Return of the Crimson Guard

CHAPTER V

Before the servant could announce him, High Fist Korbolo Dom, Sword of the Empire, stormed into Mallick's residence, throwing down his gloves and travelling cloak. ‘It's happened again! Another of the damned coward nobles has fled the capital, taken his guard with him — over four hundred horse!’

Silence answered his pronouncement. ‘Mallick!’ he roared. ‘Damn you! Don't tell me you've run off too!’

‘Baron Nira's concern for his lands and crops is well known to me,’ came Mallick's disembodied voice from further within. Korbolo followed the voice to find the man soaking in the broad shallow pool at the centre of his quarters, a towel over his shoulders. Mallick raised a goblet. ‘Wine?’

Biting back his rage, Korbolo fought the urge to slap the glass from the man's hand. Damn him! Was he insane? Things are slipping beyond their control and he's bathing! Sensing another presence he glanced aside to see the withered old manservant Mallick had brought with him from Seven Cities, Oryan. He dismissed the man from his thoughts. ‘While you splash in your pool the Assembly is dissolving. Representatives are fleeing! Even those you put on it! Soon there will be nothing left to rule, Hood take it, even if we could.’

Mallick sipped the wine. ‘Dissolving — how appropriate. My friend, you are a poet.’

Korbolo stared down at the repulsive squat figure at his feet. The strong urge took hold of him to push the man's head beneath the waters, to throttle this monstrous lurking curse that had so taken over his life. But then, for all he knew, that could prove impossible; this creature seemed born of a swamp. ‘Meanwhile,’ he continued, struggling to regain his thoughts, ‘neither you nor she do a thing. Kingdoms continue to rise in revolt against the Imperial Throne and we do nothing!’

Mallick sighed. ‘But my dear High Fist, First Sword. That is precisely what we have been encouraging them to do.’

Korbolo ground his teeth — mockery! One day this toad would push him too far. ‘Riot and dissent against her, yes. But secession? This is chaos. Nothing less than civil war. It is out of everyone's control!’

Mallick's bulging eyes blinked up at him. ‘Again you amaze me, First Sword. Pure poetry — chaos and loss of control. Amazing.’ He sipped his wine. ‘In the first place it is not a civil war, it is devolution to the rather monotonous old-fashioned warfare of a century ago. City state ‘gainst city state. Neighbour versus neighbour. I understand that is something of a tradition here on Quon.’

‘Yes, before the emperor.’

‘Exactly. Before the strong hand of the emperor…’

Korbolo stood motionless, breathless, as the implications of Mallick's hints blossomed. And who would the populace accept at the head of the legions restoring peace and order to their smoking, war-ravaged countryside? Surely not this bloated travesty of a man. No, not him. He let out a long shuddering breath, swallowed to wet his suddenly tight throat. ‘Very well, Mallick. However, this does not explain your or her utter inaction.’

‘But, High Fist, just what would you have her do?’

‘March! We have, what, some eight thousand regulars here in the capital? We should march on Gris or Bloor before they ally against us.’

‘And leave Unta undefended?’

‘Against who? There is no one to threaten her.’

‘Not at the moment. But should we leave… perhaps our friend Nira and his brother nobles who are so, ah, coerced in their support, might put their resources together and decide they could do a better job of defending Imperial interests, hmm, Korbolo?’

The High Fist saw it then — deadlock. Three jackals circling a wounded bhederin. Who dared strike first and risk attack from the rear? Yet how could any of the three walk away to leave such a prize for any other? Laseen, who ruled in name only? Or he and Mallick who ruled in fact? Or the nobles and Assemblymen who also may?

Yet, the thought troubled Korbolo, the beast was dying while they chased one another. Perhaps it didn't matter to this creature Mallick, for whom a dead beast would serve just the same. But it certainly mattered to him. It must then be his duty to be sure to act before Mallick allowed things to degenerate too far. The High Fist nodded to himself, yes, that obviously was to be his responsibility. He looked down; Mallick was watching him expectantly. ‘Yes?’

‘Is that all, High Fist?’

‘Yes, Mallick. That is all.’

‘Very good. Then we are in agreement?’

‘Yes. Full agreement.’

‘Excellent.’ Mallick finished his wine.

Korbolo turned away from the sight of the man's nauseating pallid flesh. He straightened his shirt. ‘You presume much, priest. Too often in the past you've promised everything but delivered nothing. The rebellion of Seven Cities — failure. Laseen's fall in Malaz city — failure. If you fail this time you will not live to promise anew. Do I make myself clear?’

‘You do, First Sword of the Empire.’

Korbolo loosened his fists, forced himself to breathe out. How did the man manage to make even that title an insult? ‘When I wish to speak to you again I will summon you, Mallick.’

As he went to collect his cloak he heard the man's soft voice responding, ‘So you command, Sword of the Empire.’

Some time later Mallick set his goblet on the marble border of his pool. Oryan padded silently forward to collect it. He stood over Mallick for a time, looking to the door. ‘Yes, Oryan?’

‘Why is that man still alive, master?’

‘I have always found it convenient to keep someone around upon whom everything can be blamed. Also, armour gives me hives.’

The old man sneered his disgust. ‘Any fool can wave a sword and order men to their deaths.’

‘As all of these military commanders prove again and again. Yes, Oryan. But this one is our fool.’

The morning of the second week of siege Lieutenant Rillish stood staring into a polished copper-fronted shield attempting to dry-shave himself. His hand shook so abominably it was his third attempt. He told himself it must be from having just stood command through the entire night; at least he hoped that was the case. A knock at his barracks door allowed him an excuse to abandon the effort. ‘Yes?’

‘Sergeant, sir.’

‘It's not the Hood-damned south wall again, is it?’

‘No, sir. Not that,’ Sergeant Chord called through the door. ‘Given up on that they have sir, as a bad job.’

‘Then pray what is it, Sergeant?’

‘It's the elders, sir. Another delegation. Like a word.’

Again? Hadn't he made it plain enough? Rillish eased himself down into a camp stool. He massaged his thigh where a leaf-bladed spearhead had slid straight in. ‘Very well, Sergeant, let them in.’

The door opened and in shuffled five Wickan elders of those trapped with them within the fort. Rillish knew the names of two, the hetman, Udep, and a shaman held in high regard, Clearwater. It struck him how beaten down they looked. Eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. Trousers of tattered cloth and torn thin leather. Even their amulets and wristlets of beaten copper looked tarnished and cheap. These were the feared warriors the Empire could not tame? But then, a Wickan without a horse was a sad sight no matter the circumstances; and these were the worst.

‘Pardon, Commander,’ Udep began, ‘we would speak again.’

‘Yes, hetman. You are aways welcome. And you, shaman.’

The grey-haired shaggy mage managed a jerked nod. It seemed to Rillish that the man was dead on his feet: hands twitching with exhaustion, face pale as if drained of blood. A haunted look in his sunken eyes. Was the man expending himself sending curses out among the besiegers? If so, he'd heard nothing of it. He'd have to question Chord.

‘We again ask that we be allowed the dignity of defending that which is ours.’

‘We've been through this before, hetman. Malazan soldiery will defend this installation.’

The man's scarred hands clenched and unclenched on his belt as if at the throat of an enemy. ‘What is it you wish, Malazan? Would you have us beg?’

‘Beg?

Barked Wickan from the three old women with Udep made the man wince. He took a great shuddering breath. ‘My pardon, Commander. That was unworthy. Even now you spill your own blood in defence in our land.’ The hetman looked down.

Rillish saw that his leg wound had re-opened. The packed dirt under his chair was damp with blood. He took hold of his leg. One of the old women said something that sounded suspiciously like idiot and slapped his hands aside. She began rebinding the wound.

‘You need every hand you can get, Commander,’ continued Udep.

‘We've been over that already.’

‘At least we would die fighting.’

‘Don't be impatient. There's every chance of it yet.’

The hetman crossed his arms, hugging himself. He seemed to be struggling with something; he and Clearwater exchanged tight glances. ‘You leave us very little choice. We still have our pride.’

Rillish knew the elders had been cooking something up in the main stone building he'd moved them and the children to. So far he'd not interfered. He raised a finger. ‘No attacks. Not until the last soldier falls. This is still a Malazan military possession. Understood?’

The shaman Clearwater opened his mouth to address Rillish, but Udep cut him off with a curt command. They turned to go. Rillish touched the arm of the aged Wickan grandmother who had rebound his leg. She turned back, her gaze narrowed, wary.

‘My thanks.’

A smile of bright white teeth melted decades from the squat woman and dazzled Rillish. At the door the hetman paused. ‘Commander, when you lose the walls you will be falling back to us at the main building, yes?’

For a moment Rillish thought about disputing whether they would ever lose control of the walls but because it was so obvious to the both of them he decided against insulting the man with empty assurances. Instead, he allowed a curt nod.

Udep answered in kind and left. Sergeant Chord stuck his head in. ‘Movement in their camp, sir. Looks like new arrivals.’

‘More of them, Sergeant?’

The man grinned. ‘Don't matter. We've iron enough for all.’

Rillish stood, wincing. He belted on his twinned Untan duelling swords. ‘Let's hope it's not someone who knows what he's doing.’

‘No, sir. Baron Horse's-Ass still looks to be in charge.’

‘Well thank Trake for small blessings, hey, Sergeant? Let's have a look.’

He thought of himself as Ragman now. A knotted bundle of used up bits and pieces whose original cut had long since been lost. Walking the seeming endless plains of ash and fields of broken rock that was the Imperial Warren the man stopped suddenly, examined the tattered remains of his once fine clothes and nodded, satisfied. Yes, inside and out; so it should be. Allowing himself to fall forward he twisted the move into a series of cartwheels and spinning high kicks. Tatterdemalion, he named himself as he ran through his impromptu pattern. Harlequin. Clown. He froze, crouched, arms outstretched. No — he must not lose hold of the one thread that could lead him back. Though they were coming far less often now; perhaps they'd learned their lesson.

