Return of the Crimson Guard

CHAPTER III

Kyle, K'azz and the lost brothers found that a flotilla of makeshift rafts had been pulled up along the north shore of the Idryn. Lying sprawled on the approach to the Pilgrim Bridge and piled in its mouth lay a trail of slaughtered Kanese soldiery. Facing the dead was one Crimson Guardsman. He was leaning against the stone wall of the bridge, legs wide, sword planted before him, his body and limbs feathered in arrows.

‘Baker,’ K'azz said, his voice thick.

The man stirred, his head rising. A sad smile crept up beneath long, tangled ginger hair. ‘M'Lord.’ He struggled weakly to straighten.

The Guard commander eased him back. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered gently. ‘We need you to guard the north.’

A wry smile pulled Baker's mouth to one side. ‘Oh, aye, sir.’

The brothers were collecting shields from among the fallen. Kyle joined them. Each held as many as they could carry under both arms. Kyle offered one to K'azz who took it with a bob of his head. They jogged up the bridge.

Ahead, a deep sonorous roar, like the continuous detonation of thunder, raised the hair on Kyle's neck and arms. It was a low, reverberating, animal growl of anticipation uttered from thousands of throats, so loud it almost drowned out the clangour of weapons clashing and shields striking. They met the struggle near the bridge's mid-point. Four Avowed, back legs braced, faced the pressing solid wedge of Kanese infantry. Shield thrust against shield, spears and other pole-weapons jabbed, while a fifth Avowed remained a step back, watching, resting. Armour hung hacked and torn from all, helmets battered, arms black with drying gore. The rear Avowed, a short, broad woman, saluted them. The side of her head glistened, one raw wound; her sliced scalp hung down as a flap. Underfoot lay a litter of broken shields, fallen swords, spears, lances, arrows and shattered pieces of armour. Blood darkened the set stones of the bridge crimson.

‘You are most welcome, my Lord!’ the woman shouted to be heard through the din. ‘But we didn't call for reinforcements.’ The woman frowned then, eyeing K'azz up and down. ‘Being away didn't agree with you, I think. But you should leave. We will hold until we fall!’

‘So will I! Good to see you too, Lean.’ K'azz readied his shield, raised his long-knife. Other than this, the man was unarmed. Lean shook her head. ‘No — you're reserve.’ She nodded to Kyle and the cousins. ‘Don't I know you?’

‘Stalker, Coots, Badlands, Kyle,’ K'azz shouted. ‘They're up to it.’

‘Wecome, brothers!’ She pointed to the Avowed hacking at the exposed front line of massed soldiery, rank upon rank of which held spears and javelins which they raised high or thrust at the defenders in a forest of jabbing, waving stalks. ‘Amatt, Cole, Black and Turgal.’

There was room for only eight or so Kan soldiers to stand shoulder to shoulder, though the layered ranks behind could reach with spears and halberds. Lean bashed her own spear to her shield and the four Avowed yielded a step, adjusted their footing and hunkered down. The Kan soldiery surged forward to be met by quick ruthless thrusts from the Avowed. Their wounded and fallen comrades choked and encumbered all those who struggled forward to fill the ranks. Eyeing the fighting, Stalker threw down his load of shields. He kept one and picked up a fallen spear. Instinctively, the brothers followed suit, as did Kyle.

Lean paced back and forth behind the defending Avowed, keeping close watch, and perhaps making sure K'azz did not push forward to join the line. She tapped Black on the back of his leg, waved Badlands forward.

‘Relief!’

Black curled away, spinning, and the startled Badlands was caught surprised. But he leapt forward, knocking aside the hafts of jabbing spears to thrust himself in, bulling in with all his weight. Lean watched narrowly, gauging.

Stalker came and touched Kyle's arm. He pointed to his waist: ‘Use that.’

Kyle glanced to the sword strapped into the outsized scabbard. His gift from Osserc; he hadn't even drawn it yet. ‘No reach,’ he yelled back.

‘It must be something!’ Stalker answered.

Kyle shrugged.

One by one Lean relieved the Avowed until only Cole — whom Kyle recognized from Kurzan — remained, and it was Kyle's turn. K'azz objected but apparently Lean was in charge of this particular contingent and so her judgement ruled. The relieved Avowed, Black, Amatt and Turgal, stood panting, faces glistening. They bore horrific wounds; Amatt coughed up blood; Black's iron cuirass leaked blood at every overlapping band; Turgal, who bore a huge Malazan infantryman's rectangular shield, had it strapped to his mangled, broken left arm.

His turn coming, Kyle readied his spear, tucking it tightly under his arm. He was suddenly deathly thirsty but knew that while he needed water it was best to be thirsty in case of a stomach wound. He tried not to think of what was about to come, and Lean, perhaps sensing his gathering dread, did not wait. ‘Relief!’ she bellowed, and Cole ducked away. Kyle lunged forward. Almost immediately his spear entangled amid the forest of jabbing, swinging pole weapons. Strikes on his shield rocked him, numbing his arm and shoulder. He could not bring his weapon to bear. It was hung up, useless.

The Hooded One's laughter! He was going to die, spitted like a boar.

Javelins thrust around him, Lean and others driving back the ranks for him to straighten out his spear. He recovered, bending forward into the press. From the edges of his vision he saw that the Lost brothers were up to the challenge. Coots and Badlands fought like grinning, savage dogs, at home in their element, while Stalker was calm, pacing himself, yielding nothing. They were holding their ground and again Kyle wondered: who were these men seemingly equal to the Avowed in their strength, ferocity and endurance?

As for himself… Kyle and the Kanese soldiery opposite both sensed almost immediately that he was the weak link in this line. A thrown javelin cannoned from his helmet, briefly stunning him. A solid blow to his shield snapped it backwards to smack into his forehead, sending blazing agony across his vision. Blinking, everything a blur, he missed a strike to his own haft that levered his spear from his grip. The two Kanese facing him and the ranks behind roared, surging forward. Hands steadied him from behind, javelins thrusting. In a panic Kyle pulled his sword free, snapping the straps that kept the slim curved blade in the scabbard. He brought it up, fending off thrusting, clanging spears and halberds, and was dumbfounded as the dark golden blade cut through each haft as easily as if passing through a candle.

The Kanese flinched away, eyes huge under the lips of their helmets. The severed hafts clattered to the stones, loud in the sudden silence. ‘Beru Bless us!’ Lean cursed behind him, awed.

Osserc's own weapon! Could it be, truly?

Kyle edged forward, recovering his lost footing. He crouched down behind his shield. Now I am ready. Beside him Coots and Badlands exchanged savage, elated grins.

Kyle remained in line while the others traded off. After his blade sliced shields in half and shattered swords no one would face him. The respite allowed the Avowed to recover, though for Black and Amatt the fight was over. Loss of blood left them unable to stand. The rest traded off in quick succession and in this system, presided over ruthlessly by Lean, they held.

K'azz was in communication with Shimmer through the Brethren. She reported that Skinner and his remaining Avowed had quit the field, abandoning their remaining loyal Guardsmen regulars. Shimmer and the majority of the surviving Guard had established a strongpoint. She claimed to have reached a temporary truce with the Imperials. In any case, the Wickans that had smashed Skinner's command now merely encircled Shimmer, content with containment. Later K'azz reported that Shimmer expected formal negotiations to begin any time and that they had to hold off the Kanese in order that she could press for as favourable terms as possible. K'azz concurred.

Just after this report from Shimmer, Kanese horsemen came fording laboriously up the middle of the bridge. They forced their way through the press of soldiers like ships over a heavy sea, beating their way through the men with switches and kicks. At a bellowed command from the leading figure the infantry stepped back, spears levelled. Into the resultant ringing silence the fellow yelled, ‘Who commands here?’

‘I do!’ Lean answered, stepping forward. She pushed her scalp up and pressed it in place.

He drew off his helmet. He was a dark fellow with a neatly trimmed moustache and beard. He bowed as well as he could while mounted. ‘Commander Pirim ‘J Shall at your service.’ He motioned to the rider behind: ‘Invigilator Durmis.’ The robed man bowed far more awkwardly, his pained gaze fixed far beyond them to the north cliffs.

‘We commend you, Guardsmen, on a heroic defence — though it has cost us dear. But we come bringing news. Are you by any chance in communication with the main body to the north?’

An unsure glance back from Lean. ‘We are.’

‘Then, the Invigilator Durmis is most insistent-’

‘What do they sense?’ the robed man cut in.

‘Sense?’

‘Yes, damn you! Inquire through your Brethren.’

Lean glanced back again, bloodied brows wrinkled. K'azz nodded. ‘A moment,’ she reported.

K'azz straightened, calling, ‘They report disturbances among the Warrens.’

‘And growing,’ the Invigilator added. ‘Something is coming blasting its way through the Warrens like a collapsing tower and it's headed right for here!’

Commander waved a hand deprecatingly. ‘He may be exaggerating… the Invigilator's job is to be wary of such irresponsible abuses among the men and women you name Talents — such as may threaten our Confederacy. A main reason, by the way, why we did not resort to such extreme measures to eliminate you from our path. For to do so would be to invite retaliation and escalation from your formidable Avowed mage cadre, yes? Thus costing us significantly more personnel than otherwise, yes?’ A smug smile. ‘In any case, the office's more enthusiastic members have been known from time to time-’

Invigilator Durmis kneed his mount to bump into the commander's. ‘This is real,’ he ground out.

‘Like the warning earlier this night? Of impending thaumaturgic transgression? The mere arrival of a few horsemen?’

