. He knew of course what was coming before they said a thing. So he shared an all-suffering roll of the eyes with Least when Tinsmith called out, ‘Sergeant Jumpy, a word.’

He jogged up and knelt on his haunches. ‘Aye.’

‘We want you to go up and talk to him.’

‘I ain't goin’ up there to talk to him. You go.’

A savage glare from the old sergeant, now captain. ‘In case you hadn't noticed — I can't walk.’

‘Then Kepp, here.’

Through clenched teeth: ‘He… can't… talk.’

‘Then Blossom, here.’

‘He doesn't speak Talian!’

Fucking troop of carnival clowns, we are. Fucking hopeless. ‘Fine!’

Tinsmith stroked one side of his long silver moustache, smiled evilly. ‘He's your squad mage.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He straightened, grunting and wincing — so tired, and things ain't even come to a head yet — and started up the slope. The grass crackled brittle with hoarfrost under his old falling-apart sandals. The dark was extraordinary, unrelieved, yet he could still see and he thought of Heuk's swill — the iron tang of which still caked his tongue. It was as if he were wrapped in layers of the thickest, darkest, finest cloth imaginable. Sable, maybe, he decided, though he'd never seen or touched it. The chill bit at him; lacings of frost appeared on the iron backings of his gauntlets.

‘Heuk!’ The dark seemed to swallow his voice. A silence answered; but it was not a true silence. Something filled it. He strained to listen: the faintest rumbling and rattle of chain? Deep reverberations such as wheels groaning somewhere in the dark? ‘Heuk?’

‘Here.’

Nait started; the fellow was practically kneeling right before him.

‘Ah, you all right?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Why're you kneeling there?’

‘I was giving thanks, of course.’

‘Ah;

The mage pushed himself to his feet, weaving slightly. He was a sight. Blood dried black, or what appeared black in this strange place, covered his face and shoulders, and had run in streaks down his robes. Oddly, he seemed taller and straighter than before. ‘What is it?’ he asked, as if there was nothing strange in any of this.

‘Ah, well. The boys down below want you to know we have Avowed headed our way. An’ I guess, they're worried. C'n you handle them?’

‘I will give it everything I possess,’ the man said, sounding more lucid than Nait could ever recall. But it was unnerving as well: he was so calm, his gaze so steady and self-possessed. And that eerie all-black pupil, iris and orb.

‘Ah! Great! Everyone'll be happy to hear that. We'll keep them off your back then.’

‘I know you will, Nait. Good luck to you. I will do what I can to protect all of you. If I am overcome, there will be no mistaking it.’

‘Right.’ Nait almost saluted. Strange how an aura of unassuming command seemed to have suddenly enveloped the old bird. After a sort of half-bow, Nait started down the slope. He had no idea of where the trench was, of course, as the dark was so unremitting — yet he could see to walk in it. He decided it must've been that sip from the jug.

It all thrust itself at him in one pace as it had before: the yells, clash of weaponry, rattle of shields. Hands pulled him down and he crouched, blinking. Far down the modest slope, curving arcs of layered defences of heavy infantry behind shields protected a screen of skirmishers who took turns stepping up to fire then withdrawing. Behind these, an inner defence of Moranth Gold and more Malazan heavies, and behind these the trench where a dense thicket of cross-bowmen and women, skirmishers and saboteurs, rained a punishing hail of bolts down on the ranks of Guardsmen pressing the defences.

Yet so few. So few left on both sides. Where was everyone? Could the fallen number so many? Thousands remained in the centre, though, of course, and in the west. Thankfully, the Guard elements here had been reduced to so few that all they could do was harass and pin down — yet why do more? Why bloody themselves further cracking this hard nut when all they had to do was wait for their Avowed to arrive and break us open for them?

Yells went up around the curve of the defensive line as two figures were spotted charging the trench. Nait jumped up, running, ‘Hold fire! Hold fire!’ The two shouldered aside closing regulars, straight-armed Moranth Gold from their path, and tumbled into the trench. Nait arrived as they straightened, sharing mad grins. ‘You damn fools!’ he snarled. ‘You could've gotten yourselves killed.’

The shorter of the two, Master Sergeant Temp, wearing an ox's load of layered mail and banded iron armour, flinched back his grey-stubbled chin behind the cheek-guards of his helmet. ‘Why, it's our old friend Sergeant Jumpy himself. Sounds like he's gone all responsible on us, Ferrule. Command does that, I hear.’

The two climbed up out of the trench. ‘I told you, it ain't Ferrule no more,‘ the other, the burly Seti, complained. ‘It's…’ and his thick brows clenched in concentration, ‘… Bear.’ His face lit up, all pleased. ‘Yeah, Bear.’

‘Bear? That's just plain stupid. Don't you have any imagination? How about… Dainty?’

The Seti struck Temp a blow on his chest that would've broken Nait's ribs. ‘No! That don't take any imagination — that's just saying the opposite. Like Rock.’

‘Oh, yeah, Rock. I forgot about that guy. Lady, could he run!’

‘Hey! Hey!’

The two glared at Nait. ‘What?’

‘What in the Abyss are you two doing here?’

Temp shrugged, winking. ‘We heard this was the place to be.’

Oh great! They were gonna get hammered.

Almost as if reading Nait's thoughts, silence gathered over the lines. The Guardsmen had pulled back all around the length of the curving front. Figures pushed forward to the front of the makeshift Guard shieldwall: both glowing like miniature suns to Nait's blood-enhanced vision. Here we go! Damned Avowed mages come to answer the challenge. Through the blazing auras surrounding them he could just make them out: a man leaning on a staff, twisted-looking like he'd been wounded bad, or had survived childhood rickets. The other was a Dal Hon woman in thick dark robes gathered at one shoulder, her hair bunched and wild.

The men and women around Nait shouted, pointing off to the side. He squinted into the night lit by fitful fires over the field cluttered with broken equipment and piled bodies. A long column of soldiers was marching by and at their fore a tall banner, dark with the bright silver dragon rampant. Skinner circling around to head north. Why? Was he that confident of his mages?

Temp struck Ferrule's, or Bear's, shoulder, motioning to the distant banner. ‘There's our boy.’

‘What? Circlin’ around?’ The Seti was affronted. ‘Fener take it! After all the trouble we went to.’

‘C'mon,’ the master sergeant called, and jumped the trench. ‘He's gettin’ away.’

‘Wait!’ Nait called but they were gone, jogging hunched down the hillside like two boulders launched against the Guardsmen line. They crashed into it and kept going, men falling backwards before them, weapons flying, to disappear into the night. ‘Shit!’

It had got perceptibly colder, as if the darkness were gathering itself for what was to come. The two mages in Nait's sight raised their arms. Crossbow bolts flew at them like a hailstorm but none came near. From the Dal Hon woman's position pressure mounted against Nait like a wind that was no wind. Waves of it advanced up the hill before the woman, each stronger than the last. First they pressed the broken grass stalks flat. The next waves gouged the stalks and dense root matrix from the ground. The next then began pushing a ridge of loosened dirt up the hill like a chisel. Just in time the trench was abandoned by scrambling men and women as it collapsed, pushed back and filled by the shifting earth. Some soldiers fell, hands clutching at their ears, helmets torn off. Nait fell to his knees. Hunched, he glimpsed much worse appearing before the other Avowed mage. In a slow advance up the slope soldiers fell as if scythed, shrieking, gagging. They writhed in wordless agony, limbs twisting up like drying roots. The sight brought Nait's gorge to his throat. He fell to his hands and knees and vomited.

And just two on this side! Two of how many all around the refuge? Four? Five? Had all the soldiers assembled here just to pile the hill in dead? Something tickled his hand — a black snake. He flinched away, his hand passing through the snake. What?

It was no snake; its length ran all the way up the hill and it was weaving down through the grass. Others followed, slithering down around him, making for the Dal Hon mage. Nait pushed himself to his feet, wiped his mouth. ‘Saboteurs!’ he bellowed louder than he had ever before. ‘Ready munitions!’