Movement above in the unchanging lead sky drove him to cover behind a large boulder. Dark shapes moving across the sky, far off, ponderously huge. So, not just wild reports and stories from sources of… questionable… veracity. Telling himself they were too distant and that he was no doubt too insignificant, he stood and set off at a jog, following.

The ground steadily broke into shallow gullies and high buttes surrounded by erosional slopes and gravel fans. Skittering down one such slope he stopped just short of a jutting spine of basalt. His Warren-sensitivity told him someone was near, hiding, watchful. After catching his breath he called, ‘You can come out.’

A figure detatched itself from the shadows of one jagged black spire. It climbed down, lithe and quick. Ragman caught his breath — one of them yet not. Different by her style. Much more colourful, individual. Similar, yet not regimented in her moves. She stopped before him, a safe distance off. Dark eyes regarded him through a slit between veil and headscarf. ‘And you are?’ she asked.

‘Impressed.’

A glance toward the spires. ‘They are that. Like a peek?’

‘Very much so.’

‘After you.’

He gave a courtier's bow and climbed the spine to a gap between spires. Beyond, across a plain of twisting gullies and dunes five titanic geometric shapes hovered. Beneath them the winds blew constantly, billowing outwards in dust clouds that reached high overhead. What were they up to? Could anyone guess? He climbed back down.

The woman joined him. ‘An invasion, you think?’

‘Or the landlords come to fumigate.’

The dark eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that one must abandon one's self-centred blinders. Not everything relates back to us.’

The woman stepped away, eased into a ready stance. ‘Who are you?’

‘A lost fragment of bureaucratic oversight.’

More questions obviously occurred to the woman but she clamped down on them. ‘Well, as intriguing as all this is…’

‘You must report it.’

She nodded. He bowed his agreement, but instead of straightening he rolled forward, sweeping. The woman cartwheeled aside. They stood, facing one another, he astonished, she calculating in her narrowed glance. He did not bother to hide his delight. ‘Wonderfully done! It has been a long time since I've seen his style.’

The woman — girl, he corrected himself — gave an elegant bow. ‘You recognize it! My father taught me. And you not ought to have revealed your familiarity…

‘It will not matter… shortly.’

She bowed again. ‘Apologies. Must be off.’ Shadows threaded up from the dirt to spin about her like a whirlwind. His surprise lasted only an instant; he thrust out both arms and lances of darkness struck the girl throwing her backwards. She lay gasping for air, her ribs shattered, lungs punctured.

He crossed to stand over her.

Still conscious she stared up, her gaze accusing. ‘Kurald Galain!’ she gasped.

He knelt on his haunches next to her. ‘I am sorry.’

‘You! But we thought you… you were no…’

‘Yes. I know. I am so very sorry. More sorry because I would not have sent someone like you. For, as you see, I've come myself.’ He rested a hand on her shoulder. Unconscious. Still, her heart beat. There was yet a chance…

He gestured and a pool of utter darkness emerged from beneath the girl like liquid night. She sank into it, disappearing as if into a well of ink. A small enough gesture… but he felt that he owed her at least that. A pity that it is always the best who are sent.

He should've anticipated that.

Five days’ continuous favourable winds driving the fleet south-west was good luck enough to draw Urko from his cabin to endure the company of his High Mage, Bala Jesselt. Ullen steadied himself next to his commander, noting how the man remained rock solid no matter the shock of each swell or shudder of a fall into a deepening trough. Yet every league gained seemed to deepen furrows at the old admiral's brows.

‘Unexpected reach and influence this new ally possesses, yes?’ said Bala from mid-deck. Ullen glanced back to her; somehow, the woman's voice, pitched no higher than usual, penetrated the howling winds and crashing seas. An eerie calm also surrounded the giant woman, no spray or winds touching her layered robes, or her intricately bunched hair.

The latest count?’ Urko growled.

‘None missing. The transports are still falling behind, though.’

‘Have the lead elements drop sail. Hold back, if necessary. No sense arriving without the damned army.’

‘Yes, sir. If I may, Admiral…’

‘Yes?’

‘Our speed — does this not change our plans? Will we not arrive ahead of schedule?’

Scowling, Urko eyed Bala. ‘Anything new from Choss?’

The Dal Hon mage edged her head side to side, her fan flickering so swiftly as to be invisible. ‘Nothing, dear Urko. A word perhaps, to my resource — congratulations? He has earned as much surely.’

‘That or my fist in his face. I'll decide which once all this is over and done. Until then, nothing. Understood?’

Bala gave an exaggerated huff that shook her broad bosom. She muttered under her breath, ‘All my efforts…’

Ullen could only shake his head. Here they were running ahead of typhoon winds threatening to swat them from the face of the sea, shouting to be heard, and she's fanning herself, able to communicate her faintest complaints. ‘Will they be there, in Cawn, to rendezvous?’ he called to Urko.

The admiral shook his head; spray glistened on his scar-mottled mostly bald pate. ‘No. At this rate, we'll beat them. Mind you, making the Horn could be touch ‘n’ go. No matter, when we arrive in the harbour those Cawnese'll come around. Always able to tell which way the wind's blowing, them.’ And he laughed then for the first time in months. ‘Get it? Wind blowin’? Ha!’

Ullen smiled, relieved to see his commander in a lightened mood. Yet he could not keep his gaze from returning to the glistening dark face of their High Mage. She sat where she always had, at centre deck, where she'd first positioned herself, and, thinking on it, Ullen could not call to mind a single time when she could not be found there. She even took her meals there, and slept sitting up, her fan shimmering and hissing through the night like a giant insect. He had to admit to being impressed — she reminded him of their old powerful cadre mages, A'Karonys or Nightchill.

Her eyes rose then, capturing his — huge brown pools, and she smiled as if guessing his thoughts. ‘They don't know you have me,’ she said, or seemed to say; he could not be sure. ‘They think this will be a contest of hedge-wizards and wax-witches. But I am of the old school, friend Ullen. I was taken in by Kellanved — and expelled by Tayschrenn. And for that I will teach him regret.’

The fan seemed to snap then with a slash that Ullen could almost feel above the storm driving them on. He glanced to Urko but the commander seemed oblivious to the exchange. Keep her in check — Urko had expressed every confidence he could keep the woman in check. Yet even now she hinted at larger ambitions and her own motives, playing her games undeterred by, or contemptuous of, his presence. What sort of a viper had they taken into their midst — a viper even too traitorous and unreliable for the emperor and his kind?

All the while the fan hummed, almost invisible, shimmering, and Ullen wondered, was it this ally of a priest of a sea cult helping them along, or were they all merely at the mercy of a flickering fan?

From the profound dark of a tunnel opening off the Pit, Ho sat watching the slightly lesser dark of the shadowed half of the large circular mine-head. He started, jerking, as yet again his chin touched his chest and he glared about wondering what he'd missed. But all remained quiet. Everyone seemed asleep, including, for all he knew, the two newcomers; the spies he'd last seen entering those shadows and now sat waiting just as he was. Waiting for what? Some sign among the stars? The right moment for a midnight escape attempt? Ho tried to identify their figures amidst the monochrome dark, but failed. No movement. He chided himself; maybe they just couldn't sleep in the caves; maybe they simply longed for a touch of the slight breeze that sometimes made its way down here when conditions were just right. Yeah, and maybe they were worshippers of the cult of Elder Dark.

Something then — movement? Someone standing there in the dark? The pale oval of a face upturned? Ho leaned forward, straining. A call sounded, an owl's warning call. From his friends? Or above? Hard to say. A flash in the moonlight streaming down into the open mine-head. Something small falling. His friends stepped out into the light; one, Grief, stooped, picked up the thing, examined it. They talked but Ho couldn't hear any of it.

As they retreated into the shadows Ho could not contain himself any longer. He marched out to confront them. Damn them and their schemes! Don't they know everyone here lives only at the sufferance of their captors above? That the slightest provocation could mean shortened rations, perhaps death for the more sickly among them?

When he reached them they were waiting for him, the object, whatever it was, nowhere in evidence. He glared. The one who gave his name as Grief eyed him back, unperturbed. ‘You're up late, Ho.’

‘Cut it out. What're you two up to?’

Grief sighed, glanced to Treat who shrugged. ‘Nothing that concerns you.’

‘You're wrong there, brother. Everything to do with this place concerns me. We're all one big family down here.’

‘Somehow I knew you were going to say that. Listen, if it'll help any, what we're up to is no threat at all. In fact, it could prove just the opposite.’

‘And I'm supposed to trust you on that, am I?’

Grief lifted his arms in a helpless shrug. ‘I guess that's about the meat of it.’

‘Not good enough.’

‘Yeah. I know. So, what now? Gonna denounce us to your ruling committee?’

Ho decided that now would be as good a time as any to test his estimate of the character of these two strangers. He raised his chin to indicate the surface. ‘Maybe I'll have to let the guards know — what do you think of that?’

The two men went still. For an instant Ho feared he'd overplayed his hand; that his reading of these two was wrong — after all, they truly did seem to be all alone right now. A body found in the morning, who would be the wiser? A big risk; but then, what kind of a test would it be otherwise? Grief crossed his arms. ‘No, I think we aren't going to do anything at all, because if you really were going to tell them the last thing you would do is let us know.’

Damn him. ‘OK. So I'm not about to run to the Malazans. But I need to know what you two are doing. What you're up to.’

Grief slowly edged his head from side to side; he seemed genuinely regretful. ‘Sorry, old man. We can't say a thing — yet. But what I can ask is: where is our faithful watchdog right now? One of your happy family members, I believe. Sessin. Where's he? Maybe he decided it convenient to leave you alone with us, eh, Ho?’

Ho had more to say but the two walked off leaving him fuming with unspent words. In the shadows his sandalled feet stepped on something and he knelt, feeling about. He came up with the shredded remains of a piece of driftwood.