‘Who knows who they could have been? They may have been allies of the Guard! In any case, those horsemen won the battle for the Empress.’

‘A point curiously moot to us here on this bridge!’

Lean cleared her throat. ‘Gentlemen! We are still in parley?’

Commander Pirim returned his attention to the front. He pulled on his long, cream-hued jupon to straighten it, adjusted his helmet under his arm. ‘Invigilator Durmis insisted upon this exchange of intelligence. To my mind formalities have been observed. We are done.’ He bowed.

Lean answered the bow, her hand still pressed to her head.

The commander struggled to turn his mount and, from the gathering rage and dismay on his face, found that he could not. He cut his switch viciously at the men pressed in around him. ‘Make way, damn you! Way!’

Lean turned an arched brow on Kyle and those of the line. Coots gave a mocking hoot. Invigilator Durmis, however, remained motionless on his mount. He sat slumped, hands folded before him. ‘It is here,’ he said, sounding defeated.

Kyle risked a quick glance behind. Above the cliffs the night sky of the north-west seemed to swirl, stars rippling. A pink and orange glow gathered, streaming into banners and crown-like circles that widened, fading. ‘What is it?’ he breathed.

Then a flash like an immense distant fire blossoming only to be snuffed out. Shortly afterwards a muted roll of thunder reached them. Lean looked to K'azz. ‘Something has struck the battlefield,’ he reported. ‘Cut a swath through units on the west flank. Left a trail of wreckage.’

Commander Pirim's brows rose in almost comical surprise and alarm. He looked to Lean. ‘I suggest a truce — for the time being.’

Lean bobbed her head, wincing. ‘Agreed.’

Whether the sea would swallow Ho and his mage escapee companions had become immaterial. As Yath's control over the disparate chords of his ritual participants gradually asserted itself he took steps to protect the vessel. A cocoon of power edged round its sides. Through the barrier's pulsing multicoloured walls the sea appeared to have been left behind — the Forlorn seemed to float on nothing.

Sighing her profound relief, Devaleth sat with a heavy thump next to Ho. She massaged her hands. Sweat coursed down her ashen face. Unnerving groans now sounded from the vessel as timbers creaked, popping and flexing. The masts shivered, their tops shorn off where they met the aurora of power above. The deck juddered beneath them and she and Ho shared uneasy glances.

‘Where are we?’ Treat asked of Fingers, hushed.

‘Sere,’ the mage whispered.

A scream made everyone jump. One of the ritual mages had leapt to his feet. He pointed at Yath, mouthed something unintelligible. Two of the Avowed, Dim and Reed, stepped in to calm him. He wrenched his arms from their grasp, clasped his hands to his head, all the while howling his own personal horror. The Avowed fought to subdue him but incredibly the skinny fellow pushed them aside. He gouged at his face as if he would tear it open then in two long steps reached the side and threw himself over. His shriek was cut short as he passed beyond the barrier.

‘Otataral madness,’ Devaleth said to no one in particular.

‘Perhaps…’ Su answered, her black, wrinkled eyes almost narrowed shut. Ho turned to snarl another warning about her damned airs but stopped, realizing that her gaze was fixed upon Yath, and that the man's sharp glittering eyes returned her steady stare.

‘I have identified the disturbance,’ Su announced, her gaze unwavering upon Yath.

‘Yes?’ Ho asked.

‘It is a general contagion that infects almost all of us to greater and lesser degrees. But which is concentrated mainly in two carriers…’

Yath slowly straightened from his cross-legged position. He levelled his staff across his front. A wide, hungry smile crept up his lips.

‘Yes?’ Ho asked again, vexed. ‘Who?’

‘Its two main foci are our Seven Cities friend and…’ she turned her head aside, pointed, ‘… him.’

Across the stern Blues’ brows rose. He pointed to himself. ‘What? Me?’

‘Oh yes…’

Yath pointed his staff at Reed; the Avowed looked to Blues, unsure. An aura identical to that of the shifting walls surrounding them lashed out from the staff to strike Reed who shrieked, writhing. Before their eyes the mage-fire consumed him, leaving a blackened smoking corpse.

‘… And we have made a terrible error,’ Su finished quickly.

‘Queen take him!’ Blues was up, his speed incredible to Ho. He was halfway across the deck before Yath could bring his staff to bear. Pink and violet fire arched. Blues raised his Warren in answer and the energy deflected, splashing like water. It recoiled outwards to spread in a fan that sliced into the barrier around them — which burst.

The deck fell out from beneath everyone. Ho clasped his arms around Su and Devaleth, pinning them to the side, grasping handholds. Figures flew off screaming into the infinite nothingness of all directions, though none of the ritual-bound mages shifted at all. Yath had fallen and struggled to reorient himself. An Avowed, Dim, was close. The man was belaying himself by rope toward the Seven City mage.

‘Steady us!’ Ho shouted aloud to everyone.

‘I'm on it!’ Fingers answered.

Dim closed on the Seven Cities mage, reaching out. Then Sessin was there, leaping from behind Yath to grapple the Avowed. The men swung wildly together, only Dim's grip holding them to the vessel. They fought, grappling and gouging as they flew — then gone, both spinning away in silence. The deck rose up to brutally knock the breath from Ho.

Yath lashed power again, catching Blues unready, but the stream of raw inchoate energy passed through him leaving him unharmed. Both Blues and Yath straightened, astonished. Blues stared at himself, uncomprehending.

‘Get ‘im!’ Treat urged from the tiller.

Blues lunged. Yath stood now amid the sitting ritual-bound mages, all as still as statues. He swung his staff and a wall of the rippling power cut across the deck. Blues, Treat and Sept all struck it, rebounding. The Seven Cities mage laughed behind his barrier.

At Ho's side Fingers lay prostrate, his face contorted in a grimace of effort. ‘Can't keep this up for ever, people,’ he ground through bared and clenched teeth.

‘Get us out of here!’ Ho bellowed to everyone.

‘Where?’ Devaleth snarled.

‘Anywhere!’

‘You wish to go?’ Yath called, his voice hollow-sounding through the coruscating banner of power. ‘I will take us somewhere — though I do not think you will much care for it, my friends!’ and he laughed anew, gesturing. The distances became opaque, darkening, taking on a grey-green tinge like an eerie nightfall. The vessel eased gently down on to something, canting to one side. Fingers let out a grateful gasp, his arms and clawed hands unclenching, and he sagged. A roaring, grinding noise like a waterfall swelled to smother all other sounds. A stink assaulted Ho, making his gorge rise. Treat, near the side, flinched away, pointing: ‘What in Hood's own dread is that?’

Ho stood. They were sliding down a tilted flow of some fluid. It reminded him of a lava flow only clotted, streaked in pus-like yellow and sickly green. Figures writhed within, melting and re-forming, gesturing and beckoning only to fall back into the churning stuff from which they arose. ‘The edge of Chaos,’ Ho said.

‘Yes!’ Yath answered. ‘You invade my lands spreading death and destruction! It is only fitting that I bring a taste of such chaos in return!‘ He opened his arms. ‘My lands have been cursed with it… Now it is your turn! From here I shall bring such a plague upon your continent that you will never rise again!’ He turned his back, raised his arms high, staff clenched over his head.

Forming another portal — this time leading directly to Quon. Ho found himself staring at the Wickan witch. ‘What can we do?’

‘Nothing. We haven't the power. He commands the might of some twenty mages. We are only a few.’

‘Nothing? Nothing!’

Su eyed him sidelong. Her wrinkled mouth pulled up in a mocking smile. ‘Who am I to say, Ho? Are you not the expert here? Did you not walk these very shores?’

Damn her! How can she know these things? ‘Very well.’ He raised his voice. ‘Blues, Fingers, Devaleth! Join us.’

It was not a ritual; Ho would hardly propose such an effort given its latest employment. Rather, it was a parallel focusing. Each readied themselves to contribute their strength to forestalling the creation of a solid enduring bridge from this place to Yarn's intended destination — wherever exactly that may be.

As they worked, the vessel tilted ever more severely to the bow until they resorted to gripping the stern. Treat and Sept roped them to the sides, the tiller and the gunwale. The Forlorn picked up speed, sliding, grating, down the flow of unformed chaotic matter. Ho wondered whether the shapes they'd witnessed were its inhabitants, or prisoners. Mage, perhaps, caught attempting to manipulate the potential of the inchoate materia — as he himself had dared so long ago.

Ahead an opening on to darkness tore through the flow, bisecting it. Ho glimpsed stars — a night sky? The vessel canted even more precipitously, almost vertical, then pitched within. Ho had the brief impression of falling into nothingness. He reached out then for what Su, Blues and Devaleth were prepared to offer and almost recoiled. Such capacity! It approached even his own. Beru, do not let him be seduced! No wonder none were willing to offer themselves to Yath!

‘Hang on!’

Plummeting through a whistling, howling wind. An instant explosion of crashing, splintering timbers. An agonizing blow. Tumbling. Nothing.

Nait was sitting with Urfa and Bowl and a few other saboteur sergeants watching their boys and girls trying to get fires going to cook a hot meal. Heuk's darkness still coursed above their position but it was fraying gently, dissipating. Nait figured it'd be gone by dawn. Heuk himself slept still, curled up nearby, a dopey drooling smile on his face, jug clenched tighter than a pricey hired girl, or boy. Nait was all ready to fall asleep too when Urfa sent a bulging, cross-eyed look his way and motioned aside.

There came the Sword of the Empire himself, bandaged and bloodied, armour clattering all bashed and battered, marching up to the officer's fire followed by his guard of lieutenants and captains. Nait hung his head. Gods no — please don't fuck us up!

