The Crippled God

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

‘EVEN SHOULD YOU SUCCEED, COTILLION. BEYOND ALL EXPECTATION, beyond, even, all desire. They will still speak of your failure.’ He stood in the place where the Whorl had manifested – a wounding in the fabric of Shadow, a place now slowly healing. There was nothing else here, nothing to give evidence to the struggles that had occurred, the blood that had been spilled. Still, Chaos felt closer than it ever had, as if moments from erupting once again. The madness of sorcerers, the ambitions of the starved … we’re surrounded by fools wanting more than what they have. And, alas, it’s all too familiar company, and the ugly truth is that we may not be out of place in that crowd. Edgewalker’s words haunted him. The breathtaking ambition, the sheer verve of all that they had set in motion. But now we have finally arrived – it’s all cut loose, and so much – so much – is out of our hands.

He saw footprints in the grey dust, reminding him that there were other arenas, distant places where battles raged on. Nothing was simple, and in the spilling of blood no one could guess the myriad channels it would carve.

Shadowthrone, old friend, we have done what we could – but the game is much bigger than we ever imagined. This gamble … gods, this gamble. One hand drifted to one of the knives at his belt. And then he shook himself, straightening.

Take a deep breath, lad. Here goes …

‘What you ask of me, it is too much. Yes, of course I see the necessity – I may have sickened, even threatened, but magic is not my enemy. It never was. Indeed, I envy its gifts to this world. Upon my own … ah, no matter. Belief can be rotten. All it takes is one betrayal to steal away an entire future.

‘You would not have recognized me in my anger. It shone blinding bright. There remain those, among the multitudes I left behind, who imagine themselves gods, for all their mortal trappings. They would maintain a tyranny such as no true god could ever imagine. They would enslave generation upon generation – all those sharing the same soil, the same water, the same air. They conspire to keep them on their knees. Bowed in servitude. And each slave, measuring his or her life, can see – if they dare – only the truth, and so most of my world, most of my children, live a life of despair and suffering, and ever growing rage.

‘Is this all there must be? The tyrants would have it so. I sometimes dream … yes, I know you have little time … I dream of returning, swords blazing with holy vengeance. I dream, Shadowthrone, of murdering every one of those fuckers. Is this what it means to be a god? To be an implacable weapon of justice?

‘Wouldn’t that be nice. I agree.

‘No, I’m not that much of a fool. It will be no different. And should you achieve the impossible with your handful of mortals, should you free me … and find the path, the moment I take my first step upon the soil of my home they will emasculate me. Bleed me. Gut me, and then stretch my hide overhead. They’ll need shade from the torrid heat of all the fires they themselves lit. That is the problem with tyrants, they outlive us all.

‘I will do what you ask. Rather, I shall try. Pieces of me remain missing and I despair of ever seeing them again. It is my understanding that the one named Skinner, usurper and tyrant king of my House of Chains, has many enemies. He can now count me among them. Do you imagine he loses sleep?

‘No, I don’t either. Betrayers never do.

‘Shadowthrone. You will not betray me, will you?’

‘Karsa Orlong, where are all the gods of peace?’

He stepped outside, straightening. ‘I know not.’

Picker turned to face the city. Many troubles there. Perhaps at last they had begun to settle. But … all that boiled beneath the surface, well, that never went away. ‘Do you know how to get there?’

He eyed her. ‘I know how to get there.’

She drew a deep breath – she could hear movement inside the hut behind the giant. Picker lifted her gaze until it locked with the Toblakai’s. ‘I call upon the vow you made long ago, Karsa Orlong of the Teblor. When you walk to where you must go, a crippled priest will find you. In the street, a broken man, a beggar, and he will speak to you. And by his words, you shall understand.’

‘I already understand, Malazan.’

‘Karsa—’

‘There are too many gods of war.’ And then he took up his sword, and inside the hut a woman began weeping. ‘And not one of them understands the truth.’

‘Karsa—’

His teeth were bared as he said, ‘When it comes to war, woman, who needs gods?’

She watched as he set off. And under her breath she whispered, ‘Darujhistan, I beg you, do not get in this man’s way.’

Dust roiled over the distant encampment. Squinting, Paran took another bite of the alien fruit his foragers had found, and wiped at the juices dribbling down into his beard.

‘That is not helping, High Fist.’

He glanced over. Ormulogun was scratching desperately on a bleached board with his willow charcoal stick. At his feet squatted a fat toad, watching his efforts with gimlet eyes.

‘Nothing will help that,’ the toad sighed.

‘Posterity!’ snapped the Imperial Artist.

‘Posterity my ass,’ Gumble replied. ‘Oh, was that not droll of me? Critics are never appreciated for what they truly are.’

‘What? Leeches sucking on the talent of others, you mean?’

‘It is my objectivity that you so envy, Ormulogun.’

‘And you,’ the artist muttered, ‘can stick that objectivity up your posterity, toad.’

Paran took a last bite of the fruit, examined the furry pit, and then flung it over the wall. He wiped his hands on his thighs and turned. ‘Fist Rythe Bude.’

The woman was leaning out over a parapet. She straightened. ‘Sir?’

‘Assemble the companies at their stations. It’s time.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Lounging nearby, Noto Boil drew the fish spine from between his front teeth and stepped forward. ‘Is it truly?’

‘Weapons,’ said Paran. ‘Kept hidden away. But there comes a time, Noto, when they must be unsheathed. A time, in fact, to put proof to the pretensions.’ He eyed the cutter. ‘The gods have been kicking us around for a long time. When do we say enough?’

‘And in their absence, High Fist, will we manage things any better?’

‘No,’ Paran said, walking past him, ‘but at least then we won’t have the option of blaming someone else.’

Sister Belie scanned the distant walls. Suddenly, not a soldier in sight. ‘They’ve quit,’ she said. ‘Now, the question is, do they leave the way they came, or do they march out from the gate – or what’s left of it – and try to break the siege?’

Standing beside her, Watered Exigent glanced back at the camp. ‘If the latter, Sister, then we are, perhaps, in trouble.’

Sister Belie pretended not to hear him. If his seed of doubt thirsted for water, he would have to find it elsewhere. Another week. That is all we need. And then Brother Serenity will be here, with five thousand heavily armoured foreigners. The besieging forces were damaged – that last assault had been brutal. She was down to half strength. Her hold on them was fragile, and this was not a familiar feeling.

‘I see no movement at the gate, Sister Belie.’

There was a barrier to dismantle, and that would take time. But … I feel it. They’re coming for us. ‘Assemble the companies, Exigent. That gate is the bottleneck. If we can lock them there, we hold them until they’re exhausted, too mauled to force the issue.’

‘And if they break us instead?’

She turned, studied him. ‘Do you doubt the power of my will? Do you imagine that this Master of the Deck can manage anything more than fending me off? I will not yield, Exigent. Understand that. And if it means that every single one of our Shriven – and every single one of their Watered commanders – ends up a corpse on the field, then so be it.’

Watered Exigent paled, and then he saluted. ‘I will inform the commanders that we shall advance.’

‘Have them ready, Exigent. The command to advance shall be mine and mine alone.’

‘Of course, Sister Belie.’

After he had left, she returned her attention to the keep. Still no activity at the barricade. Perhaps my feeling about this is wrong. Perhaps indeed he flees through a warren, and just like that, the siege is done. But he will return. Somewhere – this thorn is yet to leave our side, I am certain of it.

Her eyes narrowed, and she blinked rapidly to clear a sudden blurring of her vision – but the problem was not with her eyes. To either side of the barricaded gate, the massive walls had grown strangely smudged, all along the breadth, as if stone had become water.

And from these places, troops appeared in formation, and then skirmishers and archers, fanning out from main ranks. The five-deep lines then unfolded and began linking up with those to either side. Cavalry thundered into view on the far left flank, riding hard for a rise to the west.

She heard the shouts of confusion from her commanders, felt the recoiling fear of the Shriven. He opened gates through the walls. He knew we would be studying the barricade, waiting for them to begin dismantling it. He knew we wouldn’t advance until they did so. And now we are not ready.

Sister Belie swung round. ‘Form a line! Form a line!’ My voice will take their souls, and I will drive the Shriven forward, like wolves unleashed. They will ignore their wounds. Their fear. They will think only of slaughter. By the time my last soldier falls, the enemy will have ceased to be a military threat. This I swear!

She saw her Watered commanders taking control of their companies, their voices powerful as iron-toothed whips. She could feel it now – the cold, implacable sorcery of Akhrast Korvalain, gathering, and she was pleased at its burgeoning strength.

And then someone shrieked, and Sister Belie staggered. What? I have lost one of my commanders! How?

She saw a swirl of soldiers, closing in to where one of the Watered had been standing a moment earlier. Terror and confusion rippled outward.

Forty paces distant from that scene, another commander suddenly died, his chest blossoming wounds.

They have infiltrated assassins! She awakened her voice. ‘FIND THEM! ASSASSINS! FIND THEM!’

The companies were in chaos. ‘FACING RANKS, PREPARE FOR THE ENEMY!’

She saw Exigent, heard his shouts as he struggled to reassert order on his milling Shriven. As she moved to join him, there was a blossom of darkness behind the man. Sister Belie shrieked a warning, but – too late. Knives sank home. Exigent arched in shock, and then was falling.

Akhrast Korvalain, I call upon your power! She set off down the slope. The darkness had vanished, but then, as magic heightened her vision, she could see its swirling path – there would be no hiding from her, not now. A mage. How dare he! ‘NO POWER BUT MINE!’

And she saw that whirling black cloud stagger, saw it pinned in place, writhing in sudden panic.

Hands twitching in anticipation, she advanced on it. Off to her right, she could hear the enemy’s horns announce the attack – she would deal with that later. I can still save this. I must!

The darkness convulsed in the grip of her power.

Now only six paces between her and the hidden mage. ‘NO POWER BUT MINE!’

The sorcery erupted, vanished with a thunderous detonation, and she saw before her a man staggering, sinking down to his knees. Dark-skinned, bald, gaunt – not the Master of the Deck. No matter. She would rend him limb from limb.

Four paces, her boots crunching on gravel, and he looked up at her.

And smiled. ‘Got you.’

She did not even hear her killer as he came up behind her, but the long knives that burst from her chest lifted her from her feet. She twisted, balanced on two hilts, as her slayer raised her yet higher. Then, with a low grunt, he flung her to one side. She was thrown through the air, landing hard, rolling across sharp stones.

The bastard had severed the veins beneath both her hearts. And now, lying in her last moments, her head lolled and she saw him. Burly, ebon-skinned, the long-bladed knives dripping in his hands.

Her Watered were all dead. She heard the enemy ranks smashing into her disordered forces. She heard the slaughter begin.

Faintly, she caught the mage speaking to the assassin. ‘Sheathe that Otataral blade, Kalam, and be quick about it.’

And he rumbled a reply, ‘Done. Now … make me invisible again.’

Their voices grew more distant. ‘Do you think it’s easy? She damned near broke my back with that command.’ They were walking away.

‘Just feeling a tad exposed here, Quick – behind enemy lines and all.’

‘What lines?’

Sister Belie closed her eyes. Otataral? You unsheathed Otataral? Oh, you fool. And these, her last thoughts, bubbled with a kind of dark pleasure.

The enemy broken, routed, Warleader Mathok rode up to Paran’s position near the westernmost rise, and reined in. ‘High Fist! The last have fled east, down into the valley. Shall we pursue?’

‘No,’ Paran replied, watching as Quick Ben and Kalam approached from across the killing field. ‘Mathok, begin gathering up forage for your horses. Send parties deeper into the valley if needed – but for resupply only, no chasing down. I fear we shall have to ride hard now.’

‘Where?’

‘South, Mathok. South.’

The Warleader wheeled his mount round, yelling commands at his second, T’morol, who waited a short distance back with a wing of cavalry, and then rode off in the direction of his main force. Mathok’s raiders had been eager, and they had acquitted themselves well. Watching the Warleader ride away, Paran rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘No wonder you winced at every move, Dujek,’ he said under his breath. ‘I’m a mass of knotted ropes.’ Still, the enemy broke at first contact, and what could have been a nasty scrap turned into a slaughter. A mere handful of casualties, and most of those from idiots falling on weapons in their haste to pursue. Ensorcelled voices were all very well, but if that was where all the discipline and courage came from … now, we can see the flaw in that, can’t we?

‘High Fist,’ said Quick Ben, walking up like a man who’d taken a beating. His face was drawn, his eyes skittish with something that might be pain.

Paran nodded. ‘High Mage. Was it as bad as it looks?’

‘Not really. Just out of practice. Lost touch with being subtle, I think.’

A curious thing to say, Paran reflected, and then he faced Kalam. The assassin’s weapons were sheathed, and he looked rather pleased with himself. For no reason he cared to discover, Paran found he wanted to take that smugness down a notch or two. You’ve been killing people, after all. He regarded him for a moment longer before saying, ‘Your wife wishes your attention.’