Walking the plains surrounding Li Heng was a dangerous undertaking now with the Seti riding at will. Worse so, since Silk was headed the wrong direction: that is, away from the city. The young Seti of the various soldier societies, the Wolf, Dog, Ferret and Jackal, were happy to chivvy any refugees or fleeing traders into the city. But for anyone to attempt to leave was another matter altogether. The arrow-tufted bodies of those who tried to run south to Itko Kan lands, or downriver to Cawn, were left to rot within sight of the city walls as object lessons to all.

Silk kept to the lowest-lying of the prairie draws and sunken creekbeds as he headed west, parallel, more or less, with the Idryn. His goal was visible ahead as the source of the thick smoke of green wood and the stink of unwashed bodies and unburied excrement. A refugee camp of the most wretched and sick, those turned away from the city gates and judged too abject to be a worthy of a lancing or an arrow from the Seti warriors.

Faces turned to watch him pass as he walked the rutted trampled mud of the camp. Old men and women sat in the entrances of tents of hide. Children squatted in the mud peering up at him with open mouths. They did not even have the energy to beg. He stopped before one child whom he thought to be ten or so. ‘I'm looking for some Elders, child. Two or three who are always together. Heard of them?’

The child merely stared with liquid brown eyes; she was so dark he suspected mixed Dal Honese blood. One arm hung twisted and stick-thin, some old injury or illness. Sudden compassion for the child caught the breath in Silk's chest. He allowed himself the gesture of touselling her hair despite the crawling vermin. A woman ran up, snatched the child's good hand. ‘What do you want? Go away! If the Seti see us talking with you they'll cut our throats!’

‘I'm looking-’

‘You're looking for the Hooded One, that's what you're doing!’ She dragged the child off. Lurching behind the woman the child glanced back; smiling shyly she raised her crippled arm to point to the river. Silk answered with a sign of the Blessing of the Protectress.

He found the three of them sitting in a line along the muddy shore of the Idryn, fishing. ‘Catch anything?’

None moved. ‘Same as what you're gonna catch,’ said one.

‘Which is…’ said the second.

‘Nothing,’ finished the third.

Sighing, Silk peered about and spotted a young willow with a passable amount of shade. He crouched on his haunches beneath, took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his face. This was not going to be easy. ‘We're going to defend the city-’

‘Wrong. What you're…’

‘Gonna do…’

‘Is lose.’

Silk forced open the fist he'd closed on his handkerchief, pushed it back into his shirt pocket. ‘Look. All that was a long time ago, OK? I'm sorry. We did what we thought was right at the time.’

‘You…’

‘Talkin’…’

To us?’

Old simmering grudges flared within Silk. ‘Hood take you! She would've lost anyway! There was no way Kellanved would've kept his word! They wiped out all the other local cults! Or made them their own. The same thing would've happened here.’

‘Sounds like…’

‘You're askin’ us…’

‘To trust you?’

Silk stared at their hunched backs. Their bloody stiff backs, all of them. ‘Liss is with me. Together we're going to give it everything we have. This is our best chance in the last century. You know that. Even you can sense it.’ Their heads edged side to side as they shared glances.

‘Been that long?’

‘A damned century?’

‘And I haven't caught a damned fish yet?’

Silk straightened and pushed his way out from under the willow. ‘You know where I'll be. The way's open to you now should you choose. With or without you we're going all the way with this.’ When Silk looked up from straightening his shirt and vest he saw that he'd been speaking to no one; the three were gone, sticks and all. Smartarses.

At noon of that same day Hurl sat uncomfortably on her horse as part of the official Hengan emissary to delegates of the Seti tribal high council, or ‘Urpan-Yelgan’, as it was known. She, Sunny and Liss constituted the representatives of High Fist Storo. Or, as the Hengan Magistrates insisted: ‘Provisional military commander of Li Heng, and Interim governor of the central provinces.’ Or, as Storo described himself, ‘everyone's favourite arrow-butt’.

For her part, Hurl thought it far beyond her duty simply to be mounted on a horse. To her mind if there was anything more evil than Jhags on the face of the earth, it was horses. She rode hers with one hand on the reins and the other on her knife — just in case. The day before a rider had approached under a white flag to request a meet. Storo had out and out refused. ‘I've got nothing to say to them,’ he'd complained. Hurl had been stupid enough to say, ‘Someone has to go.’ So, sure enough, she had to go.

Thankfully, the city magistrates thought it beneath their dignity to meet. As Magistrate Ehrlann put it, ‘I wouldn't know whom to address: them, their horses or their dogs…’

Now, Hurl sat uncomfortable and suspicious on her evil horse next to Sunny on his mount amid a veritable host of the malevolent beasts in the form of the 17th Mounted Hengan Horse. Mounted Horse? What a doubly iniquitous conceit!

The meet would take place on the summit of a hillock within sight of the city walls. Ahead, in the distance, lances tufted with white jackal fur could just be made out marking the spot. As they drew close Hurl motioned for the cavalry captain to hold back; she, Sunny and Liss would go on alone. Hurl kneed her mount onward — forward fiend! It cooperated, content perhaps for the moment to lull her suspicions. Sweat ran down from her helmet though the day was cool. A helmet! She couldn't remember the last time she actually wore a damned helmet. Sunny and Liss moved to flank her as the ‘official’ representative. Three mounted figures became visible climbing the opposite gentle slope, three men, two obvious shamans in their furred regalia, long tufted lances, headdresses and full draping fur cloaks. The lead man was harder to place; a soldier, that much was obvious, and foreign, non-Seti. He wore a plain ringed leather hauberk over a quilted undershirt, a battered blackened helmet under one arm. Dominating his figure though, stood the length of a Seti double recurve bow jutting up from a saddle sheath yet reaching fully as tall as he. His grey hair was brush-cut and barely visible over a balding scalp tanned nut-brown. A grey goatee framed a thin mouth that drew down his long face. He nodded to Hurl, who responded in kind.

‘Whom am I addressing?’ he asked in unaccented Hengan.

‘Hurl, representative of Fist Storo Matash, military commander of Li Heng.’

The man's colourless brows rose. ‘Fist, is it? Not endorsed, I should think.’

‘You are?’

‘I am Warlord of the Seti tribes. They have seen fit to place their confidence in me.‘ He indicated the bearded shaman in jackal furs. ‘This is Imotan.’ He motioned to the shaman in ferret furs. ‘Hipal.’

Hurl motioned to her flankers. ‘Sunny. Liss.’

At the name Liss the jackal shaman started. Beneath his tall furred hat his craggy brows drew down. ‘Liss? Liss in truth?’

Liss let out a throaty laugh and slapped a wide thigh. ‘He knows the story! I am flattered. Yes that was me, the seductive dancing girl — lithesome Liss! I've never forgotten the vows of your predecessor all those years ago. “Come to me, Liss,” he begged. “Let me be your first! I will love you forever!”’

The shaman's eyes bulged further and further with every word from Liss. His face darkened almost blood-red. ‘Quiet, woman!’ he spluttered. ‘Will you shut up!’ He glared about as if the hilltop were crowded. ‘Have you no honour? No modesty?’

‘Honour? Modesty? But that was the last thing he ever wanted from me.’ She leant aside to Hurl and whispered in mock soft-voice: ‘How he begged me to throw aside all modesty, then! And he certainly didn't want my mouth closed, then’

‘Do tell,’ Hurl managed, torn between horror and falling off her horse from stifling her laughter. At her other side Sunny's evil grin was as wide as Hurl had ever seen it.

‘I, ah, take it the two of you require no introduction,’ the warlord offered — showing astounding tact, Hurl thought.

‘None at all,’ Liss answered before anyone could speak again. ‘Let me tell you a story. Long ago I was a young Seeress of the White Sand tribe, the youngest and most gifted in ages. And I was a Sun Dancer, too. Perhaps that was when I caught the eye of a certain youth selected to become a shaman of the feared man-jackal? So long ago, wasn't it, Imotan? But at that time I was too young for wooing and marked as sacred as well, a spirit vessel. But what is that to those who think themselves entitled to anything, eh? What did your predecessor long ago care that by seducing me he destroyed my potential as Sun Dancer? I, who called the sun back to the plains at the year's turn, who interceded for the blessing of rain? Never mind the evil of rape that marked my body and my spirit! Do you remember the vow I swore when it was I who was thrown from the tribe, not he? Do you not know the story, Imotan…?’

Both shamans now gaped at the old woman. ‘Surely,’ Hipal sneered, ‘you are not standing by that wild claim! Vessel of Baya-Gul! Patroness to Seers and guide of our Sun Mysteries?’

‘I am she.’

Imotan waved to his warlord. ‘I do not know who this poor deluded old woman is, Warlord. Ignore her ravings. There is a story among our people of such a young woman named Liss from long ago and this may even be she, but all that has nothing to do with our business here today.’

The warlord's frown told Hurl that he was not so certain. ‘What is this vow?’

‘It is nothing, Warlord. Just a legend this witch attempts to exploit.’

‘I have heard the name Liss before. But not this vow.’

‘Warlord, she is only trying to-’

‘The vow!’

Hipal bared his sharp teeth, dismissed Liss with a wave. ‘The legend is that the original Liss was exiled as a seductress and disturber of tribal accord. Upon leaving she vowed that the Seti people would wander lost for ever without knowing their true path and that they would never find it again until they welcomed her back into their hearth circles. And,’ Hipal spat, ‘until they begged for her forgiveness.’

Both shamans eyed Liss as if ready to strike her that very moment. Imotan's hands were white upon his reins. ‘Some,’ he ground out, ‘name that Liss's Vow. Others, however, call it Liss's Curse.’

The warlord nodded his understanding. The leather of his saddle creaked as he leaned forward to rest an elbow on the high pommel. ‘So, the story circulated will be that this uprising is just one more wrong path. One more errant turn doomed to fail.’

Liss blew Imotan a kiss.

The warlord offered Hurl a short bow. ‘I see. My compliments to your commander, Hurl. I am sorry to say that I suspect we will be seeing much more of each other. Until then,’ and he gave the old Malazan salute instituted by the emperor, an open hand to the chest. The two shamans merely yanked their mounts around without a word.