‘Why are we not moving?’ the man demanded so loud everyone on the slope could hear. ‘I gave the order that we march! The Guard remain on the field. We must attack!’

Faces turned among the assembled saboteurs from where they argued over the best way to start the fires. They'd been comparing tinder boxes and flints, slow-burning coal sticks wrapped in leather, goose-down and lint ember beds, and all the while the fires remained unstruck. Oh, oh. Nait pushed himself up and motioned Urfa and Bowl to come. The three ambled over to where captains Tinsmith, Kepp and Blossom all struggled to their feet. Kepp and Blossom helped Tinsmith up with a padded stick that had been fashioned as a crutch.

‘Yes, Sword?’ Tinsmith offered.

‘Why have the orders for the troops to assemble not been conveyed?’ Korbolo demanded, enunciating his words with great care.

‘Move out — where? Sir?’ Tinsmith inquired.

The Napan commander jabbed an arm to the west. ‘West! A Guard strongpoint remains! They could attack us at any moment. They must be eradicated. Slain to a man!’

Tinsmith thoughtfully ran a thumb and forefinger along his silver moustache. ‘Messages indicate they have effectively withdrawn, Sword,’ he said with all reasonableness.

Korbolo stepped right up to the captain. His mouth twisted in a frown of exaggerated disappointment. ‘You are not refusing a direct order, are you, Captain?’ he asked, his voice now very soft. ‘Because I will have you arrested. And then, tomorrow, after we have killed them all, I, Korbolo Dom, Sword of the Empire, will be proclaimed victor over the Crimson Guard. Defeater of Skinner. And I will have you and your entire command crucified. Believe me — I've done it before. Now… move out.’

A salute from Tinsmith. ‘Hail the Sword.’

Korbolo answered the salute. ‘Very good, Captain. Carry on.’ He marched off followed by his troop leaving Tinsmith hopping in place and studying his crutch. Nait and Urfa and Bowl ran up together with other sergeants. Everyone spoke at once, complaining, threatening, refusing to move. Many pointed in the direction of the sleeping Heuk. Tinsmith, Kepp and Blossom raised their hands for calm.

‘We've no choice,’ Tinsmith said, curtly. ‘Make a stretcher for the mage. We'll take him with us. I want a column of infantry with skirmishers surrounding. At the first sign of trouble we scoot back here. OK?’

Nait could only shake his head at the awesome, monumental stupidity of it all. He'd managed it: he'd fucked them up.

Nait opted to range with the skirmishers, leaving Heuk to be carried within the ranks. This squad didn't march so much as skulk, spread out, crossbows readied, hunched. A faint lightening brushed the eastern horizon; the stars were dimmer there. Nait cast quick glances over his people. They'd been lucky, lost only two: Kal and the lad, Poot. The lad hurt the worst. Not because he was young ‘n’ all that, but because it had been friendly fire. In all the ruckus of people jumping the trench, climbing in and out, someone's crossbow had been jiggled and it fired right next to his head. No warning at all. That had been a hard one for everyone to take.

Thankfully, this portion of the field was relatively empty. The worst was just south where fires still burned and kites and other bold night-feeders wheeled. They'd crossed most of the field when a contingent of horsemen came pounding out of the dark. ‘Hold fire! Hold fire!’ Nait heard sergeants bellow among the skirmishers. It was a troop of Wickan lancers. They pulled up, halting.

‘Who commands?’ one shouted — an old veteran. In fact, they all looked like hard-travelled veterans.

‘Sword of the Empire,’ came the answering shout. ‘Korbolo Dom.’

The Wickans gaped, motionless, then hands went to sheathed long-knives and other weapons. Wickan curses sounded. ‘What name was that?’ the old spokesman asked again as if unbelieving.

‘Mine!’ Korbolo came walking up from the column. ‘What news?’

The grey-haired old veteran rested his forearms on the pommel of his high saddle and studied the man with something akin to amazement. Finally, after a time, he shook his head and spat aside as if to ease his mouth of a sour taste. ‘You are bold and brave, I give you that. How does it feel, murderer, to be in our debt?’

Korbolo appeared supremely untroubled. ‘I am in no one's debt. I am the Sword of the Empire — I command all Imperial forces.’

‘Well for us, then, that according to your own Empress, we are not Imperial forces. Yet you owe your victory to us. I wonder, then, what recompense the Throne might offer to repay such a debt, yes?’

The Sword's smile of self-assurance was almost a smirk. ‘Such matters are for the Empress to judge.’

‘Indeed. And she and the army all bore witness to what happened this night.’ The Wickan sawed his reins around and the troop stormed off.

Nait watched them go. Boy, a lot of history there. Official word was that the Wickans up at Seven Cities had betrayed Imperial interests and Korbolo barely managed to salvage the whole theatre. For himself, Nait didn't believe a word of it; and this confrontation clinched things for him. The Wickans had treated Korbolo as the traitor. He turned to his squad who stood watching the retreating horsemen. ‘Move out! Let's go! Got ground to cover.’

Ahead, the plain rose slightly in a series of modest hills. One held the retreat of the remaining Crimson Guard. Some three thousand, he'd heard; who knew how many Avowed. Surrounding the hill was Fist D'Ebbin's command plus all the Talian and Falaran and other elements that had joined up with him through the night. The Wickan cavalry circled as well, appearing ready to charge the hill all on their own. But no arrows or crossbow bolts flew. The Guard had withdrawn to behind their shieldwall; the Imperials merely maintained their encirclement.

Kibb sidled up next to him. The lad puffed beneath the unaccustomed weight of all his new armour plus the burden of his crossbow, shield, munitions shoulder-bag and a whacking great scab-barded Grisan bastard-sword, the bronze-capped tip of which scraped along the ground behind him. ‘What're we gonna do?’ he asked.

‘You're carrying too much gear, soldier.’

‘Wasn't plannin’ on any marching. We're not gonna attack, are we? I mean, we got lucky once — no point pushin’ it.’

Nait laughed. ‘Listen to you. You was ready to piss in everyone's eye, now you just want to keep your head low. You're all grown up.’

The lad flinched away, bristling. ‘Piss on you!’

Nait continued laughing, walking along. Wasn't it cute the way they got all huffy. The chuckling slowly died in his throat as he peered ahead. The sky was looking all strange over the west. Green, yellow and pink lights blossomed there like the ones that sometimes glowed in the north, but smaller, much more contained. A breeze brushed his face, stirred the trampled, broken stalks of the grass. He raised a fist for a halt, knelt. What was this? Some Avowed mage counter-attack?

The column had halted as well, shields being unslung. Nait spotted Urfa's bunch and waved them over. She ducked down next to him. ‘What is it?’

Oponn's own trouble.’

‘No kidding. What're we going to do?’

Nait scanned the empty slope — not enough cover for an emaciated rat. ‘Don't know.’

‘What about your old boy, the wonder mage?’

‘He's sleepin’ it off. Wouldn't wake even for Hood.’

‘Well…’ She pointed west. ‘I think he's coming.’

The aura brightened, thickening. A wind swelled out of the west. Something big comin’ their way. Then a flash like sheet lightning blinded him. He glanced aside, wincing, as did everyone. An explosion made him drop to the ground. In the distance something huge slammed into the earth, impacting, shaking, crashing in the cacophony of a huge object dissolving into shards. The ground shook beneath Nait. The juddering continued, closing like the constant reports of a thunderstorm on its way. A shape rolled towards them as a mass of churning dirt and pale things flashing. Then it, slowed, falling, sliding, and the blossoming dust-cloud enveloped it, obscuring everything from view.

An eerie silence followed in which rocks clattered, ground shifted, tumbling and sighing. Nait shaded his eyes, blinking back tears.

The great cloud of dust and thrown earth enveloped them. As it slowly drifted away he saw that a bite had been taken out of the shoulder of the hill the Guard held. The bite extended down in a long gouge that cut a swath through Fist D'Ebbin's lines to carry on, shallowing, in a trail of smashed timber to the wreckage of what appeared to be the tangled remains of an actual sailing ship, here, practically at the very centre of the continent.

He stood and stared, as did his squad one after the other together with nearby skirmishers. ‘What do we do?’ Urfa asked, wonder filling her voice, her askew eyes fairly goggling out of her skull.

‘I don't know.’

Movement: someone walking, staggering, out of the shattered ruins. Nait and Urfa exchanged looks of awed amazement. Trake's balls! Who might this be? The figure returned to the wreckage, and then emerged dragging another. That broke the spell for Nait. ‘Let's go,’ he yelled. ‘Help them out!’ The squads and skirmishers jogged for the broken tumble of shattered timber.

It was a broad, heavy-set woman. She was struggling to return to the ruins but was now unable to walk straight. She was obviously in shock. Her face was a mass of torn and bruised flesh; she was practically naked and, bizarrely, her head was unevenly shaved. Nait grasped her shoulders. ‘What's your name? What happened?’

She blinked, her mouth worked, mumbling, dribbled bloody spit. ‘Stop,’ she managed.

‘Stop? Stop what? What do you mean?’

‘Stop… him.’ And she sat heavily, her limbs twitching. More survivors appeared, being dragged from the shell, all dressed alike in rags, with hair hacked short or shaved as well. Too intact — they should've all been shredded like the vessel. Must've been protected by magery.

Two men came running up, dressed just like the ship's crew. One's arm was a lacerated, tattered thing of red flesh, creamy bone, and hanging sinew, but he appeared to be ignoring what would otherwise be an instantly fatal injury to any other human. The other pressed a hand to his side where a length of slivered wood pierced completely through his torso. Blood soaked his front and that leg. Avowed! Must be. ‘Find him!’ this one bellowed, almost weeping his pain. ‘An old man — a Seven Cities native! Find him!’