Weak calls answered him up and down the line. He readied one of his few remaining sharpers. The Dal Hon mage slammed her hands together before her, fist to palm, and a bell-like reverberation sounded, tearing Nait's hearing from him. The ground moved beneath his feet like the sea. Malazan and Gold heavies buckled as waves seemed to pass through them shattering armour, bursting chests. Lines of soldiery heaved backwards as if rammed. Nait threw himself down into the loose soil of the collapsed trench. It felt as if a sledgehammer struck every inch of his body: his feet, his shins, his knees, thighs, hips, stomach, chest and head. Something punched him down into the yielding earth. Not only did he have his breath hammered from him, he lost the ability to inhale. Dazed, punch-drunk, he flailed in a blind panic, dug himself up to stand, tottering. Fucking bitch! Where was she! He'll ram this beauty up her — there she was! The glowing bitch!

Something warm was soaking his neck and shirt front. He pressed a gauntleted hand to his neck and it slipped up his slick chin and over his mouth and nose to come away clotted with blood and dirt. He eyed the bloodied leather in horror, then fixed his eyes on the mage.

‘Throw!’ he roared, his eyes tearing, blood flowing from his nose and mouth, dripping from his chin. ‘Throw, throw, throw!’ He heaved the sharper, the effort unbalancing him and he fell to lie groaning at the pain.

The peppering burst of munitions brought a smile to his face. Got the bitch! Must've! It seemed to him that a shriek followed the eruptions, but not one of pain, a cry of soul-rending surprise and utter terror.

After a time soldiers lifted him up; he recognized Jawl, Kibb and Brill. ‘What happened?’ he croaked and spat out a mouthful of blood and catarrh.

‘Drove ’em off,’ said Jawl.

‘Blew ’em up?’

‘Naw. Was the dark. Looked like it actually tried to eat them. They jumped like Hood himself had snuck up and goosed them with his bony finger. They ran.’

Maybe not his bony finger, Jawl. ‘Get me up.’

Brill and Kibb raised him to his feet. ‘What happened to you, Sarge?’ Kibb said. ‘You look like someone beat you all over with boards.’

Tell May to load the lobber — toss all we got at the Guard column, break ’em.’

‘Lobber got broke, Sarge,’ Brill said sadly.

Oh, for the sake of Fener! ‘Then get them firing — fire! Now!’ He pushed both away.

‘OK, sheesh!’ said Kibb. He asked Brill as they went: ‘Is he always like this after a fight?’

Nait staggered up the hill. The dark and cold was the same. The smeared blood, sweat and grime began to solidify on his armour. ‘Heuk!’ Silence. He pulled a small skin of water from his belt, found it had burst, threw it aside. ‘Heuk!’ After just two paces more he suddenly burst in upon two figures near the flat crest, one lying curled as if dead or asleep, the other standing over him. It was the standing figure that captured Nait's attention. He'd never seen a Tiste Andii, but had heard them described often enough. This one resembled such: tall, black as night, almond eyes, long straight shimmering black hair. The calm, almost contemplative expression that Nait had seen upon Heuk rested now in this man's features. He wore a coat of the finest mail that descended all the way to his ankles, shimmering like night itself. And it seemed to Nait that the figure was not entirely there; he could see through it. Something hung at its side. Nait almost looked there but pulled his gaze away in time: a void hung there yammering terror at him. It seemed to suck in the night. The figure inclined his head to him.

‘Keep them here, soldier,’ he said. ‘Keep them close. Worse is to come. Much worse.’

Worse! What could possibly- But the figure walked off, hands clasped at his back, disappearing into the dark. Shit! He knelt at the curled man and found it was Heuk, apparently asleep, but deeply so, unresponsive and shivering badly. He grabbed him by his collar and dragged him down the slope. Worse? Worse than this? Damned unlikely unless Hood himself hiked up his rags and elected to shit on them.

Hurl was surprised by the lack of outriders and pickets north of the Imperial encampment. They rode slowly, ready for any challenge, a call to halt. But none came. The night was cool. Their horses’ breath steamed the air. Hurl caught her sergeant's eye and raised a brow in a question. The man shifted in his saddle, glowering, evidently even more uncomfortable with the situation than she. He directed her attention to a torch lying nearly extinguished. They rode over. Before reaching it their mounts shied away from dark shapes lying splayed in the tall grass. Banath dismounted, studied them. He remounted looking far more pale. Hurl cocked another question and he gave a sickly nod.

So, found him. But the rear elements? Soliel, no — that would be camp followers, noncombatants, families, craftsmen and women, and even… no, please not that. She urged her mount on with a kick. The troop picked up its pace.

They found the camp a shambles. Wrecked wagons, torn tents, scattered equipment, and everywhere mangled dismembered bodies. Survivors wandered, blank-faced, turned to watch them pass without even challenging their presence. Banath slowed his mount. ‘Shouldn't we…’

‘No, not yet. The trail goes on, yes, Liss?’ Riding behind Hurl, the mage gave a tight bob of her head, her lank hair swinging. ‘It goes on. And… I'm afraid I know where he's headed.’

Banath could only eye her, puzzled, but he acquiesced.

To the south the green and yellow glow of battle-magics was plain. A muted roar reached them, punctuated by the eruption of munitions. Hurl felt someone close and turned to see that Rell had moved his mount up to her left. She felt infinitely better with him at her side. A field of tents and blankets spread on the ground lay ahead and Hurl made for it. Closer, fires could be seen burning among them and many tents hung twisted and canted, some torn in strips. Banath, at Hurl's rear, groaned as realization clenched him. ‘No. Oh, no.’

‘I'm sorry,’ Hurl murmured. But she was far more than sorry. What lay ahead, no matter how horrific, was all her fault, her curse. I killed these men and women.

Finally, as they almost reached the field hospital, a soldier stood before them and raised a hand. A company cutter by his shoulder-bags. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, dazed.

‘Detachment from Heng,’ Hurl answered. ‘We ride under the sceptre.’

‘Heng? Heng!’ He gaped up at them. Hurl saw that gore stained his uniform, his hands; none seemed to be his. A chuckle escaped the man. It grew into a deep gut-heaving laugh that he made no effort to suppress. ‘Well,’ he said, tears now mixed with his laughter, ‘you are just too Burn-damned late, aren't you?’

‘I'm sorry…’

‘Sorry! You're sorry!’ The officer took hold of Hurl's leg, smearing blood on her trousers and boot. ‘All our wounded. Hundreds of men and women. Wounded. Helpless. Unarmed…’

Something like jagged iron thrust at Hurl's chest. She took a shuddering breath. ‘I could not possibly tell you how-’

‘He butchered us like sheep! Like sheep!’ He tugged at her leg as if to pull her from her mount. ‘Aren't we human? Men and women? How can this happen now? In this day and age? Will he slay us all?’

‘Calm yourself…’

‘Calm myself? You! You of all people, from Heng. You should know!’ He pushed her leg aside and backed away, disgusted. ‘This is your curse! You brought this upon us!’

Hurl flinched as if fatally stabbed; she stared, feeling the blood drain from her face, her heart writhing. Yea Gods, so it was now true. Was this foreordained, or did I walk voluntarily, of my own choosing, into this nightmare?

‘Well?’ he stared up at her, demanding an answer, some kind of explanation for the horror that bruised his eyes. Hurl opened her mouth, but no sound came. She tried again, wetted her cracked lips.

‘We're going to put an end to this.’

‘Good. Do so. Or do not come back. Because after this night… this atrocity… you are no longer welcome here.’

Part of her wanted to object, to argue the injustice of that charge. But another part accepted the judgment. So be it. History's condemnation made clear. They were damned. Unless — unless they managed to end things this night. She gave a rigid curt nod to the man and pulled her reins aside, kicking her mount.

After they exited the camp, riding north across the plain lit silvery in the clear night, Hurl waved Liss to her. ‘Can you track him now?’ she demanded, her voice unrecognizable to herself.

‘Yes, now that we've found his trail.’ The Seti shamaness was uncharacteristically subdued. ‘Hurl,’ she began, ‘it's not your-’

‘Yes, it is.’

The shamaness appeared about to object or dispute further, but reconsidered. She pursed her lips, looking away, then frowned. ‘Where are the brothers?’