Leaving the hilltop, Hurl caught sight of a knot of outlanders among the Seti escort, and among them sat the slim straight figure of Captain Harmin Els D'Shil. The man sent them an ironic salute. Hurl nudged Sunny. ‘Look, there's our old friend, Smiley.’

Sunny waved, leering. ‘He's mine.’

D'Shil offered a courtier's horseback bow.

The ride the rest of the way back was quiet. Hurl concentrated on not giving her mount one chance for mischief. She had a boatload of questions for Liss, of course, should she dare. First, though, she'd have to run all she'd just heard past Silk.

‘So what did you think of our warlord?’ Liss asked of Hurl.

‘I'm impressed — unfortunately. I was hoping for someone less competent-seeming.’

Liss nodded her agreement, her broad mouth widening in a smile. They said he had something of Dassem about him, and they're right. I've seen both.’

Hurl eyed the old woman. ‘Who does?’

‘Why, Toc the Elder, of course. Congratulations! Few come away from any meeting with him in such good form.’ Reaching over she slapped Hurl's thigh. ‘You did well, lass.’

Hurl could only share a wondering look with Sunny. Gods Above! Toc the Elder. They were going to get handed their own asses. Then, all she could think of was her commander. Poor Storo! To stand opposite Toc! He was gonna take this hard. They might not see him sober till the Wolf Soldiers battered down the doors of the last tavern in the city.

They rode in silence until just short of the closed North Gate of the Plains. Hurl had returned to keeping an eye on her mount just in case it thought she'd forgotten all about its horse-evil, when Sunny cleared his throat.

‘Liss,’ said Sunny, and Hurl knew he was about to ask what she was dying to ask but dared not broach. He was always one to dive straight in. ‘You're not really this whatsit, this Baya-Gul thing, are you?’

The old woman just smiled at Sunny. Aside, to Hurl, she said, ‘Here's a tip, lass. Things only have the power people are willing to give them.’

Hurl frowned over that. Sunny snorted, ‘What a crock of shit.’

Liss just kept smiling. ‘That's because you don't believe.’

The evening of their sixth day of flight Kyle sat with a thick patch of thorn bush behind him while he ate a raw fish and a handful of mushrooms that the brothers had scavenged during the day's run. Stalker drank from a skin they'd filled at the stream. Their best meal in days. For his part, Kyle hadn't contributed a thing; it was all he could do just to keep up. And these fellows were running and scavenging food all at the same time! He shook his head. He'd always prided himself on his endurance and running prowess, but these three put him to shame. Who were they anyway? Brothers, or close cousins, perhaps. But who were they in truth?

He picked scales from his mouth and stretched his burning legs to stop them from seizing, then he turned his thoughts to the real question plaguing him. Why were they still alive? If these Crimson Guard Avowed were so fearsome why hadn't they caught them already? Or simply murdered them one night as easily as he, Kyle, might swat insects?

Stalker tossed Kyle the waterskin which he caught in one hand. ‘How you feelin'?’

‘Worn out. You fellows set an awful pace.’

The scout grunted. ‘Well, you let me know how you're holdin’ up. I'll rein in the boys even more if need be.’

Even more? By the Ancestors, Kyle knew that only the best runners of his tribe could have accomplished what they had managed in the last five days. Still, and he relaxed back to flexing his legs, what did distance matter when those hunting had access to the Warrens? He watched while the rangy, sandy-haired scout examined the bottom of one moccasin. ‘What does it matter? If they really wanted us, they could have us.’

‘True enough. And they did want you those first few days. But like Mara said, you had protection. Anyway, by now I figure they're long gone.’

The fish slipped from Kyle's grasp. ‘Gone? You mean they've left? Where?’

‘Quon, o’ course. The invasion. They were organizing the departure when me ‘n’ the boys volunteered to track you down.’ The scout gave his wolfish smile. ‘Sorry to be the one to give you the bad news, lad, but I guess you're just not that important, hey?’

Kyle gaped, appalled. ‘Then why in the Dark Hunter's name have we been killing ourselves running halfway across Stratem!’

‘Well. Better safe than sorry, eh?’

‘I don't blasted believe it!’ Kyle fought to open the waterskin.

‘Hey now! Don't be upset. Things are looking up. Remember I said you had protection, right?’

‘Yes — what was that about?’

Stalker raised his chin aside. ‘Well, let's see if they're willing to talk now.’

Badlands came pushing through branches and brush. With him was an old woman, squat and bandylegged, her face the hue of ironwood. She wore pale leathers decorated with fur edging, feather tufts and shells. The soft jangling of the shells accompanied her walk and Kyle did not wonder how she could move silent through the woods for he recognized her — his own tribe had its shamans, male and female, healers, priests and even warleaders. He stood to meet her.

Badlands nodded to Stalker. ‘This is Janbahashur — as least, that's the best I can manage/ To her he said, ‘Stalker, Kyle.’

They bowed. Her smile was wide and showed large white teeth. Kyle was struck by the broad ridges above her deep brown eyes. It was as if she was watching them from within a cave. ‘Thank you for your protection,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘We only helped a little,’ she said in Talian. ‘You did most.’ Kyle was deeply puzzled by that but he bowed just the same. ‘You travel west,’ she said. ‘We will help.’

Badlands and Stalker exchanged glances. ‘How so?’ the scout asked. It seemed to Kyle that Stalker had wanted to ask another question, why? but that good manners stopped him.

‘We shall open a way. You cross through. Travel west.’

‘A Warren?’

Janbahashur raised her brows, smiling. ‘A way, a path, call it what you will.’

Neither of the soldiers spoke, obviously reluctant. Kyle wondered if it was up to him to say something. He decided not to be so well-mannered. ‘Why? Why help us — me?’

The old woman's eyes glittered with hidden knowledge and humour. ‘You could say it was whispered to us in the wind.’

Wind. There it was. Kyle stared, daring the woman to say more, but her gaze remained calm and steady and he was forced to look away. ‘Very well. We'll go.’

Stalker nodded at Kyle's acceptance. ‘OK. When and where?’

‘Not here. Follow me. It is not far.’

As they walked Janbahashur fell into step next to Kyle. Her soft hide moccasins made no sound as she stepped over fallen branches and patches of moss. She directed them upslope and soon bare lichen-stained rock mounded around them. Dead fallen oak and spruce made the going slow.

‘Your people are like us, I think,’ she said to Kyle. ‘You live on the land, yes?’

‘Yes. And we worship it, and the sun, the rain — and wind.’

She smiled again. ‘Yes. Wind. Many people worship it. To some it is merely a route to power — a tool to be used. But to us it is life.’ She breathed in expansively, exhaled in a gust. ‘Every living thing takes it in. Even the trees. It is part of all of us, intermingling. For us it is really a symbol for that most unknowable of things, the life essence.’

‘I see — I think.’

She laughed. ‘There is no need to understand.’ She gestured ahead. ‘Here we are. Up here.’

They climbed a rising dome of striated bedrock. Lichen painted it orange and red amid its dark green and zigzag of quartz veins. The peak overlooked virgin forest for as far as Kyle could see. Other than this magnificent view, the dome was empty. A few small round stones dotted it here and there, in what might be drawn as a large circle.

Kyle looked around, caught Stalker's eye, gestured a question. The scout nodded reassuringly.

‘One of your friends is watching my people, as should be,’ said Janbahashur. ‘They watch him in turn. That is good. To do otherwise would be foolish and we do not wish to waste our time on the foolish. Call him up.’

Stalker signed something to Badlands who jogged down the slope.

‘It is ready,’ Janbahashur said, pointing to the centre of the broad circle. Kyle saw nothing, just empty rock. She smiled at his puzzlement. ‘Look more closely. Take your time.’

Shading his eyes from the setting sun, Kyle squinted at the smooth expanse. At first he still saw nothing, then he noticed a slight shimmering of the ground and air around the centre of the circle, as if dust was blowing. While he watched, patches of dust and sand stirred to life on the rock, swirled faster and faster, blurring, then were sucked away to disappear as if by an invisible wind. Listening carefully, he could just make out a loud hissing as of a waterfall heard from far away.

He looked to Janbahashur. ‘What is it?’

‘As you said, a path of Wind.’

‘Like nothing I've ever seen,’ said Stalker. ‘But I'm new to these Warrens. What I've seen were more like tears, gaps and holes.’

Janbahashur dismissed such things with a wave. ‘Faugh. Brute force. Abusing the fabric of things. We use no such painful means. We merely bend the natural ways, concentrate and redirect forces. If you wish to get the stone from a fruit you can throw it to the ground and step on it, or, you can slowly and gently pull where the fruit would halve until it parts on its own.’

Coots and Badlands joined them. Janbahashur waved them on, impatient. ‘Go on. Quickly. Do not pause. A few paces, I should think. Go.’

Stalker signed something and Badlands gave an out-thrust fist and stepped forward. The gesture had something of the look of a salute to Kyle, but one he'd never seen before. Knees bent in a fighting crouch, arms akimbo, Badlands advanced on the blurred patch of air. As he came close he reached out an arm. Janbahashur, at Kyle's side, hissed her alarm. At that instant Badlands simply disappeared. It was hard to say, but Kyle had the impression that he'd been yanked forward with immense power, as if by a giant or a god. The old woman let out a relieved breath. ‘Good. Now, you too. Go.’

Stalker started forward as did Kyle but the old woman caught Kyle's arm. ‘A word, young warrior.’ Stalker paused as well. His hair, the tag-ends of his shirts, the leather ties, all snapped and strained toward the apex. He was saying something but Kyle could not hear a word of it. While he watched the scout strained forward as if against a storm of wind but was losing ground as his moccasined feet slipped and shuffled backwards on the ridged rock. He must have given up the fight for in the next moment he was gone, snatched into the blur of hissing dust and sand.