The man scowled. ‘Now?’

That was easy. ‘Since you’re covered in blood, Corporal, you might want to wash first.’

Quick Ben snorted. ‘I’d forgotten, Kalam. You’re a lowly corporal – meaning I can order you around.’

‘Just try it, you Hood-bitten snake.’

After the assassin had left them, the High Mage turned to Paran. Hesitated, and then said, ‘Felt something, far to the southwest …’

‘As did I, Quick Ben.’

That skittish look returned. ‘Do you know what it was?’

‘Do you?’

The High Mage sighed. ‘Back to that, then, is it?’

Paran cocked his head. ‘When I asked Shadowthrone for Kalam, I admit that I didn’t expect you to be the delivery man. My last sense of you was in the company of my sister’s army, keeping your head down.’

Quick Ben nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘You were able to sniff out things like that? I’m impressed, Ganoes Paran. You have come a long way from the nervous, gut-sick captain I remember from Black Coral.’

‘I’m still gut-sick, High Mage,’ he said. ‘And as for sensing distant powers, alas, that’s been growing ever more uncertain. And obviously, since coming within the influence of the Assail warren I have been effectively blind. But with my sister, it was never easy in the best of circumstances—’

‘Her sword.’

‘Her sword, yes. And … other things.’

Quick Ben’s nod was sympathetic. ‘Sisters, aye.’ Then his gaze sharpened. ‘That … manifestation we felt. Do you think … was it her?’

Paran frowned. Just the mention of his stomach had delivered a nip of pain, and then vague nausea, reluctant to fade. And look at us, still stepping round each other. Forget all that, Paran. Be honest, see what happens. ‘I don’t know, High Mage. But I mean to find out.’

Quick Ben studied the mass of soldiers moving through the enemy supplies, and then he rubbed at his eyes. ‘Ganoes Paran, what are we? Here, what are we?’

Paran felt his face twisting as anxiety gnawed again at his stomach. ‘Quick Ben, we’re soldiers of the Emperor. It’s all we ever have been.’

Quick Ben shot him a look. ‘You were just a child when he ruled.’

Paran shrugged. ‘Nonetheless.’

‘Aye,’ the High Mage muttered like a man trying to swallow bad news, ‘nonetheless. But … that empire is gone, Paran. If it ever existed at all.’

Now that’s a sharp observation. ‘Nothing lasts, Quick Ben. Speaking of which, how do you warrant Kalam and Minala’s chances?’

Quick Ben grunted and the sound might have been wry laughter, or sympathy. ‘I don’t. And while I think they’d be good together, they keep trying to wear each other’s skin, if you know what I mean.’

‘Sort of.’

‘It’s not love that’s the problem.’

‘It’s all the rest.’

Quick Ben nodded, and then he shrugged. ‘So tell me, O Master of the Deck of Dragons, what awaits us now?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘Gods below, where do I begin?’

‘Start with the worst it could get.’

The worst? ‘How much do you already know?’

Quick Ben rubbed vigorously at his face, as if trying to rearrange his own features. And, maybe, become someone else. ‘Not as much as you might believe,’ he said. ‘Shadowthrone’s not yet gotten over some past slight I offered him – though for the life of me I can’t recall what it might have been. In any case, we’re not exactly whispering in each other’s ear.’

‘Still,’ Paran said, not quite convinced.

‘Well. You have to understand – I usually work alone. And if I need help, I make sure the bargain I make is mutually beneficial … to keep down the chances of taking a knife in the back. I admit it, High Fist, I really trust no one.’

‘No one at all?’

‘The trust I have … for some people … comes down to how well I know them, and then it’s a matter of my trusting them to do what I think they’re going to do.’

‘That’s a rather cynical take on trust,’ Paran observed.

‘It’s the safest. It doesn’t take much insight to realize that most people are only looking out for themselves. And once you figure out what they want, you can—’

‘Manipulate them?’

The wizard shrugged. ‘Am I that much of a mystery? I have twelve souls in me. Think about that. All those lives, all those desires, regrets, hurts. Whatever you feel about your life, I have that a dozen times over. And some of those souls in me … are old.’

‘Yet, of necessity, you all have to work together, for a common purpose.’

‘If you say so.’

Paran studied the man. Mystery? What mystery? ‘Right. Very well. The worst? Here goes, then. Kurald Galain falls to vengeful Tiste Liosan, and they walk that path right into the heart of Shadow, ousting Shadowthrone, and from there they march onward, to this world, joining with the Forkrul Assail in a tide of slaughter, until not one city is left standing, not one field planted, not one human child born into the world. Do you want the rest?’

‘There’s more?’

‘The Elder Gods, having at last freed the Otataral Dragon, succeed in the annihilation of magic, barring that paid for in blood – unless of course Korabas is killed, but if that happens it will mean that the Eleint, who are now or will soon be loose in this realm, will have killed it – and they will in turn seek domination, not just of this realm, but of all realms, delivering chaos wherever they go. And so, even with us wiped from the earth, terrible powers will contest the claim to our legacy. The gods will be dead, magic a thirst only fools would dare invite, and … well, should I go on?’

Quick Ben licked dry lips. ‘Parts of Burn are dying – on our way here, whenever we touched the soil of this world, I could feel her skin searing, drying and shrivelling into something … lifeless.’

‘The Otataral Dragon, yes.’

‘I probably already knew that,’ Quick Ben muttered. ‘Just trying not to think about it and hoping it would all go away. Hood’s breath! Ganoes Paran – tell me what we can do to prevent all this?’

The High Fist’s brows rose. ‘How unfortunate. That is the question I was going to ask you, Quick Ben.’

‘That’s not funny.’

‘Wasn’t meant to be.’

‘Your sister—’

‘Aye, my sister. You were with her, wizard. She must have explained her plan.’

Quick Ben looked away. ‘She would free the Crippled God.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘How should I know? Was your whole family like her? Nobody saying a damned thing to each other? Dead silence at the dinner table? Is that how you managed to get along, assuming you got along in the first place?’

Paran grimaced. ‘Can’t say we did, much. Got along, I mean.’

‘What might she be holding inside?’

‘I wish I knew.’

Quick Ben’s growing agitation was evident in his waving hands, his sudden pacing, the sharp, wide-eyed looks he threw at Paran. ‘I thought you two had this planned!’

‘Had what planned?’

‘You’re the Master of the Deck of Dragons!’

‘So I am. Why, you want to play?’

For a moment it seemed Quick Ben’s eyes would burst from their sockets. And then, with sudden hope: ‘A reading! Yes – that’s it! I’d take a damned reading right now – why not?’

But Paran was shaking his head. ‘You don’t want that, High Mage. Trust me, you don’t. There are too many rogue players in this game. Icarium. Draconus. The First Sword of the T’lan Imass. Olar Ethil, Silchas Ruin, Tulas Shorn, Kilava – even Gruntle, the Mortal Sword of Treach. And now the Eleint, and how many dragons have come or are coming through the gate? A hundred? A thousand? Oh, and the Elder Gods: Errastas, the past Master of the Tiles, and Kilmandaros and her son …’

Quick Ben was staring as if Paran had lost his mind.

Paran scowled. ‘What now?’

‘They – they’re all here?’

‘I have the Deck of Dragons in my damned skull, remember. I caught the first winds of convergence some time ago. Trust me when I say this will be the biggest the world has ever seen, bigger even than the chaining of the Crippled God. Nobody said it’d be easy, High Mage. The question is, what do you have to offer me?’

Quick Ben snarled. ‘Why, more good news, what did you think?’

‘What do you mean?’

The High Mage threw up his hands. ‘Let’s just add the K’Chain Che’Malle and the Jaghut, and oh, we should probably mention Hood himself – no longer dragging the Throne of Death by one ankle. And who knows how many slavering fanatics of the Wolves of Winter! And what about the Crippled God himself – will he go quietly? Why should he? If I was him, even if you showed me the inviting door at the far end, I’d be slicing throats all the way down the corridor. I’d have damn well earned the right to as much vengeance as I could muster!’

Paran grunted. ‘All right, it’s rather more complicated than I had imagined, then.’

Quick Ben seemed to choke on his reply. After a bout of coughing, and then spitting, he shook his head and, eyes watering, he rubbed at his face again. Then he took a deep, settling breath, and said, ‘We need a secret weapon, Paran.’

‘I have a gut feeling about that—’

‘The one burning a hole in your stomach?’

I hope not. ‘I think we might have two secret weapons, High Mage.’

‘Please, I am begging you, go on.’

‘Quick Ben, tell me, who was the toughest Bridgeburner you ever knew? Think back, and think carefully. Get your ego out of the way. Ignore your favourites and the ones who spent all their time looking mean. Not the callous shits, not the back-stabbers, none of the posers. The toughest, Quick Ben. Day in, day out, good times, bad. Tell me. Who?’

The High Mage squinted, glanced down at the ground at his feet, and then he sighed and nodded, looking up as he said, ‘I didn’t need that list, Ganoes. I knew my answer right from the start. We all knew.’

‘Who?’

‘Fiddler. There’s no tougher man alive.’

Paran looked away. ‘My family … aye, we were something of a mess. But I will tell you this, this one thing I know without any doubt, and it starts with a memory – my sister had an area of ground cleared for her at the country estate, and it was where, beginning when she was barely five years old, she used toys to fight battles from every history book and scroll she could find. And the times when my father entertained High Fists in his horse-selling ventures, he’d make it a kind of challenge to those veteran commanders – take to the field against little sallow-faced Tavore, with all those toy soldiers. Count your attrition honestly, and see what happens. My sister, Quick Ben, from about seven onward, never lost to a single commander. And when their corpses were dragged away, she went deeper into the histories, she started taking the loser’s sides, and then won those, too.’

‘Tavore, then.’

‘Think of all the great military leaders – Dassem, Coltaine, K’azz, Dujek, Greymane – for what it is worth, I would pit my sister against any of them. Gods below, against all of them.’ He continued staring into the southwest. ‘There you have it, High Mage. Fiddler and my sister. Our two weapons.’ When he looked back he saw Quick Ben studying him.

The High Mage said, ‘The ascended Bridgeburners hold the gates of death.’

‘I know.’

‘Except for Hedge. Whiskeyjack sent Hedge back – to Fiddler.’

‘Did he now?’

‘Remember Pale, Ganoes Paran?’

‘As much of it as I could, which wasn’t much.’

‘Right – you weren’t there yet, not when we got together on a hill outside the city, to shake things down one more time. Or, if you were around, Sorry was sticking a dagger in your back about then.’

‘What about it, Quick?’

‘It’s just … we were all there. Trying to make sense of things. And now I’ve got this feeling … we’re all going to meet again. To bring it all to an end.’

‘One way or another.’

‘Aye.’

‘How do you gauge our chances, High Mage?’

‘Miserable.’

‘And our weapons?’

‘With me vouching for Fiddler, and you for your sister,’ he said, with a wry grin, ‘the best we could hope for, I suppose.’

‘And here I have two more – the infamous Kalam and Quick Ben. You know, if I wasn’t such a realist, I’d be feeling confident right now.’

A scowl replaced the grin. ‘Did you really have to put it quite that way, High Fist?’

He felt her eyes on him as he swung on to the horse. Settling in the saddle, gathering the reins, he squinted at the broad, terraced valley stretching away to his right. Rich lands, he mused. Then he glanced across at her. ‘What?’

Minala shook her head. ‘He’s going to get you killed for real one of these days. You know that, don’t you?’

Kalam snorted. ‘Whatever you think you’ve seen, Minala, you’ll just have to take my word: you really have no idea what we’ve survived, me and Quick.’

‘Fine. Impress me.’

‘Probably not possible, but I’ll try anyway. Jaghut and Crimson Guard Avowed in Mott Wood. Tiste Andii assassin-mages and highborn demons in Darujhistan. More Claw than you could count.’ Looking across at her, seeing her flat expression, he sighed. ‘And we ain’t so bad on our own, neither. Icarium, the Pannion Domin, K’Chain Nah’ruk and Soletaken dragons – Quick’s faced down them all. As for me … if I could raise up every person and every demon and every whatever I’ve personally killed, I’d have an army big enough to drown the Forkrul Assail in piss, never mind a knockdown fight.’

She continued staring at him, and then she said, inflectionless, ‘You are both insufferable.’

‘Some nerve,’ he rumbled, ‘after all that attention I just gave you.’

On all sides, Paran’s Host was forming up, preparing to march – they had a third of a day’s light left and it seemed the High Fist wasn’t much interested in resting his troops. In a hurry. That’s always bad. Decent-looking soldiers, though. Lots of North Genabackan and Malazan mainlanders. And then there’s those Seven Cities horse-warriors – tribals. Tribals always scared me.

Minala took a drink from her waterskin and then spoke again. ‘Were all you Bridgeburners the same? Arrogant, self-important, narcissistic?’