‘What?’

‘The three — I don't see them.’

Hurl raised a hand for a halt. The troop slowed, stopped. ‘Sergeant!’

Banath rode up. ‘Sir?’

‘Find the brothers.’

The man jerked a nod, sawed his reins around, rode off. After a brief time he returned. ‘Not with the column, sir. Left us.’

Hurl turned to look back, the leather of her saddle creaking. Flashes lit the distant battlefield like lightning, and a dark cloud hung low over it like a thunderstorm — smoke? ‘They never wanted Ryllandaras,’ she said, thinking aloud. ‘They came for something else.’

‘Should we go back?’ Banath asked.

‘No — let them go. Personally, I hope never to see them again.’

‘Agreed,’ Liss added, sounding relieved.

Hurl eyed her — the shamaness had hated them from the start. Named them an abomination. She'd never asked what she'd meant by that exactly. But after having spent some time with them she knew in her gut that she'd felt it all along. ‘You still have the trail, Liss?’

‘Yes. He's had his fill for one night. Heading north.’

‘Good. We'll follow for as long as it takes.’

‘Agreed,’ Rell said. ‘He's a menace to all.’

Hurl urged her mount on. But we didn't stop to think about that, did we — or at least we were willing to turn a blind eye to it. Well, now we're paying the price. Heng's curse, reborn. We're pariahs. No one will come within a hundred leagues of us until we can rid ourselves of him.

Shadow was damned monotonous. Such was the conclusion Kyle was drawing. They walked and walked and then walked some more. It occurred to him that he ought to be tired, or hungry, but so far nothing like that came upon him. What he felt instead was a kind of draining lassitude, a strange feeling of eternal waiting — not despair — no, not hopelessness, but rather a sensation of time suspended, of eternity. Just how long had the five of them been walking? Who was to know? Their bizarre guide would presumably let them know once they'd reached Quon. No sun rose, no day, or night, came. Eternal dusk. He felt like a ghost walking he knew not where.

All of them, Jan, the Lost brothers, seemed to have fallen beneath the same spell, as conversation stopped and all walked apart, alone with their thoughts. For a time they drew abreast of a large lake. Figures fished it from boats, casting nets; they appeared huge, inhuman. Their guide swerved them away from the coast. The ground became rougher. Steep-sided canyons rose to their right, cutting through flat-topped hills of layered rock. The Shadow priest Hethe led them around the canyons and out on to a level desert-like landscape of broken rock and thick, sword-like clumped grasses.

Jan, it seemed, had finally had enough and he jogged ahead to take hold of their guide's frayed robes to pull him to a halt. ‘Where are we?’ he demanded.

Hethe's hood fell back revealing his wild, kinky black hair like a thin halo around his bumpy skull. His tangled brows rose. ‘Wearwy?’ he said. ‘No, my name is Hethe.’

‘No,’ Jan snarled. ‘Where… are… we… going?’

The man looked insulted. He pulled his robes from Jan's grip. ‘That's rather personal!’ and he stormed off.

‘Where are you taking us!’ Jan yelled after him.

‘Wartegenus?’ he called back. ‘I know of no such place.’

Jan pressed a hand to his brow, hung his head. Coming abreast of him, Stalker urged him on with a hand. They continued on. This desert, or what resembled a desert, extended for leagues. Ruins dotted it: no more than scattered fragments of wind-gnawed worked stone.

After a time all but their guide halted as the calls of more than one hound echoed across the bleak landscape. They exchanged uneasy glances. Some unknowable time later Jan suddenly let out a surprised gasp. His hands went to his neck. The rest of them, but for the guide, halted. The man stared ahead into the distance, amazement in his eyes. Kyle looked to Stalker and the scout shrugged, at a loss. A moment later Jan staggered, caught himself from falling and glared around at the empty landscape. ‘We're close,’ he said, and he set off at a faster pace leaving the four of them to eye one another in complete confusion. Finally, Stalker shrugged again and set off. The brothers followed.

Kyle refused to move. The thought came to him: what difference would it make? Why should they walk on and on forever like this? He sat down on the gritty, pebbled desert plain. Why return to Quon, to where the Guard was, when they'd just kill him? Unless Jan was who he thought — but could he trust his life to a chance like that?

Footsteps crunched on the wind-scoured dirt around him. He looked up to see the four of them peering down at him — their guide was nowhere to be seen. Stalker bent down on his haunches in front of him. ‘You comin’?’

‘Maybe.’

The scout glanced up to the others, puzzled. ‘Maybe?’

‘If this guy comes clean,’ and he tossed a stone to Jan's feet.

Stalker gave a long thoughtful nod, looked up at Jan. ‘Well, how about it?’

The old man pushed back his hair, long and thin enough to be blown by the feeble wind that seemed to haunt the warren. He gave a quick nod of consent, motioned Kyle up. ‘Very well, Kyle. From what I understand, you deserve better.’ Kyle stood, brushed off the dust. Jan fished out the object he carried around his neck, broke the thong, and put what was a ring on his finger. ‘As you suspect, Kyle. I am K'azz D'Avore. Jan, by the way, is part of my full name.’

‘I knew it all along!’ Badlands exclaimed, elbowing Coots. ‘Didn't I say so?’

‘You didn't say.’

‘But you're-’ began Kyle.

‘Old?’

Kyle shrugged, sheepish. ‘Yeah.’

‘I wasn't when I made the Vow, Kyle. Since then, though, I have aged. But I don't think ageing is the right word for it. I find that I am toughening up, losing flesh, so to speak. I eat little, hardly sleep. It is as if I were transforming somehow.’

‘Into what?’ Stalker asked, his gaze narrowed.

‘I don't know for certain. I suspect that something in the Vow is transforming me, perhaps all of us Avowed, preserving us. Sustaining us so long as it should hold. Until we complete it.’

The brothers shared shocked glances, Stalker scowling. ‘That's impossible.’

A shrug from K'azz invited Stalker to come up with his own explanation. The news meant nothing to Kyle. All it did was confirm that something strange was going on — as though he needed to be told that!

‘Where's the little rat?’ Coots asked.

Everyone glanced around. K'azz pointed, ‘There.’

Kyle squinted: a tiny dark dot out on the unrelentingly uniform wind-scoured waste.

‘For the love of the Infinite,’ Badlands breathed, ‘doesn't he even know we've stopped?’

K'azz set out at a jog, waving them on, ‘C'mon. We mustn't lose him.’

They all set out at a jogging run. At first they seemed to make no progress; the tiny dot seemed to get no larger. Kyle already knew distances and proportions were strange here in Shadow. They trotted for a time, then set out at a run again; they were gaining ground. Kyle's lungs burned, his feet and thighs ached. None of the others evidenced any signs of exertion. He bit down on the pain and kept going. Quite suddenly, they caught up. The man had stopped and was waiting for them, an irked expression on his wrinkled, hairy face.

‘Yes?’ he demanded.

They halted. Kyle bent over to pant, hands on his knees. Stalker faced the fellow, ‘Well? Is this it?’

Hethe cupped a hand to his ear. ‘What? What was that? You think I can't hear? Well I can! Perfectly!’ He turned around and set off again in his awkward bowed-legged walk.

‘I swear I'm gonna kill ‘im,’ Coots ground out.

K'azz waved them forward. ‘Let's go.’

They continued on. Coots muttered darkly about strangulation and torture, then, louder, ‘I swear he's leadin’ us in circles!’

‘We have no choice,’ K'azz answered tiredly.

Kyle shifted to walk alongside K'azz. The man caught him studying him sidelong. ‘Yes?’

Wetting his lips, Kyle ventured, ‘So — you're really him?’

An amused smile. ‘Yes, Kyle.’

He'd done it! Actually found him! But they were a long way from Quon. ‘I knew Stoop.’

The smile broadened. ‘Yes, Stoop. I learned a lot from him when I was a lad.’

‘Are you really a Prince?’

K'azz tilted his head aside, thinking. ‘Some call me that. I was a Duke. During the wars I defended a principality for a time. But that fell too…’

Kyle glanced away. Oaf! Reminding him of all that.