Coots now stood at Kyle's side, a hand on one long-knife at his belt. ‘He's not goin’ last,’ he said to Janbahashur.

‘I did not mean to alarm. Just a warning. Do not stop on the path. Do not turn or delay. It would be deadly for you. And do not part with your weapons, yes?’

Kyle could not stop his hand from going to the grip of his tulwar. ‘I never do.’

‘Good, good. Now go.’

Kyle bowed his thanks and climbed the last of the slope. As he closed upon the apex of the dome his steps became lighter, the going easier. As if he was actually descending. Then, something like a hand thrust itself into his back, not slapping, but accelerating so hard it forced the breath from his lungs. The surroundings blurred into a green smear. A waterfall crash detonated upon his ears, then diminished in volume — either that or he was losing his hearing. Most alarming was his footing: whatever it was he stood upon was soft and yielding like thick water, a blur of sluicing pale mud or clay. Kyle couldn't make any sense of it. He had no idea where he was or where he was headed. He also seemed to be all alone.

Or perhaps not. Shapes skimmed through the blurring flow parallel with him. Sleek, streamlined, like fish they were but much larger than he. Knowing he shouldn't, Kyle couldn't help but reach out to one. His fingers broke the surface of the shifing flow as if he'd dipped them over the side of a boat. He had the feeling that all he had to do was jump overboard to find himself in a whole new world. One of the shapes nuzzled over as if in response to his gesture. Closer, Kyle had the impression of a stranger, far more alien creature — what had Stoop called the ugly things? — squid.

He thought that perhaps he'd tempted the Twins enough and pulled his hand back. Now, just how was he supposed to get out?

Something slapped through the barrier surrounding him and lashed itself around his arm. He screamed in searing pain as he was yanked backwards off his feet with the popping of his shoulder. He drew and slashed almost without thought. A distant keening, the braking snapping away, and Kyle felt himself spinning, his arm numb and lashing about. Then impact, loose gravel sushing beneath him and he lay panting.

A stream gurgled beside him the whole time; in this manner Kyle knew he'd not lost consciousness. He lay immobile mainly to rest and to delay any discovery of just how seriously he may be injured. Eventually, as the day dimmed, he had to accept that the demands of his flesh were still enough to force him on; especially a full bladder and an empty stomach. Slowly, painfully, he drew his good arm through the gravel to lever himself up into a sitting position. His other arm hung useless, numb, though the shoulder ached as if a fiend had sunk its teeth into it.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned on his hand to push himself upright. A flight of birds launched themselves from a nearby tree, startled, no doubt, by his resurrection. He was on a stranded gravel shore in the midst of a braided stream. Clear water ran west around him, shallow but swift. Trees taller than any he'd ever seen reared around him, blocking out the surroundings. Night was coming, and the air was chill. He started walking west.

The stream meandered, cutting deeply into its floodplain at times, but ever turned westward. Kyle kept to the open sandbars and gravel. Finally, ravenous, he cut a poplar branch and waded out to mid-stream. There he stood still in the dim light, lance raised. A flicker in the water; a curve of shadow. He threw. A miss.

Eventually, he sloshed to shore with an impaled fish. One-handed, he gathered dry fallen wood and brittle grass in the dark, stuck a flint pressing his knife under a knee until the grass lit. He cleaned the fish sloppily then angled it over the flames, and sat back.

Eating, he tossed branches on to the roaring fire. The night deepened.

Eventually a voice growled out of the dark, ‘The lad could be hurt. Knocked out. Bleeding.’

Kyle glanced over his shoulder. ‘Evening, Coots.’

‘Wounded, maybe,’ Coots knelt to his haunches and warmed his hands at the fire. ‘In Gods know what trouble.’

Kyle pointed to his shoulder. ‘I hurt my arm.’

‘The three of us runnin’ all over all through the night an’ you're sittin’ here stuffing your face.’

‘Comes around, doesn't it?’

‘What happened?’

‘Something grabbed my arm. I think it's broke.’

‘Hunh.’

‘Where are we?’

‘Got any more o’ that fish?’

‘There's more in the stream.’

‘Hunh. Funny guy. You're turnin’ into a funny guy.’

‘So where are we?’

Coots yawned, rubbed a hand across his face, lay down and stretched his legs out. ‘Close to the western coast. You can see it from any highland.’

‘What then?’

‘Don't know. Steal a fishing boat, I s'pose. Maybe head to Korel. Take a look at this Stormwall everyone's goin’ on about.’

Ghelel Rhik Tayliin allowed her fury to grow steadily in the pit of her stomach. This last revelation of the dispersal of the army assembled in her name was too much. Now that they had reached the Seti plains a simple direct forced march east was all that was required. Any fool could see that. But this latest news — to divide the army! Insane! The worst error of any bumbling lackwit. Her own readings of the military arts were plain on that topic. Never, ever, do that.

The grey mud of the churned-up shore of the Idryn sucked at her boots as she made her way to the command tent raised next to the assembled wagons and carts of the army's supply. Materiel never stopped moving, with more arriving even as she pushed her way through the maze of crates, piled sacks and penned animals. The ten swordsmen of her guard followed a stone's throw behind despite her direct orders to remain at the wagon. Her Royal Palanquin — Hood take it!

Beyond the ragged borders of the entrepot, Seti tribesmen rode back and forth, whistling and lashing lengths of braided leather, driving lines of cattle and oxen east. East? Away from the carts? She gaped at the spectacle.

To make things worse the Talian and half-breed Seti drovers nudged each other and grinned her way — the mud-splattered Duchess! Ghelel gathered up the ends of her long white surcoat emblazoned with the winged lion of her family crest, made sure her helmet wrapped in white silk cord rested firmly and evenly on her head, then raised her chin defiantly.

The drovers looked away. She almost congratulated herself on that small victory when she caught sight of her bodyguard slogging up protectively close. Glaring at her guard — who seemed not to notice the attention as they scanned the surroundings — she started off again, wincing as she pulled each boot from the stiff sucking mud. May the Gods forgive her: hand-tooled Rhivi leather imported from Darujhistan. From Darujhistan! Why had they dressed her in such finery? As she neared the tent, laughter and raised voices snapped her gaze around. There, in the mud and shallows of the river, bare-chested men used mattocks and iron bars on wagons. Bashing and levering them apart. Demolishing them! Trake take them! They were destroying the wagons. What in the name of the Abyss was going on in this madhouse?

‘Stay here!’ she told her guard then tossed open the tent flap. Amaron stood at a camp table assembled from boards over two barrels; behind it sat General Choss, booted feet up on a stool, a towel draped over his face. Neither moved. ‘What is the meaning of this insanity!’

Amaron turned, raised a quizzical brow. Again, Ghelel was impressed by his height. Now, however, long into his sorcerously-maintained senescence, the belt across the expanse of his armoured belly seemed embarrassingly taut.

‘Which insanity might that be — my Lady?’

Ghelel could never shake the feeling that the two men were laughing at her. But she ploughed on, determined to defend her prerogatives. ‘Dividing the forces, firstly.’

Amaron glanced to his commander. ‘Ah.’

Sitting up, Choss pulled the towel from his face then rested his hands among the scraps of paper littering the table. The man reminded Ghelel of a lion, a scarred, battle-hardened veteran of countless scrapes, wiry with a bushy tangled head of curly hair and beard. Choss cleared his throat. ‘That was settled last night, Duchess. We saw no need to wake you.’

‘My presence is requisite at all command meetings.’

‘Ah, well, you see. In the field things don't really hold to any regularly scheduled meetings or such. We have to move quickly.’

‘Then come and get me, dammit!’

Choss's gaze went to Amaron and he smiled faintly. ‘Very well. But please remember — you supported relinquishing command of forces to me and I do not have the time to explain every decision.’

‘You seem to have the time now.’

‘Flanked you,’ said an amused Amaron.

Sighing, Choss poured out a glass of wine from a decanter on the table. He raised it to Ghelel who shook her head. He sat back. ‘Very well. So what is it you want explained?’

‘I have heard that you are leaving some ten thousand men here south of Tali. Gods, man, that's more than a fifth of the entire force! We need every man for the march east! Heng, you say, may have come out against us, or is at least making a bid for independence. We must intimidate Itko Kan and Cawn. We may face pitched battles in Bloor and, finally, Unta. The very capital! Why weaken ourselves before we even meet the enemy?’

Choss moved to speak but a wave of lowing from the throats of countless oxen and cattle overtook them together with the high-pitched whistles and yipping of Seti horsemen. The tent shook with the rumbling of the hooves.

‘What is going on!’ Ghelel yelled through the din.

‘The Seti are driving most of our animals east.’

‘Why!’

Choss raised his voice, ‘Duchess, the resistance of Heng has upset our timetable. We must get there quickly, before Laseen reaches the city with forces loyal to her. If she can stop us there our movement will lose its momentum. Commanders and provinces will begin drifting back to her. That will be the end of us.’

‘But you assured me Laseen has barricaded herself in the capital!’

The two men exchanged glances once more. As the press of cattle passed, the noise fell. ‘Yes, Duchess. However, her agents may make an offer to the Kanese. A privileged position in a new co-dominion rule… who knows? They might be bribed into extending their protection to Heng. Then we would be facing two opponents. We must get there before any such arrangement can be effected.’

Ghelel pointed to the shore. ‘So tell me, how does leaving men here manage that!’

Choss downed his wine, set the glass carefully on the table.

‘Duchess. The old Itko Kan confederacy is not the only principality we must worry about. South of the Idryn is Dal Hon-’

‘Who have sent assurances of neutrality.’

Officially, yes. However, we have drained Quon Tali of every hale man and fit woman able to hold a spear. We dare not leave it completely defenceless. The Dal Hon Council of Elders might decide to dig out their old treaties with Heng and march on Tali. That's why we're leaving ten thousand men between them and Tali.’