‘Just sit down!’ Nait yelled, running up. Behind them a troop of Wickans was closing.

‘Find him! Kill him!’ and he wept, his face contorted in agony. His companion's eyes rolled up all white and he tottered, fell to his knees, then his side. Nait reached the impaled fellow then stopped — he had absolutely no idea what to do. ‘Healer!’ he yelled. Then he yelped as the fellow had somehow closed and yanked Nait's own shortsword from his scabbard. Armed, he started limping for the wreck. ‘Wait! Kill who? Why?’

From behind the vessel's remains violet fire lashed out to strike the closing Wickans in a swath of incandescent destruction. Horses and men flew, spinning. The ground itself shook with the concussion and Nait staggered.

‘Him,’ the man snarled. Cursing, he stopped, grasped hold of the jagged shard of wood as long as a sword, and, with a scream, drew it out.

‘Who are you?’ Nait breathed.

‘Ho. Now, get your men — kill him, now!’

Nait signed to the skirmishers to open fire. They hunched, scuttled forward. Violet fire arced into the sky to carve a bright streak across the night. Everyone watched. It hurtled up and over them, curving down to smash into the column. Its churning energies cut a swath some five men wide through the massed ranks. The unit broke like a shattered cup. Knots of men ran in all directions — most back east. Keep runnin lads — seek cover — ‘cause that worst has just arrived.

Ho held out an arm. ‘Take me to the others.’ Nait took his sword back and helped him walk. May came running up, hunched, hands all wet with blood from treating wounds. ‘Dig in!’ Nait bellowed over the roar of coursing power. She saluted, ran off.

Nait led the man to where the ship's survivors had been collected. Here lay the resilient heavy-set woman and another woman, an elderly Wickan; the fellow with the savaged arm; a young fellow who was even more battered and twisted; and two other blood-smeared, lacerated and traumatized survivors. Healers from among the Untan volunteer ranks and a few from the Malazan regulars were busy at work on them, stopping bleeding, hands pressed to bruised flesh.

‘Is this it?’

Clenching down on his pain, Ho said in a tight voice, ‘Yes. And many of these here are of the Guard.’

‘We happen to be fighting them,’ Nait observed, neutrally.

‘We'll need them.’

Nait didn't bother asking what for. ‘What about you? You need a healer.’

‘No — I'm… getting better.’

Nait stepped up to the man, examined his naked side where beneath the drying blood and fluids only a pink scar remained of what had been a gouge worse than a sword thrust. Who — what — was this fellow?

Nait helped the man sit in the grass then turned to watch the skirmishers. They'd taken cover around the sides of the wreckage, firing at something a way east ahead of the pile. They popped up from the grass, fired, then dropped back down again. Damned prairie dogs, is what they are. That's it! The Prairie Dogs.

He was about to congratulate himself when the ground wavered beneath him and he staggered. A curved wall of the dark-blue fire billowed out towards the vessel, scattering the irregulars, erupting the grasses in flame. Nait dived for cover. Something cast an eerie shadow over everything, climbing higher, and he gaped up at a dark mar or bruise in the night sky, coalescing, darkening, seeming to flow inward.

Nait yelled to the men and women staring, gaping upwards, ‘Dig in!’

Kyle and the Lost brothers did not relinquish their line. They remained standing, weapons ready, while the Kanese likewise stood ready, spears and halberds standing tall. Each force eyed the other. The mounted officers sat examining the north sky, the invigilator still and intent, the commander sighing his boredom and brushing at his surcoat. Kyle stole quick glances as well, seeing nothing more than strange lights in the sky. After a time, the invigilator, Durmis, sucked a loud breath through his teeth, his face puckering his alarm. Even the commander's face appeared troubled. Kyle risked a look. Some kind of dark aura flickered in the lightening sky. No stars were visible through it. Renewed thunder reached them and the bridge shook ever so slightly.

‘Remain here if you wish,’ the invigilator called out, ‘but we will not take our forces into that’ To the commander: Order the men back, set up a line of defence on the south shore.’

The commander tapped his gauntlets to his thigh, frowning. On your authority?’

‘Yes, on my authority!’

An insouciant shrug. ‘Very well. If we must.’ He raised a hand, signalling. Horns blew from the rear. Among the massed forces on the shore signal flags rose, waving. The commander saluted Lean, tilted his head in acknowledgement of their stand. Lean bobbed her own, her face pained.

After a great deal of trouble and reshuffling, the commander, the invigilator and their guards succeeded in turning their mounts. They bulled their way back across the bridge while the ranks closed behind.

Kyle heard Lean ask, ‘Should we go?’

‘We'll wait,’ K'azz replied.

Coots and Badlands sat, took out stones and began cleaning up the edges of their weapons. Coots even whistled a tune. Kyle examined his: unmarred, the blade a thin curve of some dark yellow material, not metal, almost translucent at its edge. He sheathed it, wrapped the cords around its long grip — he'd have to get a new scabbard damned soon.

Stalker came up, examining his dented domed helmet in his hands. ‘A hard fight. Well done.’

‘Thanks. Now what?’

The scout motioned to the north. ‘That thing — something's got to be done about it.’

Kyle was puzzled. ‘You a mage?’

A snort. ‘Great Darkness, no. Just have a feel for these things. Runs in my family.’

‘So? What do we do?’

‘Us?’ He shook his head. His long dirty-blond hair hung lank and tangled with sweat. ‘Nothing. This is for the mages. But they might need cover.’

The Kanese continued to retreat. The rear ranks backed away, spears levelled, watching them closely as they went. The Avowed, Kyle and the Lost brothers all cast quick glances to K'azz, waiting. Skins of water made the rounds. A pinpoint of light suddenly appeared on the bridge and everyone straightened, hands going to weapons. The pinpoint swelled to a swirling, glowing whirlpool out of which stepped a short, skinny fellow in dirty tattered robes with wild kinky hair. Kyle smiled to see Smoky again.

The mage went to embrace K'azz but stopped short. His broad smile twisted down into anxious puzzlement. K'azz waved the man's concern aside. ‘It looks worse than it is.’ He squeezed the mage's shoulders. ‘Good to see you again.’

‘And you.’

‘What news?’

‘It's ugly. Shimmer's gathered all the remaining mages. Good news is that Blues and Fingers are with us — they're battered but alive.’

K'azz froze, his smile faltering. ‘I… I didn't know they were missing.’

Smoky cursed himself. ‘Sorry-’

‘It's all right. I know I have a lot of catching up to do.’ He turned to Lean. ‘Well done. What do you think? Detail dismissed?’

Lean bowed, grinning. She raised her helmet and very slowly, and with great care, pulled it over her bloodied head. ‘Detail stand down!’

Cole scooped up Black in his arms. Amatt gently lifted Turgal. Lean gathered up gear, as did Stalker, Badlands and Coots. Smoky came to Kyle, looked him up and down while nodding his approval. ‘We owe you an apology and our gratitude.’ He held out a hand. Kyle took it, feeling self-conscious. ‘And we owe you more than we could ever repay.’

Kyle winced. ‘Don't say that.’

Smoky laughed. ‘Ah, yes, right. Very good. All the same, thank you.’ He returned to the swirling Warren portal, waved everyone through. Kyle came through last. As he lifted a foot in and leant forward all he had was a fleeting impression of bright blinding light, heated dry air, then he stepped down clumsily on to crackling, dry, trampled grasses. The noise of a crowded camp under siege assaulted him.

Dawn was just a short time away yet darkness clung to the battered and churned slopes around him. It seemed to be concentrated over the far side of the field, clinging to its edges as if reluctant to yield to the gathering light. Another smear or dark cloud occluded the centre. It hovered over ruins that appeared to have been tossed across the entire slope.

Kyle peered around, uncertain where to go or what to do. Everyone seemed to have disappeared. What he wanted to do was sleep, but it looked as if there was little chance of that for anyone. Ogilvy jogged up, a toothy grin twisting his round face. He grasped Kyle's shoulders and shook him. ‘Well done, lad! Well done. Glad to see you back with us!’

His old sergeant, Trench, appeared to wave him forward. The man squeezed his shoulder. ‘Sorry, lad — had no idea.’ Kyle waved it aside. ‘Anyway, you've been promoted. K'azz wants you. This way.’

Trench led him across the hill. As they walked a shout went up and the Crimson Guard soldiery hunched, ducking for cover. Kyle looked around, surprised, and saw an arcing blue catapult-like fireball or lance streaking for their position. Trench pulled him down. The assault appeared to have originated from the dark occlusion marring the air in the middle of the field.

The lightning, or whatever it was, hammered down just short of their position. It impacted, searing the ground, throwing up a storm of smoke and dust. It gouged through ranks of the besieging force, throwing bodies, doll-like, into the air, spinning to disappear consumed by its awesome raw energies. Its roaring assaulted Kyle's hearing like a firestorm and waterfall combined. Just as suddenly it snapped away, making Kyle stagger as he'd been bracing himself against it. It left behind a great ragged scar of burnt black ash and scoured dirt. Great Spirits! What can one do against such an awesome thing? Was this the much vaunted Malazan firepower of which he'd heard so much? Yet it had struck a Malazan entrenchment. As Kyle stared, another of the lashes arced out to the opposite side, descending to the far edge of the field. Trench touched his elbow, starting him from his trance. The sergeant motioned ahead.