‘Aye, and we earned every strut.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘In fact,’ Kalam went on, ignoring her comment, ‘it’s probably why they decided to wipe us out. Every officer they threw at us couldn’t hold up. We were a company run by the sergeants, Whiskeyjack first and foremost, but even then the sergeants voted on stuff, the orders they’d give to the captains and lieutenants, the orders to go down to the rest of us. As you might imagine, the high command didn’t much like that. Oh, we might listen to a few, the ones we knew would do right by us – Dassem, Dujek, the ones we knew were worth their salt. But the rest? Not a chance.’

‘Meaning you were ungovernable.’

‘Meaning we were actually thinking of taking down the Empress. Aye, looking on it that way, Laseen had to wipe us out. She had no choice, and if it didn’t sit well with her – having to kill off her toughest soldiers – well, I suppose we gave her few options.’

‘Well now,’ Minala said, ‘finally, a little honesty.’

‘So now I’m with the Host, wife. Which brings me to the question, what are you doing here? It ain’t safe, wherever we’re going.’

‘Shadowthrone’s children,’ she said. ‘Those that survived, I mean. I couldn’t look them in the eye, not after what happened. I couldn’t bear it any longer. And I could see – Cotillion and Shadowthrone, they were up to something. But mostly,’ she seemed to shudder, ‘the children, and what happened outside the throne room. I’ll grant you, Quick Ben didn’t hesitate, even when it looked like he was going to die. He didn’t hesitate.’

‘Icarium,’ Kalam muttered. ‘Maybe one day I’ll face off against him, and we’ll see.’

Minala snorted. ‘That’d put a quick end to your arrogance, Kalam Mekhar.’

A signaller waved a banner, and it was time to ride down to join the vanguard. Kalam thought about Minala’s last words, and sighed.

They kicked their horses into motion.

And Kalam asked, ‘Love, tell me again, about that Tiste Edur with the spear …’

Commander Erekala of the Grey Helms entered the tent to find Brother Serenity standing in a corner at the back, draped in shadows and facing the canvas wall. There was no one else present and Erekala was brought up short.

‘Pure?’

Serenity slowly turned. ‘Have you ever been buried alive, Erekala? No, I would imagine not. Perhaps, in the occasional nightmare … no matter. Earlier this day I felt the murder of Sister Belie. And every one of her officers – all dead. The siege has been shattered, and our enemy is now loose within our demesne.’

Erekala blinked, but said nothing.

‘Take off your helm,’ Serenity said. ‘Do you see, over there? A carafe. Foreign wine. I admit to having acquired a taste for it. It serves well in easing my … misgivings.’ And he went over to pour himself a goblet. He poured a second goblet and gestured to it.

Helm now unstrapped and under one arm, Erekala shook his head and said, ‘Misgivings, Pure? Is not the cause just?’

‘Oh indeed, Erekala, there will be justice in our tide of retribution. But there will also be crime. We do not spare the children. We do not ask them to remake their world, to fashion a new place of humility, respect and compassion. We give them no chance to do better.’

‘Pure,’ said Erekala, ‘as the teachings of the Wolves make plain, each and every generation is given a new chance. And each time, they but perpetuate the crimes of their fathers and mothers. “From the blow that strikes the innocent child to the one that lays waste to a forest, while the magnitude of the gesture may vary, the desire behind the hand does not.” So the Wild would say, if it but had the words to speak.’

Serenity’s eyes glittered in the shadows. ‘And you see no presumption?’

Erekala cocked his head. ‘Pure, the presumptions of the Perish Grey Helms are unending. Yet if we refuse or are unable to comprehend the suffering of the innocent – be it babe or beast – what do our words replace, if not all that we would not hear, would not countenance, lest it force us to change our ways, which we will never do. If we would speak for the Wild, we must begin with the voice of human conscience. And when conscience is not heeded, or is discarded, then what choice remains to us?’

‘How clearly you enjoy such debate, Erekala. You remind me of better days … peaceful days. Very well, I will consider what the world would be like, for all within it, if conscience was more than just a whispering voice. If, indeed, it could raise a hand in anger. And, when even a sound beating is not enough, it might then close that hand about a throat and take the life from the transgressor.’

‘It is our greatest presumption, Pure,’ said Erekala, ‘that we be the hand of conscience.’

‘Holding a sword.’

‘And finally driven to use it, yes.’

Serenity drained his goblet and replaced it with the other one. ‘Yet your fellow humans – your victims – could not but see you as evil, as terrible murderers of the innocent – in fact, the very notion of guilt or innocence would be without relevance, in their eyes.’

‘If we are to be evil, then we but balance the evil that opposes us.’

‘Seeking … negation.’ And Serenity smiled.

‘Sister Reverence made us kneel, Pure. But we are not so naïve as to have come to you expecting anything but the opportunity to give our lives in the name of that which we believe to be right. You will use us, until none of us are left. She did not need to compel the Perish.’

‘I believe you, Erekala. And I find in you and your people much to admire. I will regret sending you all to your deaths. But, as you might well understand, the Wild poses a threat even to us Forkrul Assail, should it truly be unleashed upon the world.’

‘Pure, with my own Thrones of War I have carried your most dangerous enemy to this land. I know well what is coming. It is my judgement – and I am confident that the Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil will concur – it is my judgement, Pure, that in the war now begun we will all lose. And in our losing, the Wild shall win.’

Serenity was silent for a time, studying the Perish commander, the unearthly eyes unwavering. Then, a small catch of breath. ‘Do I err in understanding you, Erekala? You crossed the field of battle … to help even the scales?’

‘By all means, Pure, send us to our deaths. Upon the other side, we shall await you.’

Serenity advanced a step. ‘I know well these Malazans. And I will welcome them!’

‘The Mortal Sword Krughava stood before the Adjunct Tavore and placed her sword in the Adjunct’s hands. Before her, Pure, we did not kneel.’

‘Sister Reverence forced you to kneel, you pompous fool!’

Erekala cocked his head. ‘Did she?’

‘You resisted!’

‘Pure, why would we resist? You forget, we came to you, not the other way round.’

Serenity turned, faced the back wall again. His head tilted as he emptied the goblet of wine. ‘Tomorrow we double our pace, Commander. We will hunt down the foreign army – the murderers of Sister Belie. And your Perish will fling themselves into the battle, and fight and not yield. If it takes the life of every single one of you, the enemy shall be destroyed.’

‘Precisely,’ Erekala replied.

‘Dismissed.’

Donning his helm once more, Erekala left the tent.

Hips aching, Sister Reverence made her way along the ridge overlooking the now-withered farmland. She could see where Brother Diligence had established revetments, arbalest sangers, berms and trenches. She could see how he intended to funnel the enemy to the place of killing. Only the forward echelons and the engineer corps of the Shriven Army were present, the rest remaining closer to the city where supplies could readily accommodate them.

Such an army. Fifty thousand for this one battle, says Brother Diligence. And soon, more Perish Grey Helms. Five thousand heavy infantry, fanatical, and entirely subject to my desire – and Brother Diligence’s. And surrounding the Spire, twenty thousand more, entrenched, immovable. What foe would dare this?

She saw her commander ahead, surrounded by officers and messengers. Old as he was, Brother Diligence seemed to have shed years now that a battle was imminent. As she drew closer, she heard him addressing his officers. ‘… shall be starving – we well know how unproductive the southlands are. And in this weakened state, they will gamble everything on a single cast of the die, a solitary, determined, desperate advance. We need but hold them until their energy is spent, for once that strength is gone they will have nothing in reserve. And then, and only then, shall we advance. Ah, Sister Reverence. Welcome.’

‘Brother Diligence. All that I see here pleases me.’

He tilted in head in acknowledgement. ‘Sister, has there been any word from Sisters Calm and Equity?’

‘No, but I am not unduly concerned. In truth, we can manage quite well without them.’

He frowned, but nodded.

They walked a short distance from the officers.

‘Brother Diligence,’ she said, studying the preparations, ‘I am aware of the Spire defences, and of this, your main army. Where are the reserve armies?’

‘Sister Freedom and Brother Grave command twenty thousand Kolanse infantry positioned ten leagues to the west. To support them, Brother Aloft oversees fifteen thousand Shriven auxiliaries. These combined forces are so positioned as either to respond to a break-out from the enemy holding the keep, or to drive south to engage the enemy marching here – should we perceive the need for them, which I do not.’ He fell silent then, and Reverence saw that his attention had been drawn downslope, to where a rider was fast approaching.

‘News comes,’ Reverence said. ‘In haste.’

‘From my southern outlying pickets, Sister.’

The Shriven’s horse was lathered, straining with exhaustion as it lumbered up the slope. When the rider reined the beast in, it stumbled and barely recovered. The man, soaked in sweat, dismounted and stood before Diligence. ‘Inquisitor,’ he said, struggling to catch his breath.

‘A moment,’ Diligence said. ‘I see you have ridden hard, Shriven, and such efforts tax your imperfect bodies. Gather yourself, and when you are ready, begin.’

The man gulped air for a dozen or so heartbeats, and then nodded. ‘Inquisitor, a report by relay. Six days to the south, an army approaches.’

‘And the size of this army?’

‘Perhaps seven thousand, Inquisitor.’

Diligence gestured one of his officers over. ‘Watered Hestand, prepare a single mounted battalion and a full support train – water and food for at least three legions. You are to make haste to intercept the army now marching up from the south. These foreigners are our allies, the land-based element of the Perish Grey Helms. Treat them with respect, Hestand, on your life.’

‘Yes sir. Shall I deliver a message from you?’

‘A simple welcome will do, until such time as we meet in person. However, it is certain that they will have news of our enemy’s disposition, and that I wish to hear immediately. Be sure to have with you a full cadre of messengers and mounts.’

The Watered saluted and left.

Sister Reverence sighed. ‘Soon, then.’ She was silent for a moment, and then she faced Diligence. ‘It must be understood, Brother, that the Heart shall be secured above all else. We well know that the gods are gathering, and that they will through force or deceit seek to wrest that organ from us. Failing that, they will attempt to destroy it.’

‘None can hope to come close, Sister. The power of Akhrast Korvalain denies them and shall continue to do so. Their only possible path to the Heart is through their mortal servants.’

She feared she was missing something, however. Something … vital. ‘I shall attend the Heart,’ she said. ‘I shall not leave its side.’

‘Understood, Sister Reverence. You will then be accorded a fine view of the battle here, and may well realize our victory before do we on the field.’

‘If instead I see failure, Brother, I shall by my own hand destroy the Heart.’

‘Prudent,’ he said.

Is this enough? What else can I do? And why – why this sudden unease? She stared southward, eyes narrowing. ‘Why, Brother, do we now face such opposition? Another year, perhaps two, and Akhrast Korvalain would be of such power as to dominate this world. And then we could unleash righteous adjudication upon every land, in cleansing wrath.’

‘The Fallen God has forced their hand, Sister Reverence. We cannot determine precisely how, chained and weakened as he is, but I remain convinced that he is behind this gambit.’

‘Perhaps that is as it should be,’ she mused. ‘After all, is not his creed the very antithesis of our own? The flawed, the helpless and the hopeless … daring to stand before holy perfection. The weak of spirit against the indomitable of spirit, the broken against the complete. What astonishes me, Brother Diligence, is their audacity in thinking they could defeat us! Before they even arrive, why, by their very doubts and mutual mistrust, they are already lost.’

Diligence’s gaunt face pinched into a faint smile. ‘“In a war between fanatics and sceptics, the fanatics win every time.”’ At her frown he shrugged. ‘In the vaults of the palace, Sister, our archivists came upon some ancient Jaghut scrolls. Gothos’ Folly. I have been acquainting myself with its peculiar perspective.’

She grimaced. ‘Fanaticism, Brother Diligence, is the harbour of delusions. While to others we may appear no different from fanatics, we are. Fundamentally different, for our cause is a justice beyond our own selves, beyond even our kind. And for all that we Forkrul Assail can but aspire to true perfection, justice stands outside and its state of perfection cannot be questioned.’

‘“When wisdom drips blood fools stand triumphant.”’

Reverence shot him a look. ‘Have those scrolls burned, Brother Diligence. That is a command, not a request.’

He bowed. ‘It shall be done at once, Sister Reverence.’

‘And I would hear no more of this Gothos’ folly, am I understood?’

‘You are, Sister Reverence. Forgive me.’

Her hips throbbed with old pain. We have walked so far. But at last, we make our stand. And we become the fulcrum of the world. And where but upon the fulcrum shall justice be found? Clouds of dust from the work crews lifted to roll over their position. Discomforted by the sting in her eyes and the bitter taste in her mouth, she turned away. ‘Carry on, Brother Diligence.’

Lying prone in the withered grasses with his gaze fixed on the vast camp sprawled in the plain below, Stormy swore under his breath, reached under his belly and dragged free a sharp stone. Beside him, Gesler scratched at his nose and said, ‘That looks ominous, doesn’t it?’