‘They wouldn't dishonour themselves after assuring us-’

‘Dishonour!’ Choss's hand slapping down on the table smashed the glass flat. ‘Honour? Glory? All that horseshit those moon-eyed minstrels sing on about — none of that matters here in the field! Here, a man or woman can have personal honour, yes. But no commander or state can afford it. The price is too high. Annihilation of all those who follow you. I intend to win, Duchess. That's the school I was trained in. Winning! Plenty of time afterwards to rewrite the history to make yourself look good.’ He raised his hand and gathered up a handful of reports to wipe the blood away. ‘Right now we're makin’ rafts. And with the help of our few hamlet mages and some Seti shamans we'll barge down the Idryn as if Hood himself was after our behinds.’

‘I'll get a healer,’ said Amaron.

‘Not yet,’ Choss called after him. ‘No, now I think is a good time to let Ghelel know our plans for her.’ He grinned as he wrapped a cloth around his hand.

Ghelel actually felt the short hairs of her neck bristling. ‘Oh yes, do please inform me. Perhaps it involves a royal barge and a hundred slaves rowing?’

Amaron smiled — the first real smile Ghelel could recall from him. ‘Don't worry, m'Lady. The dress and the wagon and the bodyguard are all for show.’ He hooked his hands once more at his taut belt. ‘We have only one real mage worth the name, Lass. That's a joke compared to how things used to be. Our one advantage with you is that no one, absolutely no one, can reliably identify you. We're keeping watch on your old stepfamily, of course, but outside of them there's only a handful who can be used by any mage to get a handle on you — such as Quinn. Thus, the facade of the palanquin,’ he pointed to her white surcoat, ‘and the costume. We plan for you to slip away from all that during the river trip. A new identity has been pulled together for you.’

She eyed the two men — so obviously pleased with themselves. Schemers. She saw it now. These men loved schemes. Who else could have endured to rise as part of the old emperor's staff? ‘A new identity. I see. Pray tell as what…?’

‘An officer,’ Amaron replied. ‘A cavalry leader. Prevost, I believe, is the old rank. In the Marchland Sentries.’

The Marchland Sentries! Under the Marquis Jhardin? They're all veterans — the raiding is constant on the Nom Purge frontier. They'll never accept me.’

‘They accept new recruits all the time. And the Marquis does command.’

‘What does he know?’

‘Only what he needs to know. I leave the rest up to your discretion. I suggest something close to the truth of your upbringing. Such as being of a minor noble family that spent its last coin purchasing your commission.’

She nodded reluctantly — anything was better than the damned painted carriage and this ridiculous costume. ‘When?’

‘Molk will have all the details. He will be posing as your servant.’

Ghelel raised a hand. ‘I'm sorry. Did you say servant?’

Amaron nodded, serious. ‘Oh yes.’

‘Not like I've been hearing about? All these adjuncts and aides and seconds in the Talian forces?’

Choss and Amaron exchanged wry glances. ‘Oh, yes, Duchess. The Talian army has elected to follow the old ways of doing things. Pre-Malazan. Any self-respecting officer must have a servant, even two, or three: a groom for his or her mounts, an aide-de-camp or adjutant for his or her daily duties, even an attendant to go with them into battle. You being poor can only afford one.’

Queen of Mysteries, no. The man's slouched, he stinks and he's wall-eyed to boot. ‘No, not him. Anyone but him!’

Amaron's grin did not waver; he was obviously very pleased with his arrangements. ‘Oh yes, m'Lady. He's perfect.’

In the light of the flames from the burning west palisade wall Lieutenant Rillish could make out figures struggling atop the east. He stood behind the piled sacks and lumber of a last redoubt abutting the stone barracks at the centre of the fort. Already the wounded filled the barracks. The Wickans, Sergeant Chord had informed him, had withdrawn to the large dugout storage vault beneath. Somehow this intelligence disheartened him. But he did not have the energy to think about it; instead, it took all he could muster to stay erect. A javelin lanced out of the dark from the north wall and he threw up both swords to deflect it. The parry staggered him. The two guards Chord had posted with him steadied his back, their large shields raised. Arrows followed, thumping into the shields’ layered wood, leather, and copper sheeting. Damn them, they had the advantage now. Rillish gestured for Sergeant Chord.

The sergeant came jogging across the no-man's-land of the central mustering grounds, whisked by arrows and tossed flaming brands.

‘Not much longer now,’ he bellowed over the inferno of the tarred east timbers, the clashing of swords and the roar of the besiegers. His idiot grin of delight in battle was fixed at his bearded mouth.

Rillish shouted: ‘Send the word. Torch the rest and withdraw.’

‘Aye, aye.’

Rillish tapped the guards. ‘Remain here. Everyone holds to cover the retreat.’

The marine guards saluted. ‘Aye, sir.’ They rested their shields against the piled timbers, took up their crossbows. Rillish backed away, limping and bent, for the barracks door, and it occurred to him that with men like that he could win any battle — provided he had enough.

Within, in the gloom, the stink of rotting flesh and old blood made him wince and press a hand to his face. His vision slowly adjusted, revealing a madman's image of Hood's realm. Blood and fluids glistened on the timbered floor, draining from a pile beside that door that slowly resolved itself into a heap of naked amputated arms and legs. Men sat hunched at the slit windows, bows and crossbows raised — those with two able arms. The rest supported them, holding pikes and arrow sheaths. A man struggled one-handed to crank his crossbow. Appalled, Rillish took it from him and wound it. ‘Fessel?’ he bellowed. ‘Where are you, man! What is the meaning of this?’

‘Healer's dead, sir,’ said the crossbowman.

‘Dead?’

‘Aye.’

‘What happened?’

‘Old Fessel refused to use his Denul all night, sir. He was cryin’ an mumblin’ and then he just fell dead. His heart, sir. Seemed to just give out.’

‘What was it — was he sick?’

‘Don't know. He was bawlin’ like a baby at the end there, savin’, “Please stop. No. You have to stop. Soliel's Mercy, please no,” while he was fixin’ us up best he could. Strangest thing, sir.’

The Wickans?’

‘Downstairs, sir. Quiet as mice.’

‘Very good.’

Rillish crossed to the open trap door and dark earthen passage leading down flagged in flat river stones — a construction someone had put a lot of effort into since he'd last seen the subterranean vault. ‘Udep? Trake himself is on his way! This is it, man!’

Darkness. The flickering of what might be a single torch somewhere in a far corner of the cellar. Staring down into that dark a shapeless dread tightened the lieutenant's throat. The stink of old blood seemed even stronger here. He thought of the hetman's and the shaman's strange manner during their last meeting. How Udep seemed to be attempting to warn him of something — Clearwater's bruised, almost crazed gaze.

No. They couldn't have. Their own children. Yet was not slavery a worse fate for any Wickan? He backed away from the dirt passage and the horror that it promised. Perhaps they were all to meet their end this night — they in their way, and he and his command in theirs.

‘They’re fallin’ back, sir!’ someone called from a slit window.

‘Yes.’ The lieutenant shook himself, cursed the fools beneath his feet. Damn them! Too impatient to meet Hood, they were. There's hundreds without more than happy to lend a hand for that. Why not go down with your iron warm? Rillish took a deep breath, ‘Aye! Cover them. Show them how a soldier fights!’

‘For the Fourth!’ a woman shouted.

‘For the Empire!’ Rillish countered.

A great shout went up from the men and women lining the walls, ‘The Empire!’

A thunderous roar and a blinding gout of flames announced the eruption of the flammables gathered at the base of the remaining palisade walls. For moments the screams of the besiegers stranded upon them rose even above that conflagration. The churning gold light illuminated the passage and in its bright glare Rillish forced himself to descend.

At the bottom his boots sank into yielding damp earth. Kneeling, he felt about with one gloved hand and brought up a fistful of the loam. He squeezed and the flame-light revealed a dark stream dripping from his fingers — earth soaked in blood.

What inhuman will… He wiped his gloved hand on the wall then yanked his hand away. Warm. The dirt walls fairly radiated a strange heat. The fires? As his vision adjusted he made out the low shapes of legs lying straight out from either side forming a kind of aisle leading straight to the opposite wall where the lone torch cast a fading light on a single figure, waiting.

Rillish walked the aisle. To either side lay the elders, heart thrust, every one. No sign of any child, nor of any struggle. Their slack features appeared calm, resigned. His boots slipped and sucked in the soaked, mud-slick earth. A strange humid warmth assaulted him while an impenetrable darkness seemed to hover just beyond the torch and motionless figure.

Drawing close, he recognized the shaman, Clearwater, sunk to his knees. Horribly, two spears supported him, thrust downward through his back and crossed beneath his chest, impaling him on his knees. Blood ran drying in rivulets down the wood hafts, pooling beneath him.

incredibly, the shaman's head rose, sending Rillish backwards, gripping his swords. ‘Greetings, Malazan,’ the apparition breathed, wetly.

Rillish could not speak. Above, boots stamped the timber floor, shouts for relief for the bulwark beyond the door sounded. Should they yield that, he knew, the end would not be far behind. He found his voice. ‘Clearwater — what have you done?’

The shaman's smile was ferocious, and victorious. He glanced to the eerie darkness past the torchlight. ‘Forbidden one fight, we found another. And succeeded, though the cost was dear. Go now, bring your men. A way has been bought.’

‘What do you mean? Bought? What kind of bargain is this?’

A shudder took the shaman and his torso slipped a hand's width down the shafts. The man spoke through lips drained pale. ‘An escape, fool. Life for our children and your men. This site was holy once. To our ancestors. Blood called, just as it always did. But hungry! So hungry… there were barely enough of us. Now go, send your men. I hold the way.’

‘A way where?’

A clipped laugh cut off by an agonized grunt. ‘Not far. Go.’

Rillish ran to the stairs, his boots slipping and sliding. He roared up the passage, ‘Send Sergeant Chord down here!’

In the end he managed to evacuate thirty-two men and women of his command before the building's burning roof forced him into the passage. His last act was to help those wounded who volunteered to carry out the ones who couldn't walk. Bent over, his leg stabbing with pain, he could wait no longer. A soldier rearguard steadied him on the stairs. Together, they pulled shut the trapdoor against the furnace roar of the barracks.