Coots shouted, pointing ahead: ‘Look there! There's some poor bastard he led out here to die before.’

It was a skeleton in verdigrised armour sprawled in the desert sands. The wind had piled little dunes of dust and sand up over its limbs. Reaching it Hethe stopped, jerking as if startled. They caught up with him.

‘What is it?’ K'azz asked.

In a sighing of sands and creaking of leather-cured sinew and tendons, the skeleton stood. All five of them leapt back, drawing weapons; their scout remained where he stood. The animated corpse took hold of the front of Hethe's robes and raised him from the ground, shook him like a dog. Coots edged forward for a blow. The thing raised a hand. ‘Hold!’

Out of the bottom of the ragged robes fell the little winged and tailed monkey they'd followed before. It hung its head before the skeleton, kicked at the dirt like a guilty child. ‘This has gone far enough,’ the being said. ‘I do not want Shadow becoming embroiled in this. Now go.’ Brightening, the monkey-thing puffed up its chest and marched off. After it had gone a few paces it shot back a glance, wrinkled up its wizened features, stuck out its tongue, then scampered off at a run.

All six of them watched it go. It seemed to Kyle to shrink down into the distance with impossible speed. He faced the corpse — for upon closer inspection it resembled more a desiccated body, dried cured flesh and all. Like the Imass he'd heard so much of. Thinking of that, he glanced to K'azz who likewise was examining the creature, wonder — and suspicion — on his face. ‘Who are you?’ K'azz asked.

‘My name is Edgewalker,’ came the breathless dry response, like wind over heated sand. ‘Though it means nothing to you. What is important is that you do not belong here. I am sending you back.’

‘About damned time,’ Coots said aside to Kyle.

‘To Quon?’ K'azz asked, but the being merely waved. ‘Quon Tali!’ K'azz shouted, demanding. The grey gloom of the Warren gathered around them, choking off all vision. It was not dark or night, merely so dim Kyle could barely see. Ahead, a pale glow asserted itself; he and the rest headed for it. Kyle found himself in a cave hacked from loose sandy rock. He headed for its opening where starlight shone cold but bright. He had to step over several figures wrapped in thin blankets asleep around a dead fire-pit. He came out into a clear cold night. Cliffs surrounded them, marred by dark openings, a multitude of caves. A road passed before them climbing the incline. In the distance roaring and flashes bruised the night like lightning to both the north and south. K'azz climbed down ahead and now faced the south, staring. They joined him.

The road switchbacked down cliffs to a long, narrow stone bridge over a wide river. The far bank was swarming with figures lit by countless torches. The mass of them were all crowded around the far end of the bridge and filled its length to about the halfway point where the press stopped, held back by what appeared to be just a few men. Avowed? He looked to K'azz; the man was studying the bridge, his eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Cole,’ he whispered, ‘Amatt, Lean, Black and Turgal.’

‘Brethren!’ K#x0027;azz roared. ‘Attend!’

Silence and stillness. Dogs ran away, loping through the rocks, tails down. Kyle studied the bridge. Such a mass of soldiers facing such a thin barrier… why not just cut them down with arrows and bolts? But then, the bridge appeared to have stone sides, and the press was so close — any flights of missiles would account for far more of the attackers.

Stalker nudged him, lifted his chin to across the way. Something obscured the many dark cave openings opposite — gauzy grey shapes came emerging from the shadows. They filed down, approaching, silent. Kyle jumped as more stepped out from behind him. Shades in the hundreds. All the Avowed dead. They surrounded the party. All empty dead sockets stared fixed upon K'azz and Kyle could feel the heat, the awful will of that regard. It seemed as if the rest of the party need not even have existed to these shades. Just a year ago such a visitation would have sent Kyle screaming into the night; but by now he felt inured to any horror. He even recognized two of the fallen.

K'azz studied them in turn, nodding to many. ‘This attack is against my wishes. Who leads this invasion?’

Hissed from hundreds of indistinct throats: ‘Skinner.’

A nod from K'azz, who'd known all along. ‘Obey no more orders from him. He is expelled from our company. He is disavowed.’ The Brethren inclined their heads in acquiescence.

‘Not so easy, I suspect,’ Stalker whispered aside to Kyle.

‘Now, give my regards to those defending the bridge and ask if they can hold much longer. And send word to all — I am returned.’

The Brethren bowed and as one they bent to a knee. Then, to Kyle's eye they seemed to slowly disperse, disappearing as a haze in the sun. All but one: the shade of a short thin man with one hand — Stoop — who approached, smiling. ‘Well done, lad. Well done. Knew you'd pull it off.’

To this outrageous claim Kyle could only shake his head.

A shade materialized next to K'azz. ‘Cole sends his welcome and asks how many days you require.’

A tight grin from K'azz. ‘Tell Cole I'll send relief as soon as I can.’

The shade remained. K'azz, who had started for the road, stopped short. ‘Yes?’

‘The truth is they are badly wounded and may not last much longer.’

The Crimson Guard commander spun, faced the bridge — glanced back to the north where battle-magics glowed like auroras brought to earth and combat shook the ground.

Kyle glanced between the two as well. Gods, what a choice! He faced Stoop. ‘What do you think?’

The shade examined the bridge and the thousands behind. He scratched his chin. ‘Don't know what's goin’ on up north but we can't let them through.’

‘I agree,‘ K'azz said, making Kyle jump — he didn't think him close enough to overhear. ‘Thank you, Kyle.’ To Stoop: ‘Tell Cole I'm coming.’

‘Queen forgive me,’ Kyle breathed. Beside him, Badlands sent an entreating look to the sky as if asking — why me, Hood? Why me?

Ullen was in the north-west when word came of the attack and complete slaughter of the field hospital. He stared for a time wordlessly to the north, numb of all feeling. What had he not done that he should've? A larger rearguard? More messengers? A tighter distribution of the command? Vve failed my soldiers. The men and women who look to me to protect them. Standing before him, the pallid-faced messenger cleared his throat. ‘Sir?’

Ullen blinked, confused. ‘Yes?’

‘Your… orders, sir?’

He raised his weak, newly healed right arm to wipe his brow, found it slick with sweat. ‘Relocate the field hospital closer to the reserves.’

‘The only reserves are those with us, sir.’

Ullen looked up. ‘Only my legion?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then… move it… closer to the field.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The messenger saluted, departed.

Ullen studied the south. He would not, could not, face his staff. He clasped his sweaty hands at his back to quell the urge to wipe them on his uniform. The darker smear of night, empty of all stars, still hung over the redoubt in the east — bless that mage whoever he was — he'd saved that flank. Now, if he could only salvage some order out of the west. He could not understand the Guard's reluctance out there on that flank. They could have routed them if they'd pressed their advantage. A phalanx marched now up the middle, standard in prominence, making an obvious effort to lay claim to overall control of the field. And what did they have left to throw against them? Nothing. If they could not be stopped then the Guard would have effectively won. His lines would have been cut in half.

A young girl came running up to his position, one of the Untan irregulars. His guards grabbed hold of her leather hauberk to yank her back. She fought the man, punching him. ‘Commander Ullen!’ she shouted. He waved her through. The oversized crossbow on her back rolled side to side as she came. ‘The Guard, sir — they're fallin’ apart!’

He studied her, disbelieving. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Units are breakin’ up. Crimson Guardsmen runnin’ this way and that. Some even fightin’ each other. I heard Avowed even attacking Avowed.’

‘But that's incredible. Why…?’ he glanced around, searching for confirmation. ‘Who else says so?’

‘I saw it with my own eyes, sir.’

‘Fist D'Ebbin approaching, sir,’ a lieutenant called out. Ullen dismissed the girl then jogged ahead to meet the Fist. He found the short, round commander surrounded by his bodyguard. All had seen fighting. The Fist's armour was hacked, a cheek and his lips swollen from a blow. The man pulled off his helmet and gauntlets to wipe his face.

‘My compliments, Fist,’ said Ullen, and he meant it.