A troop of Perish were marching a half-dozen of their comrades – these ones stripped down weaponless and wearing only their undergarments – out to a trench from which diggers were only now climbing. When they were formed into a line facing that trench, they were made to kneel. Sword blades flashed. Heads rolled and bodies fell.

Gesler grunted. ‘Explains Bent and Roach going mad over those long mounds yesterday.’

Sighing, Stormy said, ‘If we practised that, instead of arguing all the time, Ges, we’d have killed each other a thousand times by now.’

‘Some people hate it when the party ends.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Listen,’ said Stormy, ‘we caught us up with the shits – we should do like Gu’Rull says and cut ’em all down, starting with Tanakalian.’

‘In her worst moments, Krughava might agree. If we didn’t have her under guard, sooner or later she’d be down there trying to do it personally,’ muttered Gesler, ‘but it’d still be wrong. Not … tactical.’

‘Oh, here we go again. High First Fist Sword Prancing Gesler the Great talking tactics again. Lay a wager the rest of them Perish aren’t already waiting in the Assail capital – so instead of taking down five thousand Grey Helms here and now we’ll have to take down twice that number a week from now. How does that make tactical sense?’

‘Krughava thinks she can turn them back, Stormy. But now’s not the time.’

‘She also thinks the sun sets up her ass every night and comes out of her mouth every morning. She’s unhinged, Ges. You can see that, can’t you? Mad as a five-eyed one-whiskered cat—’

‘Hold on … who’s that?’

‘Who? Where?’

‘That girl.’

Stormy fell silent, watching. He could see Tanakalian approaching her, was stunned when the Shield Anvil knelt before her. They were too distant to hear, but by the girl’s gestures – pointing at the trench where the bodies and heads had been dumped – she wasn’t happy about something. And she was giving that backstabbing shit an earful.

‘That must be her,’ Gesler said. ‘The one Faint told us about.’

‘Destriant,’ Stormy grunted. ‘But the question is, how in Hood’s name did she get here?’

‘Warren. She was spat out by the Wolves.’

‘If Krughava’s going to have to face anybody down, it’ll be her.’

‘You’re probably right, Stormy.’ Gesler edged back down the slope of the ridge, and then sat up. After a moment Stormy slid down to join him. ‘It’s this,’ Gesler said, wiping dirt from his hands. ‘The Wolves of War, right? So how come that army’s acting like they don’t even know we’re half a day behind them?’

Stormy scratched in his beard. ‘Wolves do the hunting. They don’t get hunted.’

‘Except by us humans.’

‘Still, might be just never occurred to them to take a look back.’

‘So maybe the Adjunct had it right,’ Gesler said. ‘This army of K’Chain Che’Malle is ready to come down like a knife in the middle of the table.’

‘More like we’re like snakes in the grass, and our fangs are fuckin’ dripping.’ Stormy smiled without humour. ‘Excited yet, Mortal Sword?’

Gesler’s eyes were bright. ‘You?’

‘Nah, you’re bound to mess it all up.’

‘That didn’t last. Thanks.’

‘Just keep your head level, Ges, that’s all I’m asking.’

Gesler’s expression was incredulous. ‘Now that’s rich, Stormy, coming from you.’

‘I’m more battle-hardened these days, Ges. All my wisdom I earned the hard way.’

‘How are you managing to keep a straight face?’

‘That’s what us battle-hardened veterans do best. Now, let’s get back to camp. My mouth is watering at the thought of more armpit fungi and a big tankard brimming with gland juice.’

There is treachery in his heart. Setoc stared down at the beheaded brothers and sisters, feeling the fury of the Wolves, struggling to contain its wild wrath. The presence of the beast gods within her surged mindless as a storm, and again and again she felt as if she was moments from drowning in the deluge. I am Setoc. Leave me to be your voice! Blind rage is pointless – for all that your cause is just, it must be a human mind that guides us all into the war to come.

And this was what Tanakalian did not understand. Or, perhaps, what he feared the most. We must be free to speak – all of us. We must be free to object, to argue – even the Wolves do not understand this. Look at these bodies – they spoke out against the cruel pace … among other things. Above all, they spoke out of fear for the readiness of their fellow soldiers – this army is exhausted.

She turned, faced south, her eyes narrowing on a grassy ridge opposite. If they came for us now, these lizard warriors, we would fall like myrid to the neck-hooks. If they came for us now, I would have to awaken the Wolves. But … the footfall of gods upon the land shall summon like drums of war. Power draws power – too soon, too far away.

Still … I wonder. Why do they not attack?

She turned to see Tanakalian approaching. Another audience. Shall I drive him to his knees again, humiliate him? No. That can wait. She set off to take the two of them a fair distance from the camp, well beyond earshot. Still … treachery in his heart.

Even before he caught up to her he began speaking. ‘Destriant, you must understand. The Perish are bound by strict rules of behaviour. It is this discipline which gives us our strength.’

‘You are destroying this army, Shield Anvil.’

‘The K’Chain Che’Malle—’

‘Have already caught up to us.’

His eyes widened, but for once he did not question her. ‘The Wolves must be sent against them, Destriant! We cannot hope to—’

‘Now that our soldiers can barely stand, no, you’re right: we cannot.’

He drew himself up. ‘This threat was ever present in my mind, Destriant. It was my hope that the K’Chain Che’Malle would be content with escorting the Letherii and Bolkando. But I knew that I could not gamble the lives of my brothers and sisters on that assumption. This is why I drove my soldiers as hard as I did – we must reach the safety of the Forkrul Assail as soon as possible.’

‘But you have failed to do so, Shield Anvil. And what manner of welcome, do you imagine, will the Assail accord us when we arrive with an army already half-dead?’

He was pale and she could see the venom in his eyes. ‘I had no choice.’

‘You were impatient, Shield Anvil. You exulted in your betrayal and in so doing you revealed your true nature too soon – your once-allies know the truth of you now. And they have had time to adjust their tactics.’

‘This is Krughava’s fault! All of it!’

‘There shall be no more executions, Shield Anvil. Worse, your denial of their embrace has made a mockery of your title. I look upon you and I can see, at last, the path that led to the Forkrul Assail.’

Shock twisted his face. ‘What does that mean? I am sworn to the Wolves of Winter!’

‘You are drunk on justice, Shield Anvil, and for all that you imagine you walk a straight line, in truth you stumble and weave. Now you stand before me, deluded in your righteousness, and upon the path where you walked’ – she gestured back towards the bodies in the trench – ‘the corpses of the innocent.’

‘The delusions,’ he said in a low rasp, ‘are not mine, child.’

Setoc smiled. ‘Go on. I am intrigued.’

‘Do you truly believe you can withstand the will of the Forkrul Assail? We shall be brought to heel – but that is not how it was supposed to be. Their aims are petty compared to ours. For all their claims, Destriant, the truth is, I intended to use them. They demand that we kneel? So be it. It matters not. The Wolves are blind to all of this – we think in ways they cannot comprehend, and this game will not be won with slavering jaws and berserk rage. Against us, that has never worked. No, the Wolves of Winter are better off hiding in the forest, in the dark shadows. Leave us to do what must be done, and when all the players are weakened, then shall come the time for our gods to attack – after all, is that not the way of the wolves in the wild?’

‘Tanakalian,’ said Setoc, ‘I agree with you. But alas, I cannot choose the times when the gods speak through me. I will have no control over their power the day it steals my will. Their anger will overwhelm, and through their eyes they will see nothing but blood.’

‘That is not how to fight a war.’

‘I know.’

He stepped forward, a sudden hope in his eyes. ‘Then you must work with me, Destriant! We can win this – win it in truth! Warn the Wolves – if they manifest, within reach of the Forkrul Assail, they will be murdered. Or worse, enslaved.’

‘Then stand before me now as a true Shield Anvil. It is not for you to judge, not for you to deny your brothers and sisters. And above all, it is not for you to take their lives.’

Tanakalian pointed back to the bodies in the trench. ‘They would have deserted, Destriant. They would have fled back to Krughava, carrying with them vital information. Their crime was treason.’

‘They sought to raise a new Mortal Sword,’ she said. ‘For the field of battle, they sought a veteran to command them. You killed them because of a personal slight, Tanakalian.’

‘Matters were far more complicated than you realize.’

She shook her head. ‘You face a crisis, Shield Anvil. Your soldiers have lost confidence in you. It is crucial that you understand – if not for me, this army would return to Krughava.’

‘Unleash the Wolves upon the K’Chain Che’Malle – buy us the time we need.’

‘It will not be.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they refuse, Shield Anvil.’

‘But … why?’

Setoc shrugged. ‘The K’Chain Che’Malle were never the enemy of the beasts. They were never so insecure as to feel the need to slaughter everything in sight. They were never so frightened, so ignorant, so … pathetic. I believe the Wolves do not see them as deserving of slaughter.’

‘And will they change their minds when those lizards attack us?’

She fixed on him a sharp, searching stare. ‘What will the Wolves witness? K’Chain Che’Malle cutting down … humans.’

‘But we Perish are to be their swords of vengeance!’

‘Then we can only hope that we do not face the K’Chain Che’Malle on a field of battle.’

‘Do you finally comprehend the necessity, the burden upon us, Destriant? We must stand in the shadow of the Forkrul Assail. We must be free to choose where and when to fight, and indeed whom we shall face. Let the Assail believe they have us well shackled and compliant, eager even.’

‘You balance everything on the thinnest knife edge, Shield Anvil.’

‘We are the Grey Helms, Destriant, and we shall serve the Wolves.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And that is why we must continue marching at this pace – leave the lizards no time to think about what to do about us. And if they chase our tails right into the Assail army, well, the moment those two ancient foes set sight upon each other …’

‘We need only step aside.’

He nodded.

Dismissing him for the moment, Setoc turned away. Perhaps. Is this the treachery I sense in Tanakalian? And if I cannot agree with his methods, must I then reject his intentions? But the game he would play … poised between two such deadly enemies … is it possible?

No, ask yourself this instead, Setoc: what alternative do we have? When she turned he was standing as he had been, facing her, and in his face, blind need. ‘Are you clever enough for this, Shield Anvil?’

‘I see no other way, Destriant.’ He hesitated, and then he said, ‘Each night, I pray to the Wolves of Winter—’

She turned away again, and this time with finality. ‘You waste your breath, Shield Anvil.’

‘What?’

‘They don’t understand worshippers,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘They never did.’

Once more, staggering lost – the darkness and the unbearable pressure, the raging currents that sought to rend the flesh from his bones, and on all sides the half-buried wreckage of the lost. He stumbled over rotted planks from broken hulls, kicked up bleached bones that flashed and spun in milky clouds. Silt-painted amphorae, ingots of tin and lead, a scattering of hundreds of round shields, hammered bronze over crumbling wood. Banded chests collapsed and spilling out their gems and coins – and everywhere the remains of sea creatures, their insensate bodies dragged down into the depths, and the rain from above was unending.

Brys Beddict knew this world. Was this yet another dream? A haunting from his memories? Or had his soul at last returned, to this place he would learn to call home?

Above all, the greatest pressure he felt, the one force which neither the strength of his legs nor the stolid stubbornness of his will could withstand, was that of immense, devastating loneliness. Into death we step alone. Our last journey is made in solitude. Our eyes straining, our hands groping – where are we? We do not know. We cannot see.

It was all he needed. It was all anyone needed. A hand to take ours. A hand reaching out from the gloom. To welcome us, to assure us that our loneliness – that which we knew all our lives and so fought against with each breath we took – that loneliness has at last come to an end.

Making death the most precious gift of all.

A thousand sages and philosophers had closed desperate fingers about the throat of this … this one thing. Even as they recoiled in horror, or, with a defiant cry, leapt forward. Tell us, please – show us your proofs. Tell us oblivion has a face, and upon it the curve of a smile, the blessing of recognition. Is that too much to ask?

But this, he knew, was the secret terror behind all faiths. The choice to believe, when to not believe invited the horror of the meaningless, all these lives empty of purpose, all these hopes relinquished, dropped from the hand, left to sink in the thick mud – with silts raining down until everything is buried.

I knew a man who studied fossils. He had made this pursuit his entire life. He spoke with great animation about his need to solve the mysteries of the distant past. And this guided his life for decades, until, in a confession written the night he took his own life, he finally spoke of the truth he had at last discovered. ‘I have found the secret, the one secret that is the past. The secret is this. There are more life forms in the history of this world than we could ever imagine, much less comprehend. They lived and they died and what little remains tells us only that they once existed. And therein hides the secret, the terrible secret. It’s all for nothing. Nothing but fragments of bone. All of it … for nothing.’

Easy enough to understand how this could have unleashed the black dogs, when comprehension yielded only a vast abyss.

But then Brys found a familiar face rising before him, there in his beleaguered memories, or dream-world – whichever this was. Tehol, and that look in his eyes that one might see the moment before he spat in the face of every god that ever existed, only to then move on to the dour mendics and philosophers and wild-haired poets. Damn them all, Brys. No one really needs an excuse to give up on life, and all the ones you hear you might as well pluck out of a hat. Surrender is easy. Fighting is hard. Brother, I remember once reading about deadly swords that, in the moment of war, would howl with laughter. What better symbol of human defiance than that?