It was a meeting at which Kyle felt completely out of place. Stalker and the Lost brothers were gone — ducked out, probably. The only one he knew even vaguely was Smoky. It was a meeting of mages and commanders. Shimmer presided, K'azz next to her. Mages Kyle barely knew were in evidence. He learned names as they talked: Lor-Sinn, Shell and Opal, all female and hardened-looking veteran battle mages. Gwynn, also, whom Kyle knew as one of Skinner's mages. Bald with a goatee and gold earrings, all in black. Apparently he'd parted ways with his old commander. In all, some six Avowed mages.

Over the course of conversation it became clear that they were just holding their own. Deflecting the assaults was taking all their effort. In fact, Shimmer had made an overture to the Imperials regarding a pooling of resources and was expecting an answer. Seemed last night the Malazans had unveiled a High Mage whom no one had known of, but who had impressed everyone mightily.

A messenger ran up, spoke with Shimmer who nodded. She addressed the group: ‘The Malazan representatives.’ Room was made in the circle. The contingent was only three: two adolescents, skinny with long gangly limbs, long mussed black hair, almost identical. Twins? They were young, yes, but their lined guarded faces spoke of experiences and a maturity far beyond their years. The third was a broad, thickly-muscled older man with short grey hair bearing the bruising and gashes of many treated wounds. His wide brutal features were set in a savage scowl. K'azz, Shimmer and other Avowed all bowed to the man. ‘Commander Urko. Welcome.’

The older man gestured to his companions: ‘Nil and Nether. Now, what do you propose?’

‘Cooperation. Together we can defend all our people from these attacks. But we must pull together.’ Shimmer nodded to the youngsters. ‘You have two Wickans with you, what of your mage cadre?’

‘They defend the east redoubt and all the soldiers who have taken shelter there.’

‘I see. So, just us.’

Urko cracked the knuckles of his large scarred hands. ‘I hear talk of defence. What about offence? I understand that thing must be closed. But just what is it?’

‘A rent,’ Shell answered. ‘Sources tell of the remnant of one in south Genabackis. There are others. They are tears in the fabric of the barriers between Realms. No sane theurgist would dare create one. Only the Great Matrons of the K'Chain Che'Malle could master them.’

That odd name, K'Chain Che'Malle, lowered a silence upon the gathered mages. Even Kyle felt within it echoes of the oldest of his people's legends: formless terrors of the night.

Pausing to be certain that point sank in, Shell continued, ‘This one appears to open upon Chaos. And it is growing. It may never stop. Yes, it must be closed, and at all cost.’

Urko grunted his understanding. ‘What's the plan?’

Shimmer's gaze lingered upon the east. ‘We understand a single mage is responsible and is feeding its growth. Right now it is not self-sustaining but time is running out. Killing the mage should cut it off.’

‘If he can be,’ the dour-looking Gwynn, near Kyle, commented beneath his breath.

The hill shook and everyone ducked as another lash of pulsing blue-black power hammered the grounds amid the Malazan lines. The distant shrieks and screams audible even through its roar made Kyle shiver. Urko's fists snapped up quivering as if he would break something or someone that instant. ‘Bastard!’ He pointed to the twins, ‘Make the arrangements!’ To Shimmer: ‘We're comin’ up!’ and he ran.

‘A large party would only attract attention,’ the girl, Nether, said.

Helmet under her arm, Shimmer pushed back her long, straight black hair, nodded curt agreement. ‘A small party.’

‘How to approach?’ asked the young male twin, Nil.

‘You will need the element of surprise,’ said a new voice from nearby. Everyone turned. There stood a slim fellow in dark clothes, a smirk on his narrow, pinched face. Shimmer raised a hand to forestall any action. ‘Possum. What word?’

‘For such a purpose I am empowered to offer Imperial cooperation.’

‘Such as?’ Smoky asked, his voice acid.

‘Passage through the Imperial Warren.’

‘That Warren is a death-trap,’ said Gwynn.

The smirk returned: ‘Only for those not authorized to access it.’

Heads among the mages turned, eyes narrowing. ‘Laseen…’ Smoky breathed.

The Claw sketched a courtly bow. ‘I am only a humble messenger.’

The Wickan twins, Nil and Nether, volunteered. After much debate among the Avowed mages it was decided that Gwynn and Smoky would go as their contribution. Possum would bring them through.

As the mages prepared themselves, Kyle went to Smoky's side. ‘Good luck.’

The mage smiled, showing his small, sharp, rat-like teeth. ‘Just like old times, eh? Speaking of that — let's see that new sword.’

Kyle drew it and held it out. Smoky went to take it but jerked his hands away. He stared, obviously amazed, raised his eyes to Kyle. ‘This blade is not metal. Wouldn't dare try to mark that. Take my word for it — don't show it to anyone.’

Kyle sheathed it. ‘Thank you. I'd come if I could.’

A snort, then the mage wiped a sleeve across his grimed brow. ‘Might have to. No one says we'll succeed.’ He waved goodbye. Kyle saw that Stalker had come to watch. He went to his side.

‘What do you think?’

Stalker was frowning beneath his sandy moustache. ‘We should all go. Hit whatever that is with everything we've got. Maybe then we'd stand a chance.’

Kyle stared up at the man as he stood watching the mages’ preparations, his frown turning ever more sour. Surely things could not be that desperate — could they?

Nait crawled on his belly from one pit to another. The flesh of his back writhed with the knowledge that energies that could evaporate iron crackled and thrummed just a stone's throw above him. Ants. Just us ants down here ‘s all. Finding the next pit, he flopped down into the hip-deep depression where soldiers on their knees frantically dug with those once maligned but now oh-so-valuable saboteur tools: shovels. He shouted over the avalanche churning of power: ‘Anyone here get a look at whoever the Abyss it is?’

The nearest answered: ‘Yeah. I seen ‘im. It's Hood himself come to get us!’ He gestured upwards. ‘Brought his gate with him!’

Nait pushed the laughing fellow aside, carried on.

‘It's a mage,’ one shouted into his ear as he passed. ‘Wrapped in flame. None of the bolts reached him — they burned. Even melted!’ Nait nodded his understanding.

‘Where is he now?’ he yelled. The fellow gestured ahead. ‘Thanks.’ Nait pointed back the way he'd come. ‘Dig back, link up!’ A nod of acknowledgement. Reaching the end of the pit, Nait edged up to slide out. The chest of his hauberk gouged the dirt as he pulled himself along by the insides of his arms and legs. Through the wind-lashed grass he saw the fellow — or what must be him. It was a swirling squat tornado of power inside which he could just make out a human-like silhouette, arms raised.

He turned his head to peer upward. It was misleading, but the summoning, or whatever it was, seemed to hover exactly above him. Its height was hard to guess — top of a tall tree maybe? Darkness tinged by grey boiled and stirred within. Around him dust and fragments of chaff floated upwards, drawn up on a gathering draught that appeared to lead into the thing. Abyss! And it might just be so, too.

Something touched his leg and his heart almost burst. He looked back: it was one of the Avowed, his face all purplish and bruised, one eye swollen shut. Blues, Ho had given his name as. The Avowed gestured him back. Nait waved him away: blasted fool! He'd almost made him jump up and run for it! The fellow gestured again, insistent. Fine! Nait pushed himself backwards.

They met all together in a rear trench. Urfa's and Nait's saboteurs worked around them deepening the earthworks. In attendance were the saboteur sergeants, the survivors of the wreck and two sergeants from stranded heavy infantry elements squatting in the grasses: Pellan, a Falaran, and Tourmaline, a Moranth. Nait was surprised and pleased to see Heuk as well. ‘What are you doing here?’ he shouted.

The old mage grimaced, scratched his patchy beard. ‘Bastards dropped me ‘n’ ran. Woke me up.’

After introductions, the Malazan heavy infantry sergeant, Pellan, spoke up: ‘What can we do? ‘Cept get our arses away from here?’

‘Can't move,’ Ho said. ‘Anything that moves gets hit, consumed to ashes.’

‘So what can we do?’ Pellan gestured angrily to the sky. ‘There ain't nothing we can do against that!’

Ho opened his mouth but the Gold Moranth spoke up: ‘It must be closed.’

Everyone turned to him — or her. ‘We know of these… things. A remnant of one still exists to the south of our lands. They are crimes against existence. They undermine the very ground upon which we live, the air we breathe. It must be destroyed at all cost.’

Pellan blinked, clearly impressed by such passion, but he pointed up again. ‘What? Way up there? There's nothin’ we can do — unless we jump that mage.’

‘No chance,’ Ho said. ‘Anyone coming close would be incinerated.’

Pellan threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Then you mages come up with something!’ and he waved to Heuk.

The grimed mage exchanged glances with Ho, the ones named Blues and Fingers, and the big, thick-armed female mage named Devaleth. The last of them, the old Wickan witch, had yet to recover with the aid of the sketchy healing that could be provided. They all still seemed a little punchy, but they were deadly serious; so much so Nait found himself wondering about their relationship with the source of this thing. If they were such enemies why were they all together on the same ship? And pretty much all of them mages, too. As far as he was concerned, you get that many mages, jammed together and things like this are practically guaranteed to happen.

Ho hunched further as if driven down by the appalling furnace hovering above. ‘We may not be able to get close to the summoner, but the rift itself is growing, expanding.’

‘So?’ said Pellan.

Tourmaline nodded his helmed head. ‘It is coming closer into range,’ the Moranth said flatly.

Ho and the Gold studied one another wordlessly until Ho lowered his gaze, guiltily, it appeared to Nait.