D'Ebbin gave a small wave as if to say it was of no great importance. ‘Been some kind of falling out among the Guard. Two camps appear to be organizing. One is firming up around the standard with the phalanx. The other is pulling together out of the Blades facing us. That phalanx, though, looks like it's determined to take control of the field.’

‘We have to meet it.’

A curt nod of his bullet-head. ‘Understood.’

‘How many can you spare?’

‘We have to keep the main group contained.’

‘Reinforcements will come once the Kanese have broken through. They should some time soon.’

His hairless bony brows rose. ‘In truth? Then when they come we'll swing east.’

‘Done.’

‘You'll wait?’

Ullen shook his head. ‘We can't leave the challenge unanswered. It would look like capitulation. The men will break.’

‘I understand. The column numbers about two thousand. But you know, my people estimate there are some forty Avowed among them?’

Forty Avowed? How could any force meet such a potent body? Still, there were twenty thousand Kanese on their way — enough to keep them pinned down, surrounded. Grind them down one by one. But how long will it take them to break through? He had to hold until the Kan forces arrived. ‘I have four thousand Malazan regulars with me, Fist. The commander's, Anand's, reserve. I will meet them.’

The Fist drew his gauntlets on. ‘I ask that you wait. The day is within your grasp. You have done a masterful job. I commend you. Do not throw it away.’

Ullen saluted. ‘I go now to save it, Fist.’

‘D'Ebbin nodded his assent, saluted. His face settled into grim resignation. Tor sceptre and throne, Lieutenant-commander.’

‘Sceptre and throne.’ Fist D'Ebbin jogged away. Ullen turned back to his staff. ‘Relay my orders. We march to meet the Crimson Guard standard. We must keep them engaged until the Kanese arrive. Now is our turn to bloody our swords.’

‘We are with you sir,’ said the Imperial lieutenant, and Ullen was surprised and pleased to hear the support in his voice.

‘Very good. Order the march.’ His officers saluted and ran to their commands.

‘Is this the truth?’ asked an astonished Shimmer.

The Brethren shade before her, once Lieutenant Shirdar, bowed. ‘We offer no excuse. We were… blinded… commander. The Vow-’

‘Damn the Vow!’ Shimmer grated. ‘Cowl used your damned fixation to manipulate you!’

The shade wavered, fading, then reasserting its presence as if attempting to go but being held against its wishes. ‘It is yours too,’ it murmured.

Shimmer raised a gauntleted hand as if she would strike it. ‘Gather the Brethren. There are second and third investiture soldiers abandoned in the field, alone, beleaguered. Find them, protect them, guide them here!’

‘And K'azz?’

‘We will be-’ She cast about, pointed to a hill in the west. ‘There. Our rallying point.’

Shirdar bowed his head. ‘As you order.’

‘Yes! As I order. Now go!’

The shade disappeared. ‘Avowed!’ Shimmer yelled, raising her arms and turning full circle. ‘There are soldiers abandoned in the field! Our brothers and sisters! Go! Find them! Bring them to me! The Brethren will guide you!’

A great shout answered her call, arms raised. The Avowed spread out for the field. Smoky, Shell and Bower paused to eye Shimmer — she waved them on. Even Greymane bowed, obviously meaning to go. She cocked a brow. ‘Where are you going? The Brethren will not talk to you.’

The man's thick lips turned up in a one-sided smile. His eyes now laughed with some hidden joke. ‘Skinner, you say, has been cast out. Very good. I go now to do what should've been done some time ago.’

Her breath caught. ‘I forbid it!’

The smile broadened with the hidden joke. ‘As you have constantly reminded me, Shimmer, I am no Avowed.’ And he bowed, leaving.

You fool! There are too many! He is not alone.

‘Commander,’ a Guardsman sergeant, Trench, asked.

‘Yes?’

‘The rallying point?’

She pulled her gaze reluctantly from the back of the renegade as he jogged into the fire-dotted night. ‘Yes. This way. We withdraw to that hill.’

A Brethren shade appeared before her. ‘The Claw comes.’

Shimmer pushed Trench from her. ‘Go! Assemble. Go on.’ And she backed away. The man hesitated, hand going to his sword. ‘I order you to go!’ Grimacing his unwillingness, the sergeant turned and ran.

Shimmer continued backing away. She unsheathed her whipsword and it flexed before her, almost invisible in profile so thin was it. Darker shapes arose in the field around her. She turned, counting. Ten. Two Hands. She flicked the blade, weaving it, and she turned, spinning. Slowly at first, then quickening, the blade nearly invisible. And so the dance^ Shimmer heard again the dry voice of her old instructress lashing her. The sword-dance of spinning cuts. Beautiful — but oh so deadly.

The Claws closed, knives out, crouched. Thrown weapons glanced from the twisting blade. Training of a lifetime refined over a further century flicked out the tempered blade to lick arms, legs and heads as she spun. Claws flinched away, gasping at razor cuts that sawed through flesh to scrape bone, sever wrists, lacerate faces and slit throats.

A second wave challenged, ducking, probing. The blade licked whipping through them all, extending suddenly to its full length. Shimmer spun, twisting and leaping. The blade's razor edge flicked, kissing all remaining, and she landed, arms extended, panting.

She stilled, weapon extended before her, quivering, blood running from its length. All ten were down, some weeping, holding faces, bloodied stumps. Three more stood a few paces off, their eyes huge. Shimmer saw them and at the same instant each raised a crossbow. Damn — no momentum.

Then another jumped among them, kicking, rolling, and they rocked backwards to fall, immobile, felled by blows of feet and hands. This new figure strode up to her — female, slim and wiry, wrapped head to foot in dark cloth strips. Those strips wet with blood at her feet and torn away from her bloodied hands by the ferocity of her blows. Shimmer inclined her head in greeting. ‘I could have handled them.’

‘Perhaps.’ Only dark, calculating eyes were visible in her face and these shifted away. She raised her chin to the retreating Guardsmen. ‘You are withdrawing.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then go with my permission and never return to these lands.’

Shimmer's brows rose. ‘And you are?’

The female Claw ignored the question.

Another Claw came running out of the dark, this one a man with a pinched rat's face, dark mussed hair and an unsettling crazy grin. Shimmer recognized him from briefings on the Claw — Possum, Clawmaster. He crouched behind the woman as if guarding her back. The Master of the Claws following around a woman like a pet dog? Then this must be… Shimmer froze in shock. Gods! It's her! Of course, Mistress of the Claw, once rival of Dancer himself!

Trench with a full Blade was running their way. Shimmer raised a hand to forestall them.

Unconcerned, the woman motioned aside, to the east. ‘And those?’

Shimmer knew who she meant. ‘Disavowed. Disgraced. Stricken from our ranks.’

‘I see. May I ask the reason for this falling out?’

She doesn't know! ‘Skinner exceeded his authority.’ All too true.

‘How depressingly familiar…’ Musing, still gazing away, the woman — Laseen in truth? — spoke. ‘Very well. We are done here. Go! Return and you will be hunted down and slain. Accepted?’

Shimmer offered a shallow bow. ‘Accepted.’

The woman turned away, paused before the Clawmaster, who bowed profoundly on one knee. ‘Come, Possum. We have much to discuss — now.’ And she walked off into the dark, and, after a courtly mocking bow — that grin, unbalanced — Possum followed.

Trench jogged up. ‘Who was that?’

‘A… Claw officer. We have struck a truce.’

‘A truce? What of Skinner?’

‘I don't believe he's interested in any truces.’

Trench adjusted his hauberk. ‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Come, Sergeant, we've a defensive perimeter to build. No sense trusting to the Empire's good graces, yes?’

‘Aye, Commander.’

The sergeant headed off but Shimmer lingered. She gazed back to where the two disappeared into the night. So, met at last. Is your word good, Empress? Shall you simply allow us to withdraw? Or will other voices, other councils, sway? I wonder…

The smearing, shifting land, spiralling sky and blurring, meteor-like stars forced Rillish to close his eyes else vomit or faint. He lowered his head into the smoky mane of his mount. He clenched his eyes, wondered just what it was they rode upon then wished he hadn't. Gay laughter from ahead forced him to look — Nil and Nether sharing grins of victory, laughing their confidence, hair flying. As if they'd feared they all could've died immediately I He glanced back and wished he hadn't. The land they rode upon was disappearing behind them as they passed, collapsing, falling away, revealing emptiness — Abyss — behind. Ye gods! Ride!