Sure, Brys, I remember that bone collector. He got it all wrong. With that secret he discovered, he had a choice. Despair or wonder. Between the two, which would you choose? Me, I look at the idiocy and futility of existence and how can I not wonder?

Every creature dies, brother – you should know. I’d wager that each and every one of those creatures set out into the darkness, soul crouched and timid, not knowing what waited ahead. Why should us smart animals be unique? Death levels us with the cockroaches and the rats and the earthworms. Faith is more than turning our backs on the abyss and pretending it’s not there, Brys. It’s how we climb up above the cockroaches, top of the ladder, lads! And those seven rungs make all the difference! Eight? Eight rungs, then. Up here, the gods can finally see us, right?

Remember that other sage who said the soul is carried from the body by maggots? Crush a maggot kill a soul. And damn but they’d have to crawl far, so the gods gave them wings, to carry them up into the heavens. Makes for a strangely logical theory, don’t you think? Where was I, brother?

More to the point, where are you?

The face of Tehol drifted away, leaving Brys alone once more. Where am I, Tehol? I am … nowhere.

He stumbled, he groped blindly, he staggered beneath unimaginable weights – too ephemeral to shrug off, yet heavy as mountains nonetheless. And on all sides, unrelieved darkness—

But no … is that light? Is that …

In the distance, a lantern’s yellow flame, murky, flaring and ebbing in the currents.

Who? Do … do you see me?

A hand reaching out, the curve of a smile on a welcoming face.

Who are you? Why do you come for me, if not to bless me with revelation?

The stranger held the lantern low, as if no longer caring what it might reveal, and Brys saw that he was a Tiste Edur, a grey-skinned warrior wearing tattered leathers that streamed behind him like tentacles.

Step by step, he drew closer. Brys stood in the man’s path, waiting.

When the Edur arrived, he looked up, dark eyes staring with an inner fire. His mouth worked, as if he’d forgotten how to speak.

Brys held up a hand in greeting.

The Edur grasped it and Brys grunted as the man leaned forward, giving him all his weight. The face, pitted and rotted, lifted to his own.

And the Edur spoke. ‘Friend, do you know me? Will you bless me?’

When his eyes snapped open, Aranict was ready for him, ready for the raw horror of his expression, the soul exposed and shaken to its very core, and she took him tight in her arms. And knew, in the pit of her heart, that she was losing him.

Back. He’s on his way back, and I cannot hold on to him. I cannot. She felt him shudder, and his flesh felt cold, almost damp. He smells of … salt.

It was some time before his breathing calmed, and then once more he was asleep. She slowly disengaged herself, rose, throwing on a cloak, and stepped out from the tent. It was near dawn, the encampment still and quiet as a graveyard. Overhead, the Jade Strangers cut a vast swathe across the night sky, poised like talons about to descend.

She drew out her tinder box and a stick of rustleaf. To ease the gnawing hunger.

This land was ruined, in many ways far worse than the Wastelands. All around them were signs of past prosperity. Entire villages now empty, abandoned to weeds, dust and the scattered remnants left by those who had once lived there. The fields surrounding the farms were blown down to rocks and clay, and not a single tree remained – only stumps or, here and there, pits where even the stumps had been dug out. There was no animal life, no birds, and every well they examined, every stream bed her minor mages worked over, seeking to draw water from the depths, yielded little more than soupy sludge. Their few remaining horses were suffering and might not even make it into Kolanse proper. And the rest of us aren’t doing much better. Low on food, exhausting ourselves sinking wells, and knowing that somewhere ahead a well-rested, well-fed army waits for us.

She drew hard on the stick, looked eastward to the distant camp of the Bolkando. No fires. Even the standards tilted like the masts of some foundered ship. I fear we won’t be enough, not to do what the Adjunct needed, what she wanted. It may prove that this entire journey will end in failure, and death.

Brys came out of the tent to stand beside her. He took the stick from her fingers and drew on it. He’d begun doing that a few weeks past, seeking, perhaps, to calm his nerves in the wake of his nightmares. But she didn’t mind. She liked the company.

‘I can almost taste the thoughts of my soldiers,’ he said. ‘We will have to kill and eat the last horses. Won’t be enough – even sparing the water to make a stew … ah, if we could have scavenged, this might have succeeded.’

‘We’re not done yet, my love.’ Please, I beg you, do not answer that with yet another sad smile. With each one, I feel you slip further away.

‘It is our growing weakness that worries them the most,’ he said. ‘They fear we won’t be fit to fight.’

‘The Perish, if anything, will be even worse off.’

‘But they will have some days in which to recover. Besides which, Aranict, one must fear more the Assail army.’

She lit a second stick, and then gestured with one hand. ‘If all of Kolanse is like this, they won’t have an army.’

‘Queen Abrastal assures me that Kolanse continues to thrive, with what the sea offers, and the fertile valley province of Estobanse continues to produce, sheltered from the drought.’

And each night the nightmares take you. And each night I lie awake, watching you. Wondering about all the other paths we could have taken. ‘How have we failed her?’ Aranict asked. ‘What more could we have done?’

Brys grimaced. ‘This is the risk when you march an army into the unknown. In truth, no commander in his or her right mind would even contemplate such a precipitous act. Even in the invasion of new territories, all is preceded by extensive scouting, contact with local elements, and as much background intelligence as one can muster: history, trade routes, past wars.’

‘Then, without the Bolkando, we would truly be marching blind. If Abrastal had not concluded that it was in her kingdom’s interest to pursue this – Brys, have we misjudged the Adjunct from the very beginning? Did we fall into the trap of assuming she knew more than she did, that all that she had set out to do was actually achievable?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

He reached over and took the new stick of rustleaf. ‘On whether she has succeeded in crossing the Glass Desert, I suppose.’

‘A crossing that cannot be made.’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Brys, not even the Adjunct can will her Malazans to achieve the impossible. The world sets physical limits and we must live by them, or those limits will kill us. Look around – we are almost out of food and water. And this land has nothing to give us, and just as the farmers and villagers all fled or perished, so too are we faced with the same, hard reality. The country is destroyed.’

He seemed to be studying the sky. ‘My father was not an imaginative man. He could never understand me and Tehol – especially Tehol. Our brother Hull, well now, he started out as the perfect eldest son, only to be pronounced dead in the eyes of Father.’ He was silent for a few moments, smoking, and then he resumed. ‘Beyond all the tutors foisted upon us, it was our father who insisted on delivering his one lesson. Even if it killed us, he would teach us the value of pragmatism. Which is, as I am sure you well understand, nothing more than a cogent recognition of reality: its limits, its demands and its necessities.’

Aranict cocked her head, wondering at the direction of his thoughts. ‘Beloved, of all men, the name of Tehol does not come to mind when I think pragmatic.’

He glanced across at her. ‘And what of me?’

‘In you, yes. You are a weaponmaster, after all. I never knew Hull, so of him I cannot say.’

‘So, you conclude that of the three Beddict brothers, I alone absorbed our father’s harsh lessons in pragmatism.’

She nodded.

Brys looked away again, this time to the southeast. ‘How far away, do you think, lies the coast?’

‘Proper marching, three days – if the queen’s maps are at all accurate.’

‘Oh,’ he murmured, ‘I am sure they are.’

‘It’s almost dawn,’ Aranict said.

‘We will not march today, my love.’

She shot him a look. ‘A day’s rest – at this point – could prove counterproductive.’

He flicked away the stick, eyes tracking the glowing end. ‘Before he … changed his mind about things, Tehol became the wealthiest man in Lether, Aranict. Ask yourself, how could he have done that, if in pragmatism he was an utter failure?’ He faced the camp. ‘Today, we eat the last of our food, and drink the last of our water.’

‘Brys?’

‘I think,’ he said, ‘I will walk over to the Bolkando camp. Will you join me, love?’

‘Mud of the gods, woman, what are you doing?’

Abrastal looked up. ‘What does it look as if I’m doing, Spax?’

Her fiery tresses lay heaped on the tent floor. She was wrapped in her blanket and as far as he could tell, naked underneath. He watched as she resumed slashing long lengths away with her knife. ‘I witness,’ he said, ‘the death of my lust.’

‘Good. It’s about time. I was never going to bed you, Barghast.’

‘Not the point. It was the desire I took so much pleasure in.’

‘That’s pathetic.’

Spax shrugged. ‘I am an ugly man. This is how ugly men get through each damned day.’

‘You’ve been bedding my daughter.’

‘She only does it to infuriate you, Highness.’

Abrastal paused with her knife, looked up at him. ‘And has it succeeded?’

Grinning, Spax said, ‘So I tell her every night. All about your rants, your foaming mouth, your outrage and fury.’

‘Ugly and clever, a deadly combination in any man.’

‘Or woman, I would wager.’

‘What do you want?’

‘My scouts have returned from the coast, Highness. With news.’

Finally, she sensed something in him, in his tone, or the look in his eyes, for she slowly straightened. ‘Are we flanked, Warchief?’

‘No enemy in sight, Highness.’

‘Then what? As you can see, I’m armed, and my patience is getting as short as my hair.’

‘Ships were sighted. A rag-tag fleet.’

‘Ships? Under what flag?’

‘Letherii, Highness.’

Suddenly she was on her feet. Her hair only half shorn, she flung the knife away. The blanket slipped down and Spax found himself staring at her magnificent body.

‘Highness, I could live with that short hair.’

‘Get out of here – and send a messenger to Brys.’

‘No need, Highness – about the messenger, I mean. He and Aranict are even now approaching camp.’

She was casting about for her clothes. Now she paused. ‘This was planned!’

Spax shrugged. ‘Possibly. But then, why not tell us? I’m more inclined to think this gesture was made by the king, entirely on his own.’

She grunted. ‘You might be right. What else did the scouts see?’

‘Landings, Highness. Battalion strength, Letherii infantry and auxiliaries. And more supplies than any single battalion would ever need.’

‘Was the Imperial Standard flying? Does King Tehol command?’

‘No, only the battalion colours were present, as far as my scouts could determine. In any case, just this last night, my scouts realized that riders were on their trail. They too will be upon us shortly.’

She was still standing before him, in all her glory. ‘What are you still doing here?’

‘Answering your questions, Highness.’

‘I am finished with my questions. Get out.’

‘One more detail you might be interested in learning,’ Spax said. ‘Among the auxiliaries, Highness, there are Teblor.’

Abrastal and Warchief Spax were waiting outside the queen’s tent, and Aranict studied them as she and Brys approached. Both were arrayed in their full regalia, the queen looking imperial though the hair on one side of her head was shorn away, and the Gilk Warchief festooned in weapons and wearing an ankle-length cloak made of turtle shells. What is this? What has happened?

Abrastal was the first to speak. ‘Prince Brys, it seems we shall be entertaining guests shortly.’

‘Before you ask,’ Brys replied, ‘this was not arranged beforehand. However, the last messengers I sent back to my brother detailed what we then knew of our route. At the time, we were ten days into the Wastelands.’

‘Still,’ she said, ‘the timing of this is … extraordinary.’

‘My brother’s Ceda is able to sense, even at a great distance, sorcerous efforts seeking groundwater.’ He turned slightly to nod at Aranict. ‘As you know, our legion mages have been engaged in such rituals ever since we left the Wastelands.’

Abrastal’s voice was flat. ‘Your Ceda was able to track us based on the drawing of water from the ground … while he sits ensconced in the palace in Letheras? You expect me to give credit to that explanation, Prince? Not even a god could reach that far.’

‘Yes, well.’

They could hear horses now, coming in from the southeast, and the Bolkando camp was suddenly stirring, as exhausted, suffering soldiers left their bivouacs to line the main avenue between tent rows. Voices were lifting – and now Aranict could see the vanguard. She squinted at the pennants. ‘Sire,’ she said to Brys, ‘Letherii, yes, but I do not recognize the heraldry – what battalion is that?’

‘A new one, I would hazard,’ Brys replied.

The battalion commander halted his troop with a gesture and then rode forward until he was ten paces from Brys and the others. He dismounted in a clatter of armour, removed his helm and then walked to kneel before the prince.

‘Idist Tennedict, sire, commanding the Chancel Battalion.’

‘Please stand, Commander,’ said Brys. ‘Your arrival is most welcome. Idist Tennedict – I believe I know that family name though at the moment I cannot place it.’

‘Yes, sire. My father was one of your brother’s principal stakeholders, and numbered among the first to go under on the Day of Losses.’

‘I see. It seems, however, that the Tennedict family has recovered from its … misfortune.’

‘Yes, and the king has seen fit to reward us, sire –’

‘Excellent.’

‘– in the form of community service, under his new programme of Indebtedness to the Community, sire. As the middle son and facing few prospects, I elected to take the military route for my community service, while the rest of the Tennedict family set to reforming the impoverished conditions of the indigents out on the Isles.’