‘You're going to try to disrupt it,’ Fingers said from where he sat, grimacing his pain and holding his bandaged bloody head.

‘Yes,’ said Ho. ‘A sufficiently large blast might be enough to upset its flow. Especially while it's just establishing itself.’

Pellan leaned back, crossing his arms. ‘Oh, wonderful plan! Who's gonna do that?’

‘I will,’ said Tourmaline.

No one had anything to add to that.

Someone or something jabbed Nait where he crouched on his haunches. May was on her knees behind him, glaring. He mouthed a ‘what?’ She motioned him savagely to speak. The glare deepened into an evil eye. ‘All right, all right!’

‘Yeah, I'll help out,’ he told Tourmaline. The Moranth gave a short bow. I'll hold your rope, or something like that, maybe. Nait signalled Urfa aside. The two put their heads together to talk low.

‘How're going to get the stuff from our boys ‘n’ girls?’ Urfa asked.

‘Good question. Tell ‘em the Gold have munitions to distribute — that'll bring them runnin’.’

Urfa guffawed showing a mouthful of bent, misaligned teeth. ‘Goddamn, you're a sneaky one, Jumpy! OK, we'll spread the word. Have some heavies nearby to corral them.’

‘We'll need lots.’

After all the crying and yelling died down, Jawl's begging and pleading, Urfa's veterans threatening murder, the heavies dragged the last of the saboteurs off and Nait and Urfa went through the assembled hoard. They were careful. Some jokers weren't above boobytrapping their packs with small charges such as the rare Moranth ‘stick fuses’. Tourmaline arrived with all the Gold had with them. They placed the largest of the munitions all together: eight cussors and four crackers. A terrifying assemblage, as far as Nait was concerned. Like nothing he'd ever dreamed seeing gathered together in his entire lifetime. A hoard fit to level a fortress. But when he studied the moiling gap into nothingness turning ponderously like a whirlpool on its side, the pile seemed laughably inadequate. Yet it was all they had.

Tourmaline began packing it all away into the Moranth wood-framed canvas carryalls. After watching for a time Nait helped. They took two bags each, brought them to the closest edge of the earthworks. Urfa followed, arranged the carrying straps, pulled them tight.

‘You'd take Ryllandaras over this any day, hey?’ she shouted over the constant thundering roar above.

‘Naked with jam on my arse!’

Laughing, she gave a thumbs-up.

A number of the mages came sliding down into the dirt trench, faces averted from the stain hanging over everyone. Heuk came to Nait's side. ‘What's this?’ Nait asked.

‘Some are going to head out with you,’ the old mage shouted, his mouth close to Nait's ear.

‘What for?’

‘In case he spots you — they'll do what they can.’

‘Oh, great!’

Tourmaline turned to Nait, signed move out. They edged up and out. Nait pushed himself along with the inside of his frayed leather sandals, pulled with handfuls of the sharp tough grass. The swirling dust made him want to sneeze. His munition bags dragged to either side. Through the grass he caught brief glimpses of the mages accompanying them: Ho and Blues, at least. Then their differing paths took them from sight.

As they edged along, on an idle thought, Nait spoke to Tourmaline. ‘You Moranth, I was wondering, you have women among you?’

‘Of course. All are needed in defence of the homeland.’

‘And you? What about you? I mean — Tourmaline — among you… is that a woman's or a man's name?’

The helm jerked away as if Tourmaline was offended. ‘A woman's, of course! Isn't it obvious?’ And she shuffled away, kicking dirt.

Nait paused, stricken with wonder. Gods above and below! He was surrounded by them! May, Urfa, Bala, Hands, now Tourmaline. Strong women! They were a bane upon his life.

They passed the scattered, tangled ruins of the ship and Nait caught up with the Moranth, finding that she'd taken out a saboteur's shovel and was hacking out a cut in the thick root-layer of the prairie grass. Nait looked up: the mar, or rift, or whatever it was, appeared to hang edge-on, directly above. Dust raised by Tourmaline's efforts puffed up to rise like smoke, sucked up and up, presumably to waft into the gap. Nait winced at that, imagining himself following. Into the Abyss, or the Gap of Chaos itself.

Knowing there was only room for one to work, Nait peeked through the blowing grasses to keep watch. The mage stood far off, a flickering darker shape within the spinning curtain of multicoloured energies surrounding him like a glaring winding-sheet.

He watched for a time. The slanting rays of the sun punished him, heating his pot helmet. He was sweating and damned thirsty. He figured it was nearing mid-morning. Behind him, Tourmaline excavated a bowl-shaped depression in the thick grey topsoil.

Then sudden movement. Four figures had appeared from nowhere between him and the mage: two Wickans, and two Crimson Guardsmen. Nait gaped, then threw himself as low as possible. The Imperials and the Guard were making a move!

Power erupted, slamming Nait backwards and pounding the ground to make it shake. Spot-fires burst to life among the grasses. Nait fumbled, bouncing, to throw himself on top of Tourmaline who lay on top of her excavation. Speech was impossible: the howling rabid ferocity pummelled Nait, making him scream soundlessly. He risked a glance up, eyes slitted, face shaded against the blowing dirt and chaff. The four poured punishing energies into the one mage who responded with his own lashes that flailed each. But they were not alone: Ho and Blues had appeared as well and now they too added their efforts.

It looked to him as if the six were making headway; the attacks from the one seemed to weaken, flickering. Yes! They're going to do it! Yet the winding penumbra of energy that surrounded him did not appear to be thinning at all. Argent fire searing from one of the attackers was merely deflected to spin inward, adding its own layer to those enmeshing the mage. What was going on? Why couldn't they overcome him?

Crashing noise pulled Nait's attention from the front. He glanced behind and gaped, horrified. Broken timbers, jagged fragments of shattered board and rope-tangled ironmongery were on their way, flying towards him through the air. Look out! But of course he couldn't warn anyone; he could only duck, covering his head.

The debris swooped over, whipping and hissing through the air as fierce as crossbow bolts shot from a siege scorpion. He watched enraged and aghast as the spinning wreckage lanced into the six attackers. One was decapitated instantly. All were plucked from their feet like scythed weeds to fly spinning through the air. It looked to him as if one had taken a blow to the head from a bent iron bar, Ho was impaled once more by wood shards, and the others similarly swept away in one masterstroke.

Beside him Tourmaline signed for Nait to go help them. Nait motioned to the pit. She shook her head, waved for him to give her his munitions. Cursing, Nait pulled the straps from over his head, then scuttled off keeping as low to the ground as possible.

As he went he kept an eye on the mage in his ring of protective energies; the man appeared to have turned away from the field, dismissing it once more to concentrate on his efforts with the rift. That suited Nait. Crawling through the whipping, singed grasses he yelped to meet two coming towards him — the Wickans, young, adolescent boy and girl, nearly identical. Each carried appalling wounds, gouges and slices that ran with blood, clothes tattered. Nait grasped an arm of each to help guide them back to the trench.

He handed them over to the reaching arms of Heuk, two Avowed named Treat and Sept, and even the old Wickan witch who had come forward. She took them and immediately began berating them in Wickan; the two flinched, hanging their heads, looking like remorseful schoolchildren. Nait turned back to try to find the others. The two Avowed slipped up and out after him, running hunched.

Movement on the field dropped Nait to his chest — two of the fallen mages — up and closing on the summoner: Blues and Ho. Despite torn bloodied rags revealing gaping wounds, Blues’ back wet with blood that ran down darkening his legs, both limped inexorably towards the mage. Blues drew two short blades. They reached the outermost spiralling layer of energy, pushing inward, hands protecting their faces. And it seemed to Nait that, somehow, despite the punishing, scouring conflagration, both were pushing through. The two Avowed threw themselves down next to Nait. ‘Blues!’ one urged, ‘Get ‘im!’

Even Nait found his hands clenched in fists. Yes! Get him! Send him to Hood!

Shapes appeared from nowhere behind Blues and lunged up from the grass behind Ho. The Avowed cursed, leapt to their feet running, drawing weapons. Blues turned, defending himself only to be thrust from his feet by the power of the churning energy to fall in a tangle with his attackers. The three figures tackling Ho struck Nait as all bizarrely similar, as if they were all members of the same family. The four rolled away in a blur of ferocious kicks and blows that sent up swaths of earth.

Sizzling actinic power slashed out to strike the closing Avowed, Treat and Sept, throwing them tumbling across the slope like tossed balls. Two more figures ran past Nait, bent over, faces averted from the blasting magics — the Wickan youths, heading for the brawl of Ho and his attackers.

Lady, this is seriously not what I signed up for. Not what I signed up for at all.

He was considering heading back for the trench when he froze. Someone was standing right beside him. Nait slowly edged his head up: the man wore loose trousers, sashed, and a long-sleeved pale-blue tunic; his long loose hair blew about his mahogany face, which was wrinkled up in sour disgust. Nait had never seen the man before in his life. ‘I allow them their petty squabbles,’ the fellow said as if thinking aloud. ‘I do not interfere in succession. My forbearance I thought unassailable. But this! This I cannot allow.’

The man merely raised a hand and a blinding eruption threw Nait aside. He rolled tumbling to lie stunned, gasping in the hot dust-choked air. He didn't know whether he blacked out. He couldn't tell. But when he shook his head, blinking and coughing, eyes watering, he reared up to look: a slash of brilliant light was hammering the mage in his gyre of protective energies. It was pushing the entire tornado of writhing force backwards while this new mage advanced at a steady pace.

Hood's balls! Who was this guy?