Overhead the great empty bowl of the night sky turned so fast the stars blurred like spun torches. A sun rose, fat and carmine — a bloated travesty of what he knew as the sun. Was it ill? Some peoples, he knew, worshipped the sun as a god. Its crimson light revealed that ahead lay… nothing. A dirt surface appeared before their column as if called into existence by the will of all the witches and warlocks bound to the twins. The surface supported them only to fall away once more into the miasma of the Abyss.

Ride, lads and lasses! Ride!

The glow of the horses’ eyes shocked him — all whites! Unconscious! But of course, what animal could endure such chaos? And so they ran, pulled along by the will of the warlocks. And he and all those who followed as well! He saw that at some point he'd unsheathed a sword, and, laughing, he awkwardly resheathed it. What use such a pathetic instrument?

Something moved upon the face of the unformed, churning sky — distant yet immense — wings outstretched, long tail lashing. A body of rib and spine only — a skeleton dragon? And why not? In such a place where everything yet nothing is possible. And farther yet, if such things as distance applied here, a great dark fortress. Static, brooding. Appearing to float upon nothing. What were these things? Hallucinations?

He glanced back and the hair on his neck and arms rose, charged. It was gaining! The land was falling away closer and closer upon their rear. Nothingness was overtaking them!

Ride, fools! Death's reaching!

The twins pointed ahead where a dark smear stained the churning miasma ahead. Our gate? But so far! Rillish glanced back again and screamed. The rear ranks were slipping off the edge, hooves scrabbling, horses tumbling, men and women spinning backwards from sight. He kicked his mount savagely, almost weeping.

Ride to the Abyss!

Ullen ordered his legion into two arms, each of which would meet the Guard phalanx leading face at angles, hopefully to then wrap around and envelop. That was the best he could hope for. The Crimson Guard standard was held just a few ranks back from that face. The Avowed, he knew, would overcome any individual soldier who might oppose them, but eventually, if numbers should tell, they would find themselves beleaguered from all sides to be cut down by these stolid, grim Malazan and Talian heavy infantry veterans. Or so he told himself.

The two forces came marching towards one another out of the dark. The ruins of the Imperial pavilion smouldered just to the north. Ullen knew the Empress was nowhere nearby; yet for the Guard to march unopposed this far would be tantamount to victory, a tacit acknowledgement that the Imperial forces could no longer muster the wherewithal, or will, or spirit, to face them. The closest thing to defeat that becomes defeat in its realization.

When only a few paces separated the two lines Ullen raised his sword for the final charge. The Imperials sounded a low animal roar that swelled to a ferocious demanding invocation of rage, hate and battle-lust. They raised shields, leaning forward, the pressing shields of the ranks behind at their backs forcing them on. The two formations smashed together with a bone-breaking clash of shields smashing, blades probing, legs thrusting at the dirt. Line pushed against line; ranks slid across one another, mixing, milling. Men died but could not fall, so crushing was the press. The screaming cacophony melded into one undifferentiated rumble that punished Ullen's ears into a ringing, oddly muted, din. He knew he was yelling but he could not hear his own voice.

Sword held awkwardly in his left hand, for his right remained too weak, he thrust savagely between shields. The ground beneath the grunting, scrabbling mass became glutinous with shed blood. Sandalled feet slipped, bodies fell. Men and women cursed fallen friends and enemies alike when they entangled their feet, tripping them. As the lines shifted back and forth these fallen became trampled down into the mulch of mud and gore.

Anything that moved before him, Ullen stabbed. Blades hacked at his shield, cutting, some sticking. He flicked his sword over the top, slicing arms. A hand yanked at the shield, almost pulling it down; he bashed, pushing, sliced a leg. Men and women fell around him. Footing became treacherous. The Malazan regular on his right was hacked down by a stupendous blow that shattered his shield then helm, the sword continuing on down to split the skull, face, lodging in the collarbone and upper ribs. Without thinking of the terrifying power of that blow, he swung, severing the arm holding that blade at the elbow. An eruption of rage rocked him back. Ignoring the severed limb, that Guardsman turned on him. Lady's Pull, he'd found one.

The Guardsman threw his shield down, gripped Ullen's and yanked it, snapping the leather grip and breaking Ullen's elbow. A figure pushed forward at Ullen's side, Captain Moss, his twin blades slashing, but the man ignored the blows. His berserk all-white eyes remained fixed on Ullen. The Guardsman's fist lashed out and Ullen's head snapped backwards so far he saw the night sky. The rear of his helmet struck his own back between his shoulder-blades, flew from his head.

Things seemed to slow down. He watched while the man pulled his fist back once more. Scintillating lights gathered in his vision. All noise became a blurred murmur. All sensation seemed to flow away leaving an odd feeling of ease.

From behind Ullen's shoulder and sides spears thrust, impaling the man in a series of impacts. Snarling, he fought to push forward against the hafts, reached with his one remaining clawed hand for Ullen. Other hands pulled Ullen back into the ranks. He fought to remain. The Dal Hon lieutenant, Gellan appeared before him, held his face, fought to look into his eyes: ‘Commander!’ she shouted, or he thought she shouted, she sounded so far away.

He blinked, frowning. Commander?

‘We're breaking! We can't hold them!’

Breaking?

‘Where do we rally?’

What? Rally? He searched the grounds with his swimming vision. Knots of men and women were recoiling — too many Avowed, too closely concentrated. Ye gods, forty of them! Who could stop such a formation? They had nothing left. All that remained was to hunker down, hope to resist for the best terms. He tried to shake his head — the spinning! It would not stop. ‘The redoubt! Rally to the redoubt. We'll make our stand there.’

‘Aye,’ she shouted, still holding his head. ‘I will spread the word.‘ Aside, she ordered: ‘Take him south.’ Arms grasped him, urged him on. He pushed at them — leave me alone, damn you\ He recognized one of the men, Captain Moss, and he relaxed. He'd lost a gauntlet, wiped at his cold head. The hand came away blood-smeared. He stared at it, surprised. When had that happened? That punch, fool! It shattered your helmet!

He and his escort staggered, fumbling, southward, across the burnt black field littered in bodies. Ullen knew he'd taken a serious head-wound when he saw walking past them out of the gloom a figure from his youth — the unmistakable broad, armoured silhouette of Greymane. His guard pulled their weapons, arranged themselves around him. He raised his hand, ‘It's all right! I know him. Greymane!’ he called. The man swerved their way. ‘Greymane!’

Closing, he halted, breathing hard. His eyes appeared preter-naturally bright within the confines of his full-helm. They narrowed on Ullen. ‘You know me?’

‘Ullen Khadeve. I was with Choss long ago.’

‘Ah.’ The man glanced down. ‘I heard. I'm sorry.’

‘So am I — what are you doing here?’

The helm turned aside, he gestured north. ‘I'm here for Skinner.’

That statement from any other man or woman would've made Ullen laugh. He shook his head, dizzying himself. ‘There's too many Avowed. They'll cut you down.’

The hands in their iron gauntlets tightened into fists that almost shook. A curse sounded from within the helm. ‘Yes — you're right… for now.’ A chuckle of self-mockery. ‘So much for simple-minded delusions of satisfaction demanded on the field of battle, hey?’

‘Come with me. We're headed to that hillock, our last strongpoint. He'll be headed there next.’ Ullen pressed a hand to his searing brow. Had the man shattered his skull? ‘But I warn you — I may ask for terms. If the men agree, I'll not have you break them.’

A nod. ‘I understand.’

This way.’

But the armoured giant did not move; he was staring off to the north.

‘What is it?’

‘Something… something's coming. I'm sensitive to the Warrens. I can feel a damn huge disturbance… Coming very fast! Get down!’

The man stepped up before them, drew his blade — a slim longsword that looked comical in his huge hand. Ullen's guards ranged themselves behind him, Captain Moss included.