Abrastal made a sound somewhere between disbelief and disgust. ‘Forgive my interruption, Commander. Am I to understand that the king of Lether, having ruined your family’s wealth, has since seen fit to demand from you a period of public service?’

‘That is correct, Highness.’

‘How is that even remotely fair?’

Idist managed a faint smile as he regarded her. ‘On the matter of fairness, Queen, King Tehol had much to say to my father, and all those others who profit from the debts of others.’

Abrastal scowled. ‘Speaking from a position of great privilege, I find that offensive.’

‘Highness,’ said Idist, ‘I believe that was the point.’

Brys spoke. ‘Commander, you bring not only yourselves, but also resupply, is that correct?’

‘It is, sire. In addition, I carry a written missive from the king, addressed to you.’

‘Do you have it with you?’

‘I do, sire.’

‘Then, please, read it to us.’

The young commander’s brows lifted. ‘Sire? Perhaps, some privacy …’

‘Not at all, Commander. You seem to have the voice of a drill sergeant as it is. Lend it to my brother’s words, if you please.’

All at once the man was sweating, and Aranict felt a sudden sympathy. She leaned close to Brys. ‘You might want to reconsider, love. This is your brother, after all.’

‘Yes, and?’

‘His own words, Brys.’

The prince frowned. ‘Ah, right.’

But Idist had begun. ‘“Greetings to Prince Brys from King Tehol the Only of Lether. Dearest brother, have you slept with her yet?”’ Wisely, he paused then and looked up at the prince. On all sides, from the soldiers within earshot to Abrastal and Spax, there was deathly silence. Sighing, Aranict lit a stick of rustleaf.

Brys stood, one hand over his eyes, and then, with a helpless gesture, bade Idist continue.

‘“Never mind, we can talk about that later, but let it be known that as king I can command from you every detail down to the very last, er, detail, all the while promising that my wife will never hear a single word of any of it. Since, as I am sure you have now discovered, pillow talk can be deadly.

‘“Best I turn now to the dull, official content next, so that we can later return to the juicy details. I feel justified in such expectations since I have discovered that women actually engage in the most horrendously explicit discussions of their menfolk when in the company of their bosomed friends, inviting tit for tat, and what tit could be more inviting than tat?”’

Spax burst out a harsh laugh, and then ducked. ‘Sorry, that was just me, being appalled.’

Idist resumed. ‘“Official now. Bugg formed up his own battalion, found an able commander for it, and then hired a fleet to transport said reinforcements along with all the resupply he could wedge into the holds. And then, following my proclamation of the sovereignty of the indigents out on the Isles, Bugg oversaw all the Teblor who, strangely, rushed to join the Letherii military with the aim of accompanying the Chancel fleet. Between you and me, the Teblor have to be the most contrary people I have ever known. Anyway, with all of Bugg doing this and Bugg doing that, I am understandably exhausted and I graciously accept your sympathy. To continue, the battalion now has three hundred Teblor in its auxiliaries. I believe some ancient prophecy has them in an advanced state of excitement.

‘“Just as my very own prophecy of your impending love-life having now come true (I trust), why, I am left in an advanced state of excitement – but not improperly so, I assure you. That would be sick. Never mind tales of war and mayhem, brother, spin me a romance! Trapped in a palace and chained to a wife, well, you can imagine my desperation here.

‘“Sincerely as I am to put into practice a new period of austerity here in the palace, I have just discovered the error of dictating this missive to my wife. So I will take this moment, before fleeing the room, to send to you all my love, and to extend my warmest greetings to everyone else whom you have forced into the awkward position of hearing this.

‘“With deepest affection, your loving brother, King Tehol.”’

‘Prince Brys,’ murmured Abrastal, ‘you have my sympathies.’

Brys sighed, and then, in a remarkably calm and steady voice, he addressed Idist. ‘Commander, when will the battalion arrive?’

‘They have already begun their march, sire. Two days behind us. I left orders to push on into the night and rise before dawn, so with luck they will arrive by dusk tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, Commander.’

As they walked back to the Letherii encampment, Idist and his troop maintaining a respectful distance behind them, Aranict took Brys’s hand. ‘All that cheering and laughter – that was in gratitude. You do realize that, don’t you?’

He frowned.

‘Brys.’

‘He does it on purpose, you know. Sees me as far too serious – but then, it just so happens I am about to lead my soldiers into war. We have marched a long way and have suffered deprivations, and our enemy awaits us, fit, rested and probably thoroughly entrenched. That enemy will be choosing the ground, and to make matters worse they will probably outnumber us by a wide margin.’

‘Nothing he said made light of that,’ she responded. ‘And by his gesture alone, you must know that he worries for you. This resupply gives us a fighting chance.’

‘I know. And of course I’m grateful – how could I not be?’

‘Idist did warn you.’

Brys shook his head. ‘It’s not the letter, Aranict.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘What just happened back there played out in Tehol’s mind even as he dictated the lines to his wife. He knew I would want his words read out loud – my brother is diabolical and thoroughly shameless. I have spent my whole life walking wide-eyed into his snares, and none of it bothers me. In fact, I cannot help but admire his genius. Every time.’

Aranict was baffled. ‘Brys, what is it then?’

‘I cannot recall, Aranict – and I have been trying – I cannot recall Tehol ever saying that he loved me. And that alone is the measure of his concern, and it’s shaken me to the core.’

‘Brys—’

‘Tehol fears we will not see each other again. For all its mundane silliness, he came as close to saying goodbye as anyone could without using the word itself. And so, as you perhaps can now imagine, I miss him. I miss him dearly.’

She held tight on to his hand. As if that could help, when she knew that it could not. But she had nothing to say to him – her mind was blank, echoing in the wake of what had just rushed through it. He expects to die. My love expects to die.

The relief wagons rolled into the camp, and for the first time, Shield Anvil Tanakalian set eyes upon a Forkrul Assail – or so he thought, only to subsequently discover that the man was but a half-blood, a Watered. No matter, there was something of a nightmare about him – the skin white as papyrus, the way he moved, his arms crooking like snakes, the sinuous flow of his strides, and the ghastly coldness in his pallid eyes.

These are the deadliest of allies. I am not blind to the contempt you have for us, when you look upon our beleaguered, battered condition. But we shall recover, and swiftly, and when the time comes to do what is necessary, we shall be ready.

He saw Setoc standing apart, ignoring the Watered and his officers, ignoring everyone and everything. Was she caught in the grip of the Wolves? Did they stare out now from her mismatched eyes? She is a liability. But it’s not her fault – the Wolves have taken her, they use her – she is nothing more than a portal, and when the gods choose to manifest in this world they will tear right through her. I doubt she will even survive.

If necessary, I will seal that portal. I will stop the Wolves from coming. I will do this to save their lives.

So his prayers went unanswered. By her words she had made plain that the priests of the Grey Helms were all fools, self-deluded in believing they could touch the mind of the Wild. And generations of Perish who gave their lives to the Wolves … a waste. All that blood spilled. And the struggles for power, those precious titles of Mortal Sword, Shield Anvil, Destriant, they all meant nothing.

And therein lurks the cruellest truth of all. In the end, we are no different from every other cult, every other religion. Convincing ourselves of the righteousness of our path. Convincing ourselves that we alone hold to an immutable truth. Secure in the belief that everyone else is damned.

But it was all a game, the sacred a playground for secular power struggles, venal ambition.

What’s left to believe in?

His thoughts swirled, spun in a vortex, taking him down and down … to Krughava. Did you see through it all? Did you decide that personal glory was all there was, the only thing worthy of aspiration? Are you, Krughava, the reduction of the argument?

Make your last stand. Die neck-deep in integrity and honour and duty – those words are borne on a flag, in three shades of red, and you will rally to that standard and once there you will happily die. Very well, Krughava, I can make sense of you now. It does not help, because still I will not follow you. But at least I understand.

They didn’t need Setoc. The Grey Helms would be the wrath of the Wolves, the fury of the Wild, but without risk to the Wolves. Yes, this is war, but do not come here. Not to this one. If you do, they will take you. If you do, gods will die on that day.

I will not have it.

He realized that he stood between the two – between Krughava and Setoc, between the profane and the sacred, and yet to neither would he give his embrace. Poised on the knife edge indeed. I am the Shield Anvil, and the virtue of blessing is my one and my only virtue, yet here I stand, trapped, unwilling to reach out to either one.

It seems that the glorious death shall be mine, after all.

‘Shield Anvil.’

He turned, found himself facing the Watered commander. ‘Yes?’

‘I suggest you rest and feed for this night. Come the dawn we can begin our march to Blessed Gift—’

‘Excuse me, where?’

‘Blessed Gift is the old name for the plain where awaits the Kolanse army. It was a land once rich with wheat.’

Tanakalian smiled, looked away. ‘Very well.’

‘Shield Anvil.’

He glanced back. ‘What is it?’

The Watered tilted his head. ‘I was about to comment on the impressive courtesy in the manners of your soldiers.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Tanakalian, voice tight, ‘I am … distracted.’

‘Of course. Brother Diligence wishes to know, are those pursuing you the only threat we should expect?’

Those pursuing … but I say nothing of the K’Chain Che’Malle. Not to you, not to any of you. ‘I believe so. However …’

‘Shield Anvil?’

‘There was an army of foreigners – but they attempted to cross the Glass Desert. It is probably safe to assume that they have failed.’

‘I agree. We have sensed nothing impinging upon us from that direction.’

Tanakalian nodded. ‘Well, I doubt you would have anyway, but it pleases me to hear your certainty in your assessment that the Glass Desert cannot be crossed.’

‘A moment, Shield Anvil – you say to me that you do not think we would sense their appearance. Why is that?’

Tanakalian’s eyes wandered past, settled once more on Setoc. He shrugged. ‘Their commander wields an Otataral sword. Not that it could save—’ He stopped then, for the Watered was marching back to his entourage, shouting commands in the Kolansii language. In moments, three riders wheeled their mounts and set out at a gallop northward.

When he glanced back at Setoc, he found her staring at him.

The Shield Anvil realized that he was sweating, his heart beating fast in his chest. ‘It’s just an Otataral sword,’ he muttered, baffled at the Watered’s obvious alarm, unnerved by Setoc’s sudden attention.

Calm yourself. Hold to the knife’s edge. Breathe deeply … breathe …

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CALM STOOD MOTIONLESS, FACING SOUTHWEST. THE SKY WAS EMPTY, cloudless, the blue washed out and tinged green by the Strangers. Empty, and yet … Death comes. I see a road built from bones and dust, a road slashing the flesh of the earth. It comes with the speed of the wind. It comes in the shadow of … gods below! Confusion erupted within her. Then terror and dread. Korabas! Unchained! But why? Who would do such a thing? Who has summoned this power? It is madness! For an instant, she felt once more the unyielding weight of the stone that had once imprisoned her – suffocating, the horror of limbs she could not move, the darkness and the terrible, terrible solitude. And she knew what this was; she knew this sensation, this animal terror. Panic. No! No one will take me again!

Trembling, she struggled to regain control.

Korabas. You are freed – I feel your bitter exultation. Perhaps I alone can truly understand it.

But they will come for you. Can you not feel them? The Eleint are upon this world. They will kill you.

Do not seek us. Do not pierce the skin of Akhrast Korvalain. We must not be wounded – not now, Korabas, I beg you.

But she knew that there would be no reasoning with such a creature. From the moment of its creation, the Otataral Dragon had been doomed to an eternity of anguish and rage. Unmatched in power, yet that power was abnegation. Its only food was sorcery, but life itself was a manifestation of magic, and so all it touched it killed. Only the Eleint possessed the will to withstand that.

Such … loneliness. The ordeal of existence … so unrelenting in its refutation. Yes, Korabas, I could look into your eyes. Without flinching. For I know the truth of your turmoil.

She knew she could not alter the dragon’s deadly path. Her brothers and sisters had no idea what was now winging towards them, and against the Otataral Dragon … they might all die. Reverence, Diligence, Serenity … all my pure kin. And all that we sought to achieve will be destroyed. No, she could not stop Korabas.

But I can avenge the deaths of my brothers and sisters.

She was camped three days from the bound body of Lifestealer. Three days from the one weapon capable of matching the Otataral Dragon. Icarium. I will awaken you. If the Eleint fail – if they do not come in time – I leave Korabas to you.

The two would seek each other out – they could do naught else. The dragon is negation. But Icarium is an open wound into Chaos itself. When his self shatters, when his so-called rage is unleashed, he is but a conduit, a portalway. This is why he cannot be stopped – he is not even there. Shall you do battle against chaos itself? Impossible.

They will clash, and that battle shall destroy the world.

Good.

Even Sister Reverence does not understand: there is more than one path to justice.

She set out.

Beneath her feet, the earth’s screaming now reached her senses – she could feel the tremors of the assault being inflicted upon it. The sudden blighting, the eruptions of dust, the vast fissures opening below Korabas. Where she passes, there shall be no life. Where she passes, all that is living shall die.