‘Sergeant Chord?’

‘First through, sir,’ she said.

‘Very good. Our turn now.’

‘Yes, sir. After you, sir.’

‘No. I'll go last.’

The woman smiled — dark, Talian or part Dal Hon, her mailed shoulders as broad as any man's. ‘Not the sergeant's orders, beggin’ your pardon.’

A glow licked its way between the thick timbers of the trapdoor. They backed away, hunched. ‘No time for that, soldier. After you.’

A salute. ‘Aye, sir.’

At the darkness, the soldier drew her shortsword, readied the wide shield from her back. ‘Good luck, soldier,’ Rillish said.

‘Aye. Hood spare me,’ she spat, muttered a short prayer, then launched herself forward, disappearing.

Rillish turned to the now still form of Clearwater; the shaman's head was sunk to his chest, his greasy hair obscuring his face. He knelt beside him. ‘Clearwater? Can you hear me? I don't know what to say… Thank you. Thank you for my men.’

‘Thank not for a fair bargain,’ came a hoarse whisper. ‘Honour it.’

Rillish straightened, ‘Yes.’ He faced the darkness, a hand on the grip of one Untan duelling sword, stepped forward…

… And walked into a forest — tall conifers, birdsong, sunlight shafting down through boughs, movement between the thick trunks, a kind of large deer? — then one more step and into cool night. Hands steadied him, Chord and the female soldier. He looked up and was reassured to see familiar constellations: the Twins, the Wolf, the broad Path of Light. ‘Where are we?’

‘Just west of the fort, seems,’ supplied Chord. ‘You can see the flames from the hilltop.’

Rillish peered about, getting his bearings. They were in a deep gully, a dry river bed. Around them was — no one. ‘Where is everyone? The children?’

‘Headed off north-west already, sir. Couldn't stop them. Said they had directions from Clearwater. I sent the men with them.’

‘Very well, Sergeant.’

‘Shall we go?’ East, a pale orange glow backlit a hill. Rillish watched it for a time. ‘Care to take one last look, sir?’

Wincing, Rillish squeezed his leg and brushed the night flies from his face. ‘No, Sergeant. It's all right. We best go.’

‘Yes, sir. There's our guide.’ Chord gestured up the gully where the dim figure of a Wickan girl stood waving them on impatiently.

The female soldier slipped her shield to her back, offered an arm. Rillish accepted.

The weather of the Western Explorer's Sea had proven remarkably calm these last few days. The morning of the sixth day Shimmer took her usual place next to Jhep, her tillerman on the Wanderer, She wore only her long linen undershirt and pantaloons but the cold dawn wind did not chill her. A sailor brought her hot tea that she sipped, her eyes fixed on the waters far ahead on the north horizon. There an emerald nimbus grew, wavering like the lights one sometimes saw in the night sky. Cowl's ritual. It made her uneasy, this relying on Ruse's uncharacteristic, how had the High Mage put it, compliance. Shimmer's instincts told her to mistrust any such pose — for pose it surely must be. Especially when an Elder is involved. And this demonic rush to reach Quon… There was no need as far as she could see; and every reason for the opposite. Again, especially with unfinished business left behind.

She looked to the Gedrand, the captured Kurzan three-tiered warship Skinner had taken as his flag vessel. Despite the incalculable advantage his presence brought to their Vow, Shimmer could not help wishing he had never returned. Simply catching sight of him now made her wince — where was the man she'd known? Who was this impostor? Her sources told her they'd yet to see him outside his armour. Reportedly, he slept sitting up, fully accoutred. And that armour; she had never seen anything like it. What was that dark patina that covered it with a crystal-like glitter? Skinner did not hide that his patron, Ardata of Jacuruku, had gifted it to him. She was some sort of witch queen, perhaps an Ascendant herself of those alien lands. And he made no secret they had been close. Lovers? Shimmer felt the cold wind and she wrapped her arms about herself. The Vow still drove him; of that she was sure. Yet what other, lesser, vows might he have sworn during all those years away? She dashed the cold tea over the side.

‘Send for Smoky,’ she called to a guardsman.

‘Aye.’

Shortly afterwards the mage came working his way sternward, hand over hand along the gunwale, his face sickly pale. Shimmer could not help but smile. Never one to find his sea-legs was Smoky. ‘No further word from the investigation?’ she asked as he came close.

‘No, Commander.’ The mage's face was milky beneath his greasy tangled locks. His eyes narrowed ahead where a greenish curtain of light now climbed from the waves.

Her sergeants brought Shimmer her armour. She raised her arms for them to slip the quilted aketon over her head, followed by her mail shirt that they shook to hang down to her calves, slit back and front. ‘You have questioned the Brethren?’

‘Yes. They maintain they saw nothing that night. Indeed, they even claim that nothing happened — because they did not see it.’

‘And Stoop has not appeared among them?’

‘No. No sign of him.’

‘Have they been suborned?’

The question startled Smoky. His glance to Shimmer was alarmed. He answered, thoughtfully, ‘I don't think that possible…’

‘Then we are left with this youth as an enemy agent. A spy with powerful allies.’

‘Yes. His escape would suggest such a conclusion.’

Shimmer took her helmet and sword and waved the soldiers away. ‘Unless those searching were not trying so very hard.’

The mage's hairless brows rose. ‘I had not considered that. It points in, ah, unhealthy directions.’

She pulled on her helmet, swung closed the lower face guard. ‘Greymane suggested it.’

Smoky's gaze flicked to the broad back of the man at the bow. ‘I see… Yes, that makes sense. Close to the matter, but not Vowed, and thus not sharing our blindnesses. It would take an outsider, wouldn't it? Thank you, Commander.’

‘The Brethren fully back Skinner, of course.’

‘They never stopped demanding it. A strike against Quon.’

‘Exactly. Their priorities are not necessarily ours.’

‘True. Yet perhaps suborned is too strong.’ Smoky pushed his wind-blown hair from his face. ‘Perhaps seduced, or swayed?’

Shimmer belted on her whipsword, adjusted its weight at her hips. ‘Perhaps. Now, shouldn't you be lending your strength to the ritual?’

‘Gods, no. I'm just a minor battle mage of Telas — though I admit to some glimpses into Elder Thryllan in moments of inspiration. Not conducive, you imagine, to current shared efforts on the bridling of Ruse.’

‘If you say so, mage.’ Again, how she wished she had kept Blues and his blade close! But theirs was a desperate gamble they'd decided worth the throw. It was too late for regret. And what of Cal-Brinn? What had happened to his command? His opinion on these ritual magics she would accede to.

‘Shimmer…’

‘Yes?’

‘Be careful.’

A nod. ‘I could say the same to you.’

Snorting, Smoky headed to the bow.

The glow strengthened through the morning, thickening into a wavering curtain of green and deep violet accompanied by a constant thunder ahead. As Cowl and the other Avowed mages readied themselves for just the right moment the partition, or portal, whatever it was, paced them, maintaining its distance some hundred cables before them. The sea that emerged from beneath reached them emerald with foaming bubbles as if churned by energies and, more troubling, flecked by driftwood and litter such as that which gathers along any shore. At mid-deck, the Kurzani first mate bellowed orders: sails were being lowered, men were securing materiel. Shimmer recognized preparations for a coming gale.

What did that screen disguise? Shimmer had heard the ususal legends and stories of whirlpools and ship-shredding storms that awaited any fool impudent enough, or desperate enough, to try Mael's realm. But all such tales came down to them from long ago and might be just no more than that — imaginings. Truth told, no one knew what awaited them; not any of their twelve mages, Avowed or not, nor any of their sailors, for none had ever heard again from anyone who had actually dared.

Why this unholy hurry? Why this quick thrust for Quon — just three vessels darting ahead of the fleet — the Wanderer’, Gedrand and Kestral? They carried the majority of the Avowed, yes. But what could Skinner hope to accomplish with a mere two thousand men?

Flags waved from the sides of the neighbouring Gedrand. At the bow, Smoky's arms were raised as he communicated with his fellow mages. Any moment now. Shimmer wrapped one arm around the stern-mast. Ahead, the gate had stopped its backward sweep and now awaited them, fathoms tall. It resembled an enormous waterfall, appearing from empty air. Shimmer was assaulted by the disorienting impression that the gate that awaited them was in fact the surface of the sea and it was they who were racing uncontrollably down a chute to their destruction. Togg, Oponn, Burn and Fanderay protect us. But Hood… look on you who can never have us!

As the bow pierced the barrier Shimmer had one last impression of Smoky, arms raised as if to fend off some vision of ruin, Greymane, the Malazan renegade, knees bent in a ready stance, one arm stretched tight, a rope twisted around it, then the roaring — no, hissing, seething, gate was upon them and she was blinded…

A shuddering crash — an arm-wrenching blow threw Shimmer down as if hammered. The screech of wood cracking, the heavy slow creak of an enormous weight slamming into the deck — a split mast — and men shrieking. Water splashing and washing sullenly, turgid, followed by silence leaving only the groan of wounded. Shimmer pulled herself to her feet, rubbed her shoulder where she had collided with the mast.

‘Man overboard!’ came a shout.

‘Man overboard!’ a distant echo sounded. Shimmer looked to port, where the Gedrand wallowed, one mast split a third from the top and tangled among its rigging.

‘The Kestral?’ she called across.

A voice responded, faint, ‘Here also!’

Yes. Wherever here was. ‘Smoky!’

‘Overboard,’ a Guardsman answered.

Shimmer went to the side. Men and women foundered splashing on a surface of wreckage and pale driftwood. So dense was the debris that the ropes thrown to them hardly even got wet. Shimmer spotted the kinky-haired mage clinging to a log. Something about the waters and the horizon was strange but she didn't have the time to give over to that just then. ‘Captain!’ The Kurzani captain and the first mate came to her. ‘Report.’