More wreckage flew overhead, whipping for the fellow. No! Not again! But as it neared it burst into flames, the shattered timbers incinerating instantly into wafting black flakes. The mangled iron glowing, melting and misting into smoke.

Three figures emerged from the churning smoke and dust, Ho supported by the Wickan youths. They were making for the trench. Though he was beaten and bruised the mage's face held an idiotic grin. The Wickan girl spotted Nait and signed retreat. He didn't need any more encouragement than that.

They piled into the trench. People reached out, supporting Nait. One was Heuk. ‘Who in Hood's mercy is that!’ Nait said.

‘Tayschrenn.’ The old mage grinned his blackened rotten teeth. ‘Ain't he somethin’?’

‘I'll say.’

The aged Wickan witch helped with Ho, who offered a broken-lipped smile. ‘You won?’ she asked him. He gave a tired nod.

‘They acceded to me.’

‘Good. I knew they would.’ She turned on the two youths. ‘And you two — where is the other, Blues? Why did you not come back with him? We still may need him.’

The two exchanged suffering glances, but bowed. ‘Yes, Nana,’ they said, and scrambled back out on to the field.

‘Healers!’ the old woman barked, waving them to Ho. ‘See to him!’

Nait peered up at the mar still hanging in the clear blue sky like a bruise or ugly wound. It had grown since he last looked. ‘It's low,’ he said to Heuk.

‘Yes, but-look!’

The enemy mage, named Yath apparently, had been plucked off the ground. He flailed now, limbs churning, enmeshed in the argent puissance invoked by Tayschrenn. It looked as though the High Mage intended to force him through his own rift.

‘Yes…’ Heuk murmured appreciatively, ‘he may just bridge it…’ Then the mage stiffened and turned to Nait, his face blanching. He gripped Nait's shoulder. ‘Eldest forgive me! What of Tourmaline? The munitions! Tayschrenn stands almost on top of them!’

No one asked Kyle to leave the hilltop and so he remained, arms crossed, watching the fireworks of the mage duel out on the battle plain. With him was the Untan nobleman who'd come as part of the Wickan delegation — Kyle hadn't caught the man's name. He watched and listened just as Kyle did, his face torn between awe and dread. The battle below reminded Kyle of the Spur, only on an even grander scale. So this was what the old hands meant when they spoke about the Warren-clashes of the old campaigns. Fearsome stuff. He understood more clearly now the relationship between the different arms of these armies out of Quon. No wonder the presence of a powerful mage corps could deter any aggression — or the lack invite it. Still, from the reactions around him he understood what they were seeing now to be unprecedented; a deliberate effort at whole-scale destruction.

That duelling appeared to jump to a yet greater confrontation as light like the reflection of the sun from still water blossomed on the plain. The Avowed mages remaining around Kyle, Opal, Lor-sinn and Shell, all cursed and winced, Shell staggering backwards as if pushed by some unseen force.

‘I know that!’ Opal said through clenched teeth.

‘Brethren report it is the High Mage,’ said Shimmer, her tone amazed.

‘The only time I've ever been glad to see him,’ K'azz said.

The old Malazan commander, Urko, grunted appreciatively. ‘Couldn't turn a blind eye to something like this.’

‘Did you witness the confrontation at Pale?’ Lor-sinn asked of Shell.

Shell straightened her jerkin, her lined face wrinkled up as though pained. ‘I watched from the distance.’

‘Challenged Anomander,’ Lor-sinn breathed. ‘Lord of Moon's Spawn.’

Kyle watched Opal shake her mop of curly auburn hair. ‘Hubris. The Ascendant held back.’

‘And how do we know that?’

Opal gestured to the field. ‘And risk such consequences?’

Lor-sinn, Kyle could tell, remained unconvinced. A glimmering brilliance out of the field made Kyle flinch and look away; he glanced back, a hand shading his eyes. The rumbling of a particularly loud eruption of power rolled over them. The mages winced in empathic pain.

K'azz raised a hand for attention. ‘Brethren say a messenger is here for Commander Urko.’

‘Well?’ asked Urko.

‘The messenger claims to be an officer of the assembled Cawnese Provincial Army.’

Kyle looked to the Malazan commanders Urko and Fist D'Ebbin. Urko's greying brows rose like shelves. Fist D'Ebbin, though beaten down by what he had endured through the night, at first appeared pleased, then that pleasure slipped into unease as he glanced to K'azz. These two were all that remained of Imperial command in the field — other than the Sword, who was rumoured to be in charge of the eastern redoubt. Cowl's Veils had taken an awful toll.

Urko motioned to K'azz. ‘Send him up.’

A soldier climbed the hillside, his helmet under an arm. He wore mail under a white surcoat bearing the diamond design of Cawn. He saluted Urko. ‘Commander.’

‘Yes?’

‘I bear news from the east.’

‘Yes?’

The man glanced about at the Guardsmen. Voice lowered, he said, ‘Perhaps a more private talk…’

‘Here will do. As you can see — we are facing a common enemy.’

‘I understand. Very well. The Cawn Provincial Army is marshalling to the east. It was judged prudent to remain a good distance away. We bring five thousand cavalry and thirty thousand mixed infantry. Command is Lords Mal Nayman, J'istenn, and Viehman ‘esh Wait. We are also pleased to host the Imperial representative Councillor and Assembly Spokesman, Mallick Rel.’

Urko's brows now clenched in puzzlement. ‘Mallick? He's left Unta?’ He dismissed the mystery with a shake of his head. ‘Fist D'Ebbin, would you accompany the captain here and coordinate the commands?’

A salute. ‘Aye, sir.’

‘A moment,’ K'azz called. ‘What of your mage cadre, Captain? We may have need of them.’

The captain faced Urko, saying nothing. The old general's face tightened. ‘Well?’

The captain admitted, reluctantly, ‘Squad mages, only, sir.’ And he added, weighted with significance: ‘For generations Cawn has given up its best to the Empire.’

Urko glowered a nod. ‘Very good. Dismissed.’

Fist D'Ebbin bowed to K'azz and Shimmer. Kyle thought the last look he gave them one of silent apology. The two officers descended the hillside.

Kyle's gaze was pulled back to the field. Why that look of apology? he wondered. Ah, yes — numbers. The Imperial force was now twice as large.

The Avowed mages all let out excited calls then, pointing to the field. One of the duelling figures, the summoner of the rift, Kyle assumed, was airborne, wreathed in an argent conflagration. Kyle was still not all that familiar with these contests, but it looked as though this Tayschrenn had gained the advantage.

And should he win? What then? Kyle's gaze edged over to study K'azz. That Cawnese officer probably hadn't even realized whom he'd stood before. And why should he? K'azz was now just another old man, his white hair tousled. He still wore his sun-faded, tattered old fisherman's canvas trousers and shirt. He hadn't even belted on a sword. The only gesture he seemed to have allowed himself was a silver sigil of the Guard at his breast. Yet he clearly was in command. All the Avowed instinctively arrayed themselves around him. While Kyle watched, the Duke's troubled gaze followed not the coruscating mage duel of the plain but the retreating figure of the Cawnese messenger. Yes, he too must be wondering… Laseen gave her word… but that was when the field was more even. Would the temptation to try to finally rid the Imperium of its most enduring enemy lead her to reconsider?

Nait edged his way through the blackened ash of the seared grass, the dust of the dirt and gravel powdered by the incalculable forces competing, thrashing, just above his head. Ants, just us ants down here. And me the dumbest of them. The High Mage was close, manoeuvring to edge the writhing, flailing shape of Yath above into the mar. Close enough to be blown to droplets by Tourmaline's cussors. What a monumental fuck-up!

Nait paused — which way? All looked the same: churned-up, flame-scorched, blasted wasteland. Then a glint of gold through the ash-grey and black. He shuffled over. The Moranth was in a bad way. Thrown soil covered her, disguising the worst of her injuries. As it was, Nait winced. Her back was one burnt scar of puckered flesh and the strange chitinous Moranth armour all melted and twisted. She was lying on a mound — the buried charge.

‘Tourmaline!’ Nait called, his head next to hers.

The helm stirred, turned to him. ‘You return, saboteur.’

‘Your charms.’

A chuckle. ‘You have no idea, little man. But get me out of this and perhaps I shall enlighten you.’

Don't think I won't take you up on that. He studied the mound of pressed earth. His hair stirred to stand and his breath caught as he glimpsed in one of the Moranth's gauntleted fists the tall slim length of an acid fuse. Using both hands he gently prised it loose and only then managed to exhale. Gods below — my nerves weren't going to take much more of this.

He studied the thrashing figure above in its cocoon of blinding, virulent energy, the arcs and sizzling connections between him and Tayschrenn below. The enemy, Yath, was close to the yawning, roiling lip of the rift. ‘Not much longer now,’ he called to Tourmaline. ‘Looks like we'll maybe get to keep all our goodies, hey?’

The banners of power quivered then as if struck. Some snapped to lash the air and ground like whips of flame sending up curtains of blasted earth that pattered down across him and Tourmaline. Nait covered his head. Damn, I should not have said that!

He peered between his forearms. Through the penumbra of energies surrounding Tayschrenn Nait glimpsed figures at the man's rear enmeshed in an eerie dance of move and counter-move. Three faced one who seemed some kind of a bodyguard, fending them off from the High Mage's back. This one, slim, short and blurringly quick, whirled a stave feinting at the attackers. And since those three were certainly not Claws, that left Crimson Guard Veils, probably Avowed. Come to take Tayschrenn while they had the chance!