Eleint, find Korabas. Kill the Otataral Dragon. That is all I ask. And then we can bargain, for I shall have Icarium – I shall have a force of chaos to match your own. We can strike a perfect balance, in a world scoured empty of meddling gods … imagine what can be achieved!

We can give the inheritors true freedom, and by their each and every deed we can watch them hang themselves. No gods to blame, no excuses to build up, no lies to hide behind. Such a glorious world it will be! Such a righteous place – a place where justice never blinks.

We can share such a world, Eleint.

Climbing a slope to a ridgeline, she found two figures standing in her path.

T’lan Imass.

Ancient rage flared incandescent in Calm, and once more panic rattled through her, just as quickly crushed down. ‘You would dare this?’

In answer they readied their stone weapons.

‘He is mine!’

‘He is no one’s, Forkrul Assail,’ said the female. ‘Turn back.’

Calm barked a laugh as she quested with her power. ‘I sense no others in this soil, nor on the winds – there are just the two of you. You must be fools to think you can stop me. I held the Stone Stairs against hundreds of your kind. I ended their war.’

The two T’lan Imass stepped out to the sides, the huge male hefting a flint-studded bone mace, the female shifting her grip on a stone spear.

Calm moved with stunning speed, lunging at the female, her torso writhing to evade the thrusting weapon. Her hands snapped out, one plunging into the undead warrior’s chest amidst shattering ribs, the other lashing at her face – catching the lower jaw and tearing it off.

She twisted past, evading the downward swing of the male’s weapon, and with one hand now gripping the spine, she spun the female round, lifting her off her feet and flinging her into the male’s path. Even as he stumbled, he swung the mace in a diagonal slash. The Forkrul Assail stepped inside the attack, blocking the bone shaft with her wrists, turned to face him and thrust upward with the heels of her hands, catching each side of the warrior’s lower jaw. The strength of the blow exploded the vertebrae of his neck, launching the skull into the air.

As the huge, headless warrior toppled, Calm closed once more on the female, who was feebly trying to regain her feet. Grasping her right arm, the Forkrul Assail tore it from the shoulder socket. Using the arm as a weapon, she swung it hard into the side of the female’s head. The ball of the humerus punched a hole in the warrior’s temple.

The T’lan Imass staggered to one side.

Calm struck again. Plates of the skull splintered, broke away. A third blow crushed the woman’s face. She fell. The Forkrul Assail stepped forward and with one booted foot rolled the T’lan Imass on to her back. Then she swung the arm down repeatedly on what was left of the face and skull. The ninth blow split the arm bone. Calm flung it away in disgust and used the heel of her boot.

Long after the wretched spirit of the female warrior had left the remains on the ground, Calm continued battering at that hated face.

Some time later, she resumed her journey.

Such a glorious world it will be.

Kilmandaros fled. She could not even remember when she had begun running, or when she had breached her way into the first of innumerable warrens. The landscape she now crossed was bleak, colourless, the ground underfoot hard uneven clay that had been chopped up by thousands of hoofs. Two small moons tracked the night sky.

Half a league ahead, she saw hills of red sand, rippling as they climbed to the horizon. No places in which to hide – no caves, no forests – she would have to leave this realm soon. And yet – Kilmandaros glanced back over one shoulder.

A storm of darkness, boiling to consume half the sky.

Close! Close! Her breath tore at her throat. Her hearts pounded like the thunder of clashing stormclouds. She stumbled on torn, bloodied feet, her muscles burning like acid.

Where? Where to hide?

‘I’ve done a terrible thing. And now I will pay – it was all Errastas! All his fault, not mine! I did not want her freed – I swear it!’

The slope of the nearest hill loomed before her, a sweep of red sand – how she hated this place!

‘A terrible thing. A terrible thing!’

Darkness foamed up on either side. Crying out, Kilmandaros staggered to a halt, wheeled round, lifting her hands—

He struck from the sky.

Wings like flames of night. The blaze of argent reptilian eyes. Talons lunging down, impaling her shoulders, snatching her from the ground.

Kilmandaros shrieked, fists closing to smash upward into the dragon’s ridged chest. The sound the impacts made was thunder.

And then, trailing ropes of blood, she was falling.

His shadow passed over her, a wheeling, plummeting presence, looming huge – jaws snapping out from a head above a lashing neck. Fangs sank into one thigh and she was thrown upward once more. Spinning, she saw gleaming bone where the muscles of her left thigh had been – saw blood spraying out from her leg. Howling, she fell earthward once more.

This time, he left her to strike the ground. She landed on her feet with the sound of exploding trees. Bones snapped, splinters driving up into her pelvis and torso. The impact threw her forward. On to her chest, and then over. Lying stunned, helpless, Kilmandaros stared upward to see Draconus descending.

Not fair.

A soft hand settled against her cheek. Blinking, she found herself looking up into her son’s face. ‘No! Leave here! Beloved son – flee!’

Instead, he straightened, drawing a sword.

Kilmandaros heard Draconus speak from only a few paces distant. ‘Where is Errastas, Sechul?’

‘Gone,’ her son replied.

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. Into hiding, of course. You won’t find him, not any time soon. Shall I caution you against uttering any vows, Draconus, or would the sting of that prove too much?’

‘You always were chained to his ankle, Sechul Lath, but if you are determined to oppose me here, I will kill you.’

‘I will defend my mother.’

‘Then you will die with her.’

She saw his sad smile, his lopsided shrug. ‘Draconus, I have nothing left. No one but her. If you will kill her this day, then … there is no reason for me to go on. Do you understand?’

‘Pathetic,’ growled Draconus. ‘You would spend an eternity under your mother’s wing? Step away, find some light – some light of your own, Sechul.’

‘Ah, I see, so this is my opportunity, is it? This is what you are offering me, Draconus? You never did understand acts of generosity, did you?’

There was a long pause, and Kilmandaros knew that their gazes had locked, and then Draconus said, ‘Ready your weapon.’

She would have cried out then, would have begged for the life of her son – but when she opened her mouth her throat filled with blood, and she was suddenly drowning.

She heard the whish of a blade, a scuffling of boots on the hard scrabble, and then a terrible, grinding sound. A sword fell to the ground, and someone made a small, childish sound.

Footsteps, drawing closer.

She couldn’t breathe, felt herself dying. Her eyes, glaring upward – seeing those damned moons so puny in that vast night sky – and then that vision was blocked out and Draconus stared down on her. He left you no choice, yes … but you do not say it. What need is there to say it?

His eyes shone like silvered pools at midnight, and there was, she realized with a start, such beauty in them – with the darkness flowing round, falling like tears, but you can see how they could turn. You can see it. Such a terrible thing …

Errastas, you have killed us.

Was it mercy when he set the sharp tip of his sword into the hollow of her neck? She looked again into his eyes, but saw nothing. Yes. Let us call it that. Mercy.

When he thrust the blade through her throat, it was cold as ice and hot as fire, and all that she saw suddenly faded, from the inside out.

I – I’m leaving.

My son. Even at the last, you disappoint me.

Draconus pulled free the sword, and then turned. A knot of shadows, vaguely human in form, stood opposite him. To either side was a Hound, and he caught a motion off to his right and then on his left – more of the beasts, encircling him.

Eyes narrowing on the apparition, Draconus leaned on his sword. ‘Usurper, does Tulas know you stole his dogs?’

The silver head of a walking cane flashed briefly before the shadows hid it again, like a fisherman’s lure in dark water. The apparition spoke in a thin, wavering voice, ‘There is little civility in you, Old One.’ A sudden giggle. ‘Your … inheritor … once stood before me, just as you are doing now. He too held an infernal sword – oh, was it yours? How careless of you.’

‘If you force me,’ Draconus said, ‘I will kill these Hounds.’

‘How goes the poem? “The child and his dog …”’

Draconus stepped forward, blade lifting. ‘Who in the name of the Azathanai are you?’

A frail, wispy hand gestured vaguely. ‘Your pardon, did I offend?’

‘What do you want?’

‘Only a question for you, Old One.’ The cane reappeared, bobbing in the direction of Kilmandaros’s corpse. ‘Where next? Or,’ and he giggled again, ‘who next?’

‘Why should it matter to you?’

‘Only this … leave Korabas. Leave the Forkrul Assail – in fact, leave that whole mess. Even the Eleint. If you show up, it’ll only complicate matters.’

‘You are the one, then,’ Draconus said, lowering the sword and stepping back.

‘I am? Why, yes, I am.’

‘The spider at the centre of this web. Hood. Rake—’

‘And they were true to their words – now that was a rarity. Perhaps of greater relevance is this. Anomander Rake spoke well of you, Draconus. Can you imagine such a thing? But it goes even beyond that, for he also said that you would be true to your word. Will you, Draconus? Be true to your word?’

‘I do not recall giving it to you on any matter here,’ Draconus replied.

The cane’s heel thumped on the ground. ‘Excellent! Now, as to that …’

A short time later, with Draconus gone, the Hounds drew closer to the corpses of Kilmandaros and Sechul Lath, sniffing with their hackles raised like spines. Shadowthrone watched their agitated circling, and then glanced across to find Cotillion standing nearby.

The patron god of assassins looked … shaken.

Shadowthrone sighed, not without sympathy. ‘The Elders are so implacable. Look upon these two tragic victims. How many ages have they survived? To come to an end’ – he waved the cane – ‘here. Wherever here is. Even the Hounds were hard pressed to track them.’

‘You convinced him?’

Shadowthrone hissed, lifting the cane to examine the silver head. ‘He thought me … audacious.’

‘Just you?’

‘Us.’

‘We’ve lost her,’ Cotillion said. ‘Or so I fear. It was too much, friend, too much – they have not walked our path. They are mortals. That and nothing more. They have not seen. The necessity has not … not gnawed at their souls, the way it has with us.’

‘Paths? Gnawing? Souls? None of this means anything to me. We concluded that things had to change, that is all.’

‘They had to because our position was too perilous,’ Cotillion replied. ‘Everything that’s followed – this whole insane scheme – it all began with our need to secure our place in the pantheon.’

‘Precisely.’

‘But then it all changed.’

‘Maybe for you,’ Shadowthrone muttered.

‘Liar.’

‘Shadows never lie.’

They were both silent for a moment, and then Shadowthrone tilted his head back and let loose a wild laugh. Fighting a smile, Cotillion looked away.

‘Are you done with your moment of doubt?’ Shadowthrone asked. ‘Good. It ill-suited you. Listen, she’s a woman, and that alone makes her the most terrifying force in all the realms.’

‘Yes,’ Cotillion said, ‘I am well aware of your long-standing fear of the swaying sex.’

‘I blame my mother.’

‘Convenient.’

‘I don’t know which of us dreads more our visits.’

‘She’s still alive? Don’t be ridiculous, Ammanas.’

‘Listen, I wasn’t always this old, you know. In any case, every time we end up in the same room I can see the disappointment in her eyes, and hear it in her voice. “Emperor? Oh, that empire. So now you’re a god? Oh dear, not Shadow? Isn’t it broken? Why did you have to pick a broken realm to rule? When your father was your age …” Aagh, and on and on it goes! I’ve been on the run since I was nine years old, and is it any wonder?’

Cotillion was studying him bemusedly.

‘They will walk out from that desert, friend,’ Shadowthrone said. ‘I feel it in my bones.’

‘Didn’t know you had any.’

‘Sticks, then. I feel it in my sticks. Hmm, doesn’t sound sufficiently assuring, does it?’

‘Assuring? No. Creepy? Yes.’

Shadowthrone thumped the cane down, looked round. ‘We’re still here? Why are we still here?’

‘A few last thoughts for the departed, perhaps?’

‘Is it the thing to do? I suppose it is.’

Studying the corpses now, Cotillion grunted. ‘Not interested in just a slap on the wrist, was he?’

‘Children who can’t be touched end up getting away with murder.’

‘That’s your last word to them? It doesn’t make any sense, Shadowthrone.’

‘But it does. The Elder Gods were like spoiled children, with no one to watch over them. The only nonsensical thing about them was that they weren’t all killed off long ago. Just how much can any of us tolerate? That’s the question, the only question, in fact.’ He gestured with the cane. ‘There’s one man’s answer.’

‘I suppose,’ Cotillion mused, ‘we should be thankful that Draconus was chained up inside Dragnipur for all that time. If Rake hadn’t killed him …’

‘Every wayward child should spend a few hundred lifetimes dragging a wagon filled with bodies.’ Shadowthrone grunted. ‘Sounds like something my mother might say. “Only a hundred lifetimes, Kellan? Too weak to handle a thousand, are you? Why, your father …” Aagh! Not again!’

Sechul Lath found himself lying on the ground. His eyes were closed, and he felt no desire to open them. Not yet, anyway.

He heard footsteps, coming closer. Two sets, halting to stand on either side of him.

‘Oh my,’ said a woman’s voice on his left. ‘I suppose it had to happen, eventually. Still … tell me, brother, are you feeling anything?’