Ullen knew that through the darkness he could not see half of what was occurring but what little he did see terrified him. The air up the slope to the north began to ripple as if heated. Flashes like those of stars flickering permeated it. Before it, Skinner's phalanx paused, the tall standard hanging limp in the still night air. The ground suddenly shook as if hammered. An earthquake? The flickering coalesced into a dark-blue aurora that made him squint, shading his eyes and turning his head. Out of this light burst a hurtling wedge, striking the slope with a booming thunder that echoed from all the hills. Ullen had one glimpse of a massive column of riders, swords raised, mouths open in soundless yells, before that wedge slammed into Skinner's phalanx.

The solid ranks of Guardsmen melted before the onslaught like a stand of sticks before an avalanche. They disappeared beneath the crush of massed hooves. The standard snapped, mowed down. While Ullen watched, stunned, astounded, more came, rank after rank passing, trampling the same ground where before a solid formation had once stood. Its front rank curved away to the west and the column rode on, horses lathered, riders yelling their war cries. Wickans, Ullen saw as they swung by. Come through Warren!

After they passed, the deafening roar of their hooves diminishing, only dust swirled over the furrowed and churned ground of the slope. One rider closed upon them, reining up: an old man, his one good eye wide, the other a white, milky orb. A death-grin seemed frozen on his face. ‘That should put an end to your pogrom against us, eh, Malazan!’ he yelled with a crazed laugh.

‘You obliterated them,’ Ullen answered, his voice faint with shock.

The Wickan pointed a bloodied scimitar, his horse rearing to be off. ‘Witness! Give witness, Malazan!’ And he rode off, shouting a great ululating war cry.

Ullen watched the man disappear from sight. ‘Yes… I shall.’

Yet incredibly, unbelievably, shapes now stirred among the trampled and punished ground. Here and there Guardsmen stood, weaving, shaking themselves, straightening. The sight chilled Ullen's flesh and he stared, utterly appalled. Great Gods! Will nothing stop these Avowed? They are relentless. Like the Imass.

Greymane turned to him, wry humour in his eyes. ‘As you said, Ullen. They're too many. But the odds have levelled somewhat, I think. Now is my chance.’ Before Ullen could object the man ran down to the churned slope. If Ullen had had a helmet he'd have thrown it to the ground in frustration. ‘Dammit!’ He turned to his guard. ‘We have to follow him. We can't let him go alone.’

His guards, a mixed body of seven Malazan and Talian infantry, eyed one another, clearly unsure. ‘Our orders…’ one began.

‘Your orders are to follow me,’ Ullen said. Clenching his jaws, this one bowed his curt concurrence. Ullen turned to Moss, who nodded then lifted his chin to the field. ‘And we're not alone…’

Ranks of Imperial infantry were advancing from all around, small units pulling together from every direction. ‘Come!’ Supported by Moss, Ullen limped after Greymane.

The field was a charnel-house of trampled broken bodies. Stunned survivors staggered, blood-bespattered, ignoring them as they passed. All fighting, as far as Ullen could tell, seemed to have been snuffed by this cataclysmic charge. Sadly, a number of his own infantry seemed to have been caught in the charge as well. Ahead through the night, however, two swords clashed, ringing in the silence following the prolonged detonation of that charge. Ullen searched the dusty night for the combat. The grunts, blows and ringing of iron drew them on. They came to the wreckage of a train of Imperial supply wagons. Ullen glimpsed the duel as a blow from one threw the other backwards into a burning wagon, knocking it sideways, its wheels gouging the dirt. Greymane. The man was battered, helm gone, face a mass of blood. Bands of iron armour had been hacked away leaving hanging leather strapping. Skinner loomed forward into the light. A ponderous two-handed downward swing from him was dodged by the renegade to crash into the wagon's siding and bed, breaking it in two in a terrific explosion that sent up clouds of obscuring smoke and ash. Greymane answered but his blade skittered from the Avowed's unearthly glittering armour. They clashed again, grunting their effort in blows that would fell trees. A swiping riposte was met by Greymane's slimmer blade which burst like a sharper, shattering beneath the strain. But instead of flinching away the ex-Fist closed, grappling, and the two struggled from view. Ullen dodged through overturned wagons, butchered horses and burning spilt materiel in a frantic effort to catch sight of them again. Moss and the guards ran with him.

This was lunacy! Here he was with a broken right arm and a probable fractured skull searching for a nightmare out of the old wars of continental subjugation — and the worst of those! A champion that, should Greymane fail, could not be matched by anyone alive today; what could he possibly do? Ullen honestly did not know.

He glimpsed them, wrestling, crashing into wagons, rolling amid the wreckage, trading blows that echoed through the night. Greymane arose bent behind Skinner, a grip up under his chin, straining, his face writhing with effort. Yet, incredibly, the Avowed commander straightened beneath him, raising the man clear off the ground to heave him, armour and all, off into the night. A crash and clattering of iron from stones revealed a gully or slope nearby.

Skinner adjusted his long mail shirt, rolled one shoulder, grunting. He bent to pick up his helm and drew it on again to walk off towards the field. Ullen was torn — dare he challenge him? But what of Greymane? The man was wounded. His guards had already scampered down to find the renegade. That settled the matter for Ullen and he followed.

It was a shallow, rocky gully. They found Greymane lying amid stones at its bottom. The man was conscious, but barely so. Together all of them strained to drag him up the side. They laid him on the ground. His eyes — one carmine with blood from broken vessels — found Ullen's face and he snorted, shaking his head. ‘Cheating bastard. His blade's poison. Bastard poisoned me! Got me all riled up, he has. Lucky bastard. I almost used the sword on him — but not here… too close to the sanctuary it is. Who knows what might've happened?’

Ullen ignored the man's ramblings. His sword? What was the man on about? ‘Relax — we'll bring a healer.’ Ullen motioned one of his guards away. The man saluted and ran.

Ullen caught Captain Moss's eye, tilted his head after Skinner. The officer held his gaze for a long time, his own eyes dark and flat, his mouth held expressionless. A hand rose to rub at the scabbed gashes crossing his face and he nodded his assent. Ullen straightened from Greymane. He pointed to another of his remaining guards. ‘Stay with this man. The rest of you — follow me.’ He jogged after the Avowed commander, left hand hot and sweaty on the grip of his sword. Left! His bloody left hand!

Conversation guided him through the detritus of burning equipment and scattered corpses. He caught sight of two men confronting Skinner. They were speaking with him, their words lost amid crackling flames and the shrill shrieks of a wounded horse. The two burly soldiers looked familiar yet he couldn't quite place them. Across the way figures emerged from the gloom, five Crimson Guardsmen, all Avowed, no doubt. They drew blades and began edging out to surround the two.

Ullen started forward but stopped as another man stepped directly in his path — where on earth had he come from?. Moss lunged forward, sabres raised, but the fellow held up empty hands. He was an ironwood-hued Dal Hon, scarred, in a fine mail shirt. His long kinked hair was pulled back tied in a leather strip and he regarded Ullen as if he knew him. And the man did look… but no, that cannot be… he was dead!

The ghost rested a hand on Ullen's shoulder. ‘You've done more than enough, Ullen,’ he said in that voice that sent chills down Ullen's spine. ‘The field is yours. My congratulations. Choss, I'm sure, would have been proud. Now leave this to us.’ Then the man's closed features softened with affection and he motioned to the gathering duel: ‘Those two, I swear they did this deliberately. Knew I couldn't let them face him alone.’ And he jogged off. The encircling Avowed flinched from his approach and he slipped within, to the side of the two facing Skinner.

No — it cannot be. How could it be him? Was it no more than a ghost from his past?

The three formed a triangle while the Avowed completed their encirclement. The newcomer faced Skinner who pointed a gauntleted hand, saying something lost in the roar of the burning wreckage. The newcomer didn't deign to answer. He drew his sword, a dark slim length. At a signal from Skinner all lunged in upon the three at once.