Other figures came charging in; Nait recognized Blues, Ho and the other Avowed, Treat and Sept. But the bodyguard fell, having absorbed terrible punishment. Ho threw himself upon one attacker and wrenched the man or woman's head around. Blues and another fell together in a storm of knife-thrusts. The third leapt forward, rolling, evading all to strike the High Mage.

A detonation of power blasted everyone tumbling away like weeds uprooted in a cyclone. A wall of dirt and stones thrown up by the shockwave punched into Nait who yelled as all his earlier wounds pounded anew. But that was not the worst — the worst was his effort to hold the acid fuse steady against his chest like a babe. Once the pressure eased, Nait rolled on to his back, wiped his tearing eyes.

Staring upwards it took him a moment to comprehend just what he was seeing. Close to the rift two figures now rotated around each other — one flailing, the other limp — while the raw Warren energies reverberated between them, thrumming and gyring with the release of all that power. As Nait watched, open-mouthed, the wild spinning tumbled both of them into the open maw of the rift and they disappeared within.

Standing next to K'azz, Shimmer watched in surprise and alarm as all the Avowed mages within sight grunted and stepped back, rocked by an eruption of brilliance like the sun itself. A booming avalanche report washed over all, striking Shimmer full in the chest. Shell whispered low: ‘Tayschrenn's been hit. One of ours, I'm sorry to say. Isha, I believe.’ She took a breath murmuring a curse. ‘He's drifting, rising… there's a pull from the…’ She lurched forward, hands rising. ‘No!’

‘What!’

Shell faced them, her eyes revealing her utter disbelief and horror. She pushed a shaking hand through her short hair. ‘He's gone. Taken by the rift. Both of them.’

‘And that thing? The rift?’ K'azz demanded.

‘Still growing.’

Shimmer caught K'azz's eye and he nodded. ‘Commander Urko,’ she called gently, but firmly. ‘It would appear that we must pull together everything we have left.’

Urko's grimaced nod almost seemed to grind his neck. ‘I agree.’

‘We have some six, perhaps eight, Avowed mages. I understand there are many witches and warlocks among the Wickans. What of the mage cadre?’

His dark eyes hidden away beneath a great shelf of bone glared their anger then glanced away. ‘Crushed. We have some squad mages but no one of great stature, ‘cept maybe one.’

‘This Tiste Andii mage?’

‘No. There ain't no Andii mage — none I know of. There's an ex-High Mage named Bala. Bala Jesselt. She's at the east redoubt.’

‘Very well. Perhaps we may use the Imperial Warren to move-’

K'azz had held up a hand. ‘Excuse me, Shimmer. The Brethren report we may have one more option. We should wait.’

‘Wait?’ Urko growled. His gaze searched K'azz's face. ‘What's this? More of your old tricks? Wait for what?’

‘For it to grow a bit more.’

Nait could not believe what he'd seen. The big powers were supposed to bail them out of trouble. Not disappear into a great big steaming pile of it. He studied the slim acid fuse clenched in his dirty hand. Just me V you now, honey.

‘Are you all right?’ someone shouted over the roaring, which was so deafening and constant Nait had almost forgotten it.

Flinching, Nait peered around. Ho, on his knees in the dirt, was peering down at him. Nait nodded, completely bemused. He cocked his head, thinking of the puzzle of this man who seemed able to overcome everything thrown at him and he mouthed: ‘Who are you, anyway?’

The mage smiled crookedly, nodding his understanding. ‘I'm just another damn-fool mage, Sergeant Jumpy.’ He pointed up. ‘Just like this one. I thought I was capable of anything. But all my researches and experiments brought me only misery.’ Improbably, he eased himself down cross-legged, as if they were relaxing on a hillside. He cast one gauging look up to the rift then returned to studying Nait. ‘I was inspired by Ryllandaras, believe it or not. He is Soletaken, yes, a man-beast. But few remember now that he is also D'ivers — one who is many. Who is to know how many there are of him? Perhaps this one is the last. In any case, I attempted an incalculably ancient and complex ritual. One none dared re-create, since the few times it was invoked were far beyond living memory. And I did succeed. After a grotesque fashion. I am D'ivers, Sergeant. Human D'ivers. There are four of me left alive. The others conspired to have me cast into prison to be rid of me. But I am returned and they have fled.

‘Now,’ and he gestured to the mound. ‘Is this it?’

‘Yes.’

Others came jogging up, hunched, wincing in empathic pain from the churning lip of the rift now suspended so low. So low! Nait sat up. He waved to these others, Treat, Blues and Sept — Soliel help us! What a sad collection of street beggars! Blues’ face mottled in bruising, an eye swollen shut. Treat's clothes tattered, his limbs black with crusted blood mixed with dirt. Sept's ear and neck sliced in a gash that had soaked his front in blood. Nait pointed to Tourmaline. ‘Take her out of here!’

Ho arched a brow, mouthed, her? But he nodded and gestured the others up. Tourmaline signed a weak negative they ignored as they grabbed hold of her and dragged her off. Ho remained, cocked a question to Nait who waved him away: ‘Gotta get to work.’

Ho agreed then straightened, stung. ‘Her! Yes!’ He got to his feet, bent low. ‘There is another one! Tayschrenn's bodyguard! Oponn favour you!’

Already turned away, Nait gave a curt bob of his head. Dust floated up around him, sifting straight up in the gathering current. He felt the flow plucking at his surcoat. He lay on his side, face lowered, and fought to ignore the yammering oblivion just over his shoulder.

From his bag he drew a wood dowelling about the width of his littlest finger. This he pushed into the mounded earth. Quickly at first, then slowing, tapping, tapping, until it struck something firm. Then he carefully withdrew it, leaving a hole. He gathered up a handful of the grey topsoil, spat into it, squeezed and moulded it in his hands into a ball. Strong adherence. No sand or clay. Thick and slow. This ball he threw aside, then he gathered up another, smaller, handful. He spat, rolled the dirt loosely around his palm. Not too tight. He rolled an elongated ball that he gently eased into the hole. Taking up the dowelling again he pushed the wet ball down the hole, slowly, tapping, until he met resistance.

He took a long breath then, exhaling, watched the twitching of his cut and battered hands. Easy. Easy. Slow down, Nait my boy. He glanced up to the rift. Damn close — but close enough? How much longer dare he wait? He watched broken stalks of grass lifting to spin up past his head, sucked into the hissing, roaring gale that hung what seemed just a few man-heights above his head. Experimentally, he threw up a handful of soil — none came back down.

Maybe that's close enough. But they'll only get the one chance. Maybe — no! This is damn slow dirt; who knows how long it'll take? Right. Do it.

He gave the dowelling one last press, eased it out and threw it aside — it spun upwards, whipped from sight. Shit! Close enough! Bent over the hole, he thumbed the stopper from the fuse. Slowly, achingly slow, he eased his hand over, tilting. He watched holding his breath as the thick viscous acid mix eased out. One drop swelled on the lip of the tube. C'mon! It hung, wobbling — Oh, for the love of D'rek! — fell.

Right. One… maybe two. Yeah. Two — best be sure. He tilted further. A second drip swelled, fell. He threw the fuse away and ran. But in his rush he mistakenly straightened fully and something grabbed him from behind, pulling him backwards. He threw himself down again. His helmet was torn from his head. He grasped at handholds of the grass, pulled himself along. His feet kicked in the air behind him. A sandal was sucked from one foot. Leave me be, Hood! Your bony hand ain't quick enough!

He pulled and pulled, sliced his palms open on the sharp crisp grass blades until he fell again and rolled, came up running. He pelted it, arms pumping, one sandal flapping. As he ran he imagined the heavy acid fluid permeating the saliva, increasing its concentration next to the casing of whichever munition he'd touched. Six per cent, seventeen, twenty-eight, fifty. Until a reaction began, irreversible, that started eating that casing until soon… soon…

Nait slowed, stopped, turned. The black and grey moiling maw of the rift had touched down — or so it appeared. A reverberating roar ten times louder than that which had been afflicting him struck his chest and face like a mallet blow, knocking him backwards. Enraged, he stood again, waving his arms at it. Dirt like an avalanche in reverse was speeding up into the void of its black mouth. Shit! It's sucked it up! Fucking arse-wipe cock-

Light. A blow kicked him into the air and he flew, arms pinwheel-ing, to tumble, rolling, amid falling earth and clumps of roots and stones. He lay staring at the clear bright-blue sky. Beauty. A beauty of a blast.

Something nearby was making an Abyss of a racket — loud enough to penetrate the ringing in his ears. Loud enough to annoy Nait into raising his head. The rift itself was now turning in a great sweep, but bent, irregular. Nait watched as its border region rotated, revealing a great warp or bite that turned itself forming its own spiral within the larger. And that rotating was speeding up.

He tried to stand, failed, sat heavily, arms limp on his lap, gazed at the rift. Blood dripped anew from his nose to pat the back of one hand. Even to his layman's eye the mar was clearly in trouble. It appeared to be diminishing in size overall, yet the smaller inner spiral was growing — it seemed to be feeding on the larger which was thinning, fast eroding. Like a snake eating its own tail. While he watched, the spinning accelerated to a blur and the rift shrank to a fraction of itself. The rotating and contraction continued, each becoming faster and faster, feeding each other perhaps, until the rift appeared to wrap itself out of existence to disappear without a sound.

Hunh. Nait spat out a mouthful of grit. Well, there you go. He tried to stand again, failed. Fine. Maybe he'd just sit here awhile. Enjoy the glow. Yeah, that's it. Job well done and all that shit. He wondered where Tourmaline had gone off to. Maybe it was time to find out how those Moranth got out of their armour.