‘Seams sprung,’ said the first mate, pulling at his full black beard. ‘Taking on water.’

‘Can you re-caulk?’

A resigned shrug. ‘Have to try.’

‘Very well. Take all you need for pumping and bailing. Dismissed.’ Shimmer went to help the old tillerman, Jhep, to his feet. He seemed to have taken a blow from the broad wood handle. ‘Send the mage to me!’ she shouted as loud as she could.

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ someone responded from the deck.

She sat the man next to the tiller, which stood motionless though no one controlled it. Frowning, Shimmer rested a hand upon it, feeling for any sensation of motion or pull. Nothing. They were dead in the water. Not what she was expecting.

‘Commander.’

Water dripping to the deck planking next to Shimmer announced Smoky's presence. Shimmer studied the tillerman's eyes: both looking forward, pupils matching. She knew what to look for, the danger signs; years in the battlefield would teach anyone the basic treatment of wounded. ‘Take over here, Smoky.’

‘Yes, Commander. Have you seen?’

‘Seen what? I've been busy.’

Smoky waved an arm in a broad sweep all around. The mage was looking off to the distance. His gaze seemed stricken. ‘Well,’ he said, his voice tight. ‘Better take a look.’

Shimmer straightened and went to the side. Glancing out she stopped, her hands frozen at the shoulders of her mail coat. What she had taken to be distant islands — the source of the driftwood and jetsam — were not. Ships surrounded them, or rather they rested in the midst of a sea of motionless vessels stretching from horizon to horizon.

Complete silence oppressed Shimmer with its weight. A sea of ghost ships. Most of those nearby appeared to be galleys, though more distant vessels looked to be far larger, tiered sailing vessels. One such leagues out among the grey timber expanse must be enormous to stand so tall. All the crew on deck, she now saw, lined the sides motionless, staring. Some kind of enchantment? But no, probably the sight alone sufficed. ‘Smoky,’ she managed. ‘What is this?’

‘You're asking me?’

‘The Shoals,’ said a voice in Kurzan, lifeless and flat.

Shimmer turned. It was Jhep, his eyes dead of emotion. ‘The Shoals? Explain.’

A weak shrug. ‘Legend. Old myth. Place where the god of the sea sends those he curses. Or those who trespass against him. Maybe this is where all those who try to use Ruse end up, hey? No wonder we heard nothing.’ And he laughed, coughing.

The blow to the head — must be. The alternative… Gods! No wonder there had been no resistance; you were always welcome to enter. But exiting, well, there was none.

There must be another explanation. Currents… a backwater…’

‘There's no current,’ said Smoky.

‘Well — any ship would sink in time.’

‘No. No sinking in this sea.’

Exasperated, Shimmer faced Smoky. ‘Explain yourself, Hood take you!’

Grinning, the Cawn mage touched a finger to his tongue. ‘Salt. The saltiest sea I've ever tasted. Nothing can sink here. Even I floated and I can't swim.’

Shimmer threw herself to the gunwale, gripped it in both hands.

Damn Mael! Damn these fool mages whose arrogance had brought them to such an end. Damn Cowl! How Hood must be laughing now; he need not trouble himself to take them away — they had just up and taken themselves!

Thinking of that, she allowed herself a fey grin, sharing the amusement. The poetic justice of it! She drew off her helmet. It all supported a private conviction of hers; that there existed a persistent balance in creation that in the end somehow always asserted itself. Usually in the manner least anticipated by everyone involved.

She turned to Smoky. ‘What now, mage?’ She waved to the horizon-spanning fields of marooned vessels. ‘You might burn an awful conflagration here to teach Mael a lesson, hey?’

But the wild-haired mage, resembling a drowned rat in his sodden robes already drying leaving a rime of salt flakes, was peering aside, pensive. ‘Something's up with the KestraL’

Shimmer spun. Through the jumbled rigging of the Gedrand she could make out the tall masts of the Kestral. Flags waved from the tallest. ‘Captain! Smoky!’

‘Aye.’

She sensed Smoky at her side, questing, but he shrugged. Nothing. The captain was called up from below. He arrived drying his hands, soaked to his waist. He studied the signals. ‘Get a man up high!’

Sailors scrambled up the rigging.

Atop the main-mast a sailor scanned the horizons, gestured a direction. ‘Light! A glow far off. Like the magery.’

‘What bearing!’ the captain bellowed.

Arms held out wide in hopeless ignorance.

Yes. What bearing? Shimmer glanced about the pale, almost colourless sky, the monotonous horizon all around. Who can say in such a place as this?

‘Show direction!’ the captain called. ‘Pilot — mark it.’ The Kurzani mate squinted up at the sailor, turned and raised a bronze disk to an eye that he peered through — slit with thin needle-fine holes Shimmer knew from studying it. He nodded to the captain. ‘Marked.’

The captain clapped his hands together. ‘Very good, Pilot. Men!’ he roared. ‘Lower launches! Ready oarsmen!’

‘Aye!’

Shimmer began unbuckling her belt. She looked to the Gedrand; they too had reached the same decision as sailors clambered over the launches readying them. So, becalmed we must oar to the gate — if that is what the glow promises. She imagined what a trial must await them. Rowing through a millennia of debris! Pushing rotting vessels from their path. Who knew how long it would take. But they were Avowed. They would win their way through… eventually. No task could daunt them; what was time to them? It was a perspective natural to Shimmer now, but one she knew others, mortals, could not possibly understand or share. She suspected it made the Avowed something of an alien kind apart.

She peered back to the swath of wreckage the entrance of their three vessels had cut. So, Mael. You strand us here then dangle escape in the distance. Why? To what purpose?

A lesson perhaps, yes? Pass through, Avowed. But do not return. This awaits. Now go. And I won't make it easy either.

Reaching the coast, they turned south, keeping to the screening cover of the treeline. Badlands and Coots scouted and hunted game while Stalker walked with Kyle who fumed, feeling useless, his swordarm in a sling. Now that the pressing rush to flee for his life had passed, the plains youth had begun to wonder now about his circumstances and these worried him. In fact, they struck him as damned mysterious. What had the Avowed mage, and the shaman meant about his having some sort of protection? Who could that be? Or what? And, though he did not want to be ungrateful, why were these three men taking such trouble to help him? Their desertion seemed real; but why now and with him? But could this not have been their best chance? Four do stand a better chance than three. And Stalker did say the Guard were quitting the land for Quon in any case…

Kyle stopped. Stalker continued on for a moment then stopped himself, resting a hand on the bole of a pine. ‘What is it?’

Shrugging, Kyle adjusted the folds of his sling. ‘I was just wondering — you said the Guard were leaving when you volunteered to track me down. But how then did they plan for you to link up with them?’

Stalker pushed up his helmet, wiped the sweat from his brow. Only now you've worked your way through to that? I thought it would be obvious…’ The scout took out a waterskin, squeezed a stream into his mouth. He offered it to Kyle who shook his head. He waved to the sea shimmering in the west. ‘We'd bring you to the coast, take a small boat and sail for Quon.’

‘Not funny, Stalker.’

The scout brushed droplets from his moustache, smiled, then looked around for a place to sit. He selected a moss-covered rock.

‘Apologies.’ He pulled off his helmet and rubbed his sweat-slick hair. ‘Don't worry, lad. Just a joke.’ He invited Kyle to sit. ‘Naw. We've left the Guard for sure. No future in it.’

Kyle sat. ‘What do you mean?’

‘No chance for advancement, hey? And they're crippled anyway. Doomed to rot unless something big happens to shake them up.’

‘The Avowed don't strike me as rotting. They're strong.’

The scout waved that aside. ‘Not what I mean. I mean they're blind to the present. Stuck in the past.’ He rubbed the pouch hanging from his neck. ‘It's as if they're walking backwards into the future — you know what I mean?’

How much Kyle understood must have shown on his face for the scout took a deep breath and tried again. ‘You asked about Badlands and Coots. Well, we are related. Some might call them my cousins, distant cousins. You might say brothers. We're all of the Lost back where we come from. Well, back there, it's just the same. Stuck in the past. We left because we'd had enough of it. Imagine our disgust when we found more of the same in the Guard.’

Kyle nodded. ‘I see — I think.’

A thin, wintry smile. ‘Never mind. Let's see what we got left to eat.’

They sat in the shade of tall cedars, chewed on smoked rabbit then ate wild berries of a kind unknown to either of them. Kyle thought maybe it was the berries that had been giving him the runs. While he sat letting the cool breeze dry his back and hair, Coots lumbered up.

‘Ain't disturbing your Hood-damned dinner party, am I?’

‘Nope,’ said Stalker. ‘Have some berries?’

‘No, They twist up my guts awful.’

‘Is that why you're here,’ said Stalker, ‘to tell us all about your digestion?’

Coots pushed a hand through his curly grey hair. ‘Since you asked, my digestion's been the shits since you dragged us on this Poliel-damned expedition. It's a damned disgrace.’ He winked to Kyle. ‘This fellow's got the organizational skills of a squirrel in a cyclone.’

‘That your digestion acting up, Coots?’

‘No. You'll know it when that happens.’

‘So what's the news then?’

Coots knelt to his haunches. The plain leather vest he wore made his arms look enormous while leather bands strapped them above and below the elbow. He took up a handful of branches that he broke in his wide blunt hands. ‘We've found a pitiful little fishing village on the coast. As rundown as you can imagine. But they've got a sweet-looking new boat just sitting there ready to be pushed down the strand. It's like a damned gift from the Gods.’

‘And that's what worries you.’

‘Yeah. Makes me all queasy — but maybe that's just my innards clenching.’

‘OK. We'll keep watch for a while. You and Badlands first.’

‘Aye, aye.’

To Kyle, ‘We'll wait here, hey? Then we'll steal our boat.’

‘OK. But, I have to warn you, I don't know a thing about sailing ‘n’ such.’

Stalker and Coots exchanged amused glances. ‘That's OK,’ said Stalker. ‘’Cause neither do we.’