Ullen was stunned by what he witnessed, blades flashing in the firelight too fast for him to comprehend. Of the three defenders, one hunkered behind a square heavy infantryman's shield, calmly sliding blows that would batter walls only to jab, forcing back any of the Avowed who edged too close; the other, a burly Seti, fought with two sturdy long-knives each bearing bronze knuckle guards, parrying and delivering awful blows, lashing out to rock one Avowed with a swipe to the head. Ullen winced, thinking of his own wound.

But it was the duel between the Dal Hon and Skinner that took his breath. The man's smooth, economical grace was beautiful: tremendous swings from Skinner brushed aside with the seeming lightest of touches to be followed by lightning ripostes. It must be him! But how? In answer to a prayer?

Yet those ripostes all slid, rebounding, from the Avowed's stained dark armour. And Skinner laughed. In that laugh Ullen heard certainty of victory.

At his side, Captain Moss breathed, awed, ‘Who is that? I've never seen anything… He knew you — who is he? But that armour… Skinner will wound him. And then… just a matter of time.’

But Ullen shook his head. ‘No. He knows. He must know.’

The Avowed pressed, struggling to overbear the two guarding the Dal Hon's back. They took horrendous wounds attacking, but the two would not be forced or drawn out from guarding each other's flanks. One Avowed grasped the shield only to have his hand nearly severed: it flapped uselessly at the end of his arm as he continued fighting. The Seti was more aggressive, slashing at faces, torsos, inflicting wounds the Avowed silently absorbed until their legs ran glistening with blood and the ground darkened at their shuffling feet.

Try all you like, Avowed! No one ever penetrated the Sword, his bodyguard. He only fell to treachery. The Dal Hon continued punishing Skinner, landing blow after blow; yet each glanced away, turned by the man's seemingly impenetrable armour. While for his part, the Avowed could not pierce the man's virtuoso defence. All for naught, Ullen thought, for neither could bring the other down.

Didn't he comprehend? Why continue hacking at that mail coat? It was obviously Warren-invested, perhaps even aspected. Useless, utterly useless. Perhaps his dark thoughts tinged his vision but it seemed to Ullen that the two guarding the Dal Hon's back were tiring. It was to be expected — who could forestall Avowed forever? Soon, they would fall, then it would all be over. Skinner would finally prove victorious. He would return to the field to rally his Avowed, and they would sweep away any remaining organized resistance. The Guard would win.

The squat heavy infantryman's shield had been reduced to no more than a slivered handle of shattered slats. He now only parried with his shortsword. The Seti had abandoned counter-attacks and now merely defended. Only one of the Avowed had fallen: a woman who staggered off, hands pressing in her stomach where wet curves bulged out. She toppled face first a few short paces away where she lay, her appalling Avowed vitality sustaining her as limbs shifted weakly, kicking and writhing.

Still the Dal Hon riposted and counter-attacked. Just one of his cuts would have flensed any other attacker to the spine, yet Skinner remained unharmed. Ullen almost screamed: You fool! Give it up! Disengage! Suddenly it was too much for him. For this man he would act; it was not even something to question. Ullen lurched forward, raising his sword left-handed. Moss's arm encircled his neck to yank him back.

‘Don't be a fool!’

Then, in the midst of yet another exchange of heavy cumbersome blows from Skinner and the Dal Hon's lightning flickering counter-assault, the Dal Hon lunged forward farther than he ever had before, the tip of his blade in one pass flicking upwards just under Skinner's helm. The Avowed commander snapped his head back. He clutched a gauntleted hand to his neck where blood coursed down his front. He backed away, hand gripping his throat, sword still raised, still steady. The four remaining Avowed shifted to cover his retreat. The Dal Hon alone followed, pressing the attack.

Backing away, parrying, Skinner shouted some garbled wet command or entreaty and the air behind him boiled. It seemed to froth, lightened from night-dark to ugly streaked grey. The Avowed all backed into the jagged mar to disappear, two supporting Skinner. The Dal Hon halted, motionless, his breath still calm and level. He sheathed his dark-bladed sword.

Ullen ran up to the two soldiers who leaned together supporting each other. When he glanced back to the Dal Hon swordsman, he too was gone. A curse from his side revealed Captain Moss making the same discovery. The broad squat infantryman threw down the shattered slats and loose bronze strapping that remained of his shield. He pulled off his helmet and took a skin of water from his belt to squeeze a jet over his head and drink, gasping. He tossed it to the Seti.

‘Where is — the other… the Dal Hon?’ Ullen said.

‘Weren't no other,’ the old bald infantryman ground out, his voice so hoarse as to be almost inaudible. ‘Never was, hey?’

‘But…’

Panting, gasping in great lungfuls and swallowing with effort, the veteran waved Ullen's objections aside. ‘No, just the two of us. Ain't that right, ah, Slim?’

‘Slim?’ the Seti growled. He wiped his glistening face with the back of a hand, leaving a smear of blood. ‘Naw. It's… Sweetgrass.’

‘Wha-’ The infantryman faced the Seti directly to stand weaving, exhausted. ‘Sweetgrass? All these years… none of us even knew?’

A truculent glower on the man's battered and cut face, chin thrust out. ‘What of it?’

‘Nothin’. Just surprising ‘s all.’ The two bent down attempting to pick up fallen gear, couldn't bend far enough and gave up, then turned away to head back to the field. They limped, stretching their backs, pausing now and then to bend over gasping for breath, coughing. Ullen, Moss and his guards following along exchanged mute glances of wonder.

‘What about you?’ the Seti, Sweetgrass, asked of the old veteran.

‘You don't want to know.’

‘What?’

‘No.’

‘C'mon.’

The old veteran stopped to lean over. He dry heaved, gagging, then hawked up a mouthful of catarrh that he spat. ‘No.’

‘Boulbum?’

‘No.’

‘Ishfat?’

‘No!’

Ullen looked to Captain Moss, who walked with the back of his hand pressed to his grinning mouth.

They returned to find mixed Malazans, Talians and Falaran elements being ordered into phalanxes by a battered and bloodied Braven Tooth and Urko. The four old veterans greeted one another with great back-slapping hugs. Then, to Ullen's shock and horror, Braven Tooth and Urko saluted him, sharing wicked grins. He answered the salute then waved aside their gesture. ‘No — you command, Urko.’

‘No. We ain't done yet. These ones all run off but we got a pocket of Guardsmen yet. Dug in on a hill. Fist D'Ebbin and his remaining forces and the Wickans are keeping them tight. Time we contributed. I'll be with one of the units. You can coordinate. Congratulations, Commander.’

The four veterans went to join units leaving Ullen to face his last remaining guard. He rubbed a hand at his wrenched, aching neck, feeling overcome. ‘Well… find a mount and send word to Fist D'Ebbin that we're coming.’

The guard saluted, jogged off. Horns sounded a general advance. After some ragged reordering the columns began marching south. It was now well past midnight. The fires had died down and the field of battle was a dark tangled nightmare of fallen twisted bodies, broken equipment and wounded, dying horses.

With Moss at his side, Ullen picked his way south carefully. After a time, the captain leaned close and glanced about, troubled. The savage gashes that crossed his face appeared livid, raw. ‘Where's your staff?’

‘Scattered.’

‘You need more of an escort.’ He gestured aside. ‘We should join that column.’

Ullen shrugged. ‘If you think it best.’

But the man halted. His hands snapped to the bright ivory grips of his sabres. ‘Something…’

Dust swirled up around them; Ullen shaded his gaze, wincing. ‘Captain?’ The clash of blows exchanged, iron grating iron. Ullen fumbled to draw his sword left-handed. Then an impact into his back like the clout of a sledgehammer. Cold iron slid deep inside him. Gasping, he turned to see a woman, her long white hair wild in the wind, eyes slitted, lips snarling. A flash of silvery-grey then that head tilted, falling, blood jetting, body jerking. Ullen fell as well.

Starry night sky then Captain Moss leaning over him, saying something, but all Ullen could hear was his pulse roaring in his ears. He couldn't breathe! He strained, but nothing would enter his burning, aching lungs. Damn! This wasn't right.

What of-

Couldn't he-

The roaring pulse slowed. Night closed, obscuring Moss's face, his mouth moving. One beat sounded like a heavy, slow hammer echoing.

Wait-