‘No,’ replied the man on his right. ‘Why, should I?’

‘Well, we are what was the best of him, and we shall live on.’

‘Do you think he can hear us, sister?’

‘I imagine so. Do you remember once, we sent a coin spinning?’

‘Long ago now.’

‘If I listen hard …’

‘Probably just your imagination, my love. Some games die with barely a whisper. And as for this new one – I want no part of it.’

She made a sound, something like a laugh. ‘Is that wisdom I’m hearing?’

‘Look at our father,’ he said. ‘When he opens his eyes, when he climbs to his feet, there will be no going back.’

‘No, no going back. Ever again.’

Sechul’s son sighed. ‘I think we should hunt down the Errant, beloved. In our father’s name, we should teach him about the lord’s push.’

‘Draconus will find him. You can be certain of that.’

‘But I want to be there when he does.’

‘Better we should be like this, brother. Come to welcome him before the gates of death. We could help him to his feet, reminding him that our father waits on the other side.’

‘We could guide him to the gate.’

‘Just so.’

‘And then give the Errant—’

‘A nudge.’

His children laughed, and Sechul Lath found himself smiling. Son, daughter, what a fine gift you give me, before I am sent on my way.

‘Sister … I see a coin with two heads, both the Errant’s. Shall we send it spinning?’

‘Why not, brother? Prod and pull, ’tis the way of the gods.’

When at last he opened his eyes, they were gone.

And all was well.

Where her draconic shadow slipped over the land below, the ground erupted in spumes of dust and stones. Fissures spread outward jagged and depthless. Hills slumped, collapsed, their cloak of plants withering, blackening. Where she passed, the earth died. Freedom was a gift, but freedom filled her with desperate rage, and such pain that the rush of air over her scales was agony.

She had no doubt that she possessed a soul. She could see it deep inside, down a tunnel through cracked bedrock, down and ever down, to a crushed knot lying on the floor. There. That. And the screams that howled from it made the roots of the mountains shiver, made seas tremble. Made still the winds and lifeless the air itself.

Before her birth, there had been the peace of unknowing, the oblivion of that which did not exist. She neither felt nor cared, because she simply wasn’t. Before the gods meddled, before they tore light from dark, life from death, before they raised their walls and uttered their foul words. This is, but this is not. There shall be magic in the worlds we have made, and by its power shall life rise and in looking upon its myriad faces, we shall see our own – we shall come to know who and what we are. Here, there is magic, but here, there is not.

She could never give her face to the gods – they would not look, they would only turn away. She could awaken all the power of her voice to cry, I am here! See me! Acknowledge me – your one forgotten child! But it would achieve nothing. Because even the vision of the gods must have a blind spot. And what will you find there? Only me. A crushed knot lying on the floor.

Her living kin were hunting her now. She did not know how many, but it did not matter. They sought her annihilation. But … not yet. Leave me this freedom … to do something. To do a thing … a thing that does not destroy, but creates. Please, can I not be more than I am? Please. Do not find me.

Below her, her flight made a bleeding scar in the earth, and where her eyes reached out, where they touched all the beauty and wonder ahead, her arrival delivered naught but devastation. It was unconscionable. It was unbearable.

See what comes, when every gift is a curse.

A sudden pressure, far behind her, and she twisted her neck round, glared into her own wake of devastation.

Eleint.

So many!

Rage gave voice to her cry, and that voice shattered the land for leagues on all sides. As its echoes rebounded, Korabas flinched at the damage she had unleashed. No! Where is my beauty? Why is it only for you? No!

I will have this freedom! I will have it!

To do – to do – to do something.

Her wings strained with the fury of her flight, but she could fly no faster than she was already flying, and it was not enough. The Eleint drew ever closer, and Korabas could see that crushed knot flaring with an inner fire, blazing now with all the anger she had ever felt, had ever taken inside – bound for so long. Anger at the gods. At the makers – her makers – for what they did to her.

Eleint! You would kill me and call it freedom? Then come to me and try!

Her rage was waiting for them, waiting for them all.

Mathok reined in, dust and stones scattering from his horse’s hoofs. As the cloud lifted around him he cursed, spat and then said, ‘They’re in the pass, High Fist. The bastards! How did they anticipate us?’

‘Calm down,’ Paran said, turning to glance back at the column. ‘We are in the manifestation of Akhrast Korvalain. The Assail can track our every move.’ He faced the Warleader again. ‘Mathok – are they well placed?’

‘Dug in, sir. And these ones, High Fist, are heavily armoured. Not local – the Assail have hired mercenaries.’

Fist Rythe Bude, standing beside Paran – somewhat too close, as he could smell the spices in her hair – asked, ‘Could you see their standards, Warleader?’

Mathok made a face. ‘Wolf furs, Fist. Wolf skulls too. I didn’t get close enough, but if they had the carcasses of wolf puppies hanging from their ear lobes it wouldn’t have surprised me.’

Paran sighed. ‘Togg and Fanderay. Now that complicates things.’

‘Why should it complicate things?’ Noto Boil demanded, withdrawing the fish spine from his mouth and studying its red tip. ‘There’s nothing complicated about any of this, right, High Fist? I mean, we’re marching double-quick for who knows where but wherever it is it won’t be pretty, and once we get there we’re aiming to link forces with someone who might not even be there, to fight a war against an Elder race and their human slaves for no particular reason except that they’re damned ugly. Complicated? Nonsense. Now Seven Cities … that was complicated.’

‘Are you done, Boil?’

‘Noto Boil, sir, if you please. And yes, I am. For now.’

‘What makes this complicated,’ Paran resumed, ‘is that I have no real interest in fighting worshippers sworn to the Wolves of Winter. In fact, I sympathize with their cause, and while I might disagree with the means by which they intend to express their particular faith—’ He turned to Rythe Bude. ‘Gods, listen to me. I’m starting to sound like Boil!’

‘Noto Boil.’

‘The point is, we need to get through that pass. Mathok – any other routes through the south mountains?’

‘How the Hood should I know? I’ve never been here before!’

‘All right, never mind. Silly question.’

‘Let’s just pound right through ’em, High Fist. I figure just under five thousand—’

Fist Rythe Bude choked, coughed and then said, ‘Five thousand? Entrenched? Gods, this will be a bloodbath!’

Noto Boil cleared his throat. ‘High Fist, a modest suggestion.’

‘Go on.’

‘You’re Master of the Deck of Dragons, sir. Talk to the Wolves of Winter.’

Paran lifted a brow. ‘Talk to them? Tell you what – the next pit full of wolves you get thrown into, try a little negotiating, Noto.’

‘Noto Boil.’

‘You could swap bones.’ This from Gumble, where he was lying sprawled atop a flat rock. ‘Sniff their butts – they like that, I’m told. Lie on your back, maybe.’

‘Somebody find us a big snake,’ Mathok growled, glaring at the toad.

Gumble sighed loudly, his bloated body deflating to half its normal size. ‘I sense my comments are not viewed as constructive, leading me to conclude that I am in the company of fools. What’s new about that, I wonder?’

Paran withdrew his helm and wiped grimy sweat from his forehead. ‘So we do this the hard way. No, Fist Bude, not straight-into-the-teeth kind of hard way. Signal the corps – we’re marching straight through the night. I want us formed up opposite the enemy come the dawn.’

‘Sounds like straight into the teeth, sir.’

‘And that’s what it will look like, too. There might end up being some fighting, but with luck, not much.’

‘And how’s that going to work out, sir?’

‘I intend to make them surrender, Fist. Gumble, get your fat lump off that rock and find your erstwhile artist and tell him it’s time. He’ll know what that means.’

‘He’s hardly mine, High Fist, and as for erstwhile—’

‘Go, before Mathok decides to skewer you with that lance.’

‘To raucous cheers from friend and foe alike,’ Noto Boil muttered, the fish spine working up and down with every word.

‘Look at him go,’ Rythe Bude commented. ‘Didn’t know he could scramble that fast.’

Paran walked back to his horse, took the reins from one of the foundling children now accompanying the army. Swinging into the saddle, he looked down at the dirty-faced boy. ‘Still want your reward?’

A swift nod.

Paran reached down, lifted the boy up behind him. ‘Hold tight, we’re going to canter. Maybe even gallop. You ready for this?’

Another nod, but the thin arms closing about Paran were tight.

‘Let’s go see this pass, then.’ Kicking his horse forward, Paran glanced across at Mathok as the Warleader pulled up alongside him. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’ the warrior growled.

‘That’s hardly a happy expression you’re wearing.’

‘You got a sharp eye there, High Fist.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘There’s only a problem, sir, if you pull this off.’

‘Are you always this hungry for a fight, Mathok?’

‘Sharp eye, dumb mouth.’

Paran grinned. ‘Can’t have everything, you know.’

‘So I’m learning, High Fist.’

‘Would’ve made us a decent captain,’ Kalam observed, as he walked with Quick Ben. They were watching Paran, flanked by a mob of Seven Cities horse-raiders, ride off towards the foot of the raw, worn range of mountains ahead. The assassin drew his cloak tighter over his broad shoulders. ‘Too bad he came to us too late.’

‘Did he?’ the wizard wondered. ‘If he’d arrived before Pale, he would’ve been down in the tunnels when they collapsed.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why are you walking with me, Kalam? Where’s Minala?’

The assassin’s only answer was a low growl.

‘Well,’ Quick Ben said, ‘it’s just as well that you’re here. We need to work out our next moves.’

‘Our next what? We’re here to kill Forkrul Assail. There’s no other moves to talk about, and those ones don’t need talking about.’

‘Listen, that last Pure damn near killed me.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘Well, all right. It hurt, then.’

‘Get over it, wizard. We’re back fighting a real war. Old style. Ugly magic, toe to toe, the works. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to do this.’

‘I haven’t. But … where’s Fiddler? Hedge? Mallet, Trotts, Whiskeyjack? Where are all the ones we need to cover our backs? Paran’s sending us out into the enemy camp, Kalam. If we get in serious trouble, we’re finished.’

‘So fix it so that we can get back out if we have to.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

Sighing, Kalam scratched at the stubble on his jaw, and then said, ‘Something happened, Quick, back in Malaz City. In Mock’s Hold. In that damned chamber with Laseen and the Adjunct. Well, just afterwards. Tavore and me … she asked me to make a choice. Laseen had already offered me whatever I wanted, pretty much. Just to turn away.’

Quick Ben was studying him with narrowed eyes. ‘Everything?’

‘Everything.’

‘Knocking Topper off his perch?’

‘Aye. She was giving me the Claw, even though I had a feeling it was rotten through and through, even then – and I found out the truth of that later that night.’

‘So something had the Empress desperate.’

‘Aye.’

‘Fine. So … what did Tavore offer you instead?’

Kalam shook his head. ‘Damned if I know – and I’ve been thinking about it. A lot. There was a look in her eyes – I don’t know. A need, maybe. She knew that Laseen was going to try to kill her on the way back to the ships. We all knew it.’

‘She wanted your help – is that so surprising? Who wants to die?’

‘As simple as that? Quick Ben, she was asking me to die in her place. That’s what she was asking.’

‘Just as desperate as Laseen, then. The two of them, they asked you to choose between two mirror reflections. Which one was real? Which one was worth serving? You still haven’t explained how Tavore did it.’

‘She did it the way she seems to get all of us to do what she needs us to do.’

‘Well now, that’s been the one mystery no one’s been able to answer, hasn’t it? But, just like you, we follow. Kalam, I wish I could have seen you on that night in Malaz City. You must have been the holiest of terrors. So, just like the rest of us, you gave her everything you had. How does she do it?’

‘She simply asks,’ Kalam said.

Quick Ben snorted. ‘That’s it?’

‘I think so. No offers – no riches, no titles, nothing any of us can see as payment or reward. No, she just looks you straight in the eye, and she asks.’

‘You just sent a shiver up my spine, Kalam, and I don’t even know why.’

‘You don’t? More rubbish.’

The wizard waved his hands, ‘Well, Hood knows it ain’t chivalry, is it? She won’t even nudge open that door. No fluttering eyelashes, no demure look or coy glance …’

Kalam grunted a laugh at the image, but then he shook himself. ‘She asks, and something in your head tells you that what she’s doing is right – and that it’s the only reason she has to live. She asked me to die defending her – knowing I didn’t even like her much. Quick, for the rest of my life, I will never forget that moment.’

‘And you still can’t quite work out what happened.’

The assassin nodded. ‘All at once, it’s as if she’s somehow laid bare your soul and there it is, exposed, trembling, vulnerable beyond all belief – and she could take it, grasp it tight until the blood starts dripping. She could even stab it right through. But she didn’t – she didn’t do any of that, Quick. She reached down, her finger hovered, and then … gone, as if that was all she needed.’

‘You can stop now,’ the wizard muttered. ‘What you’re talking about – between two people – it almost never happens. Maybe it’s what we all want, but Kalam, it almost never happens.’

‘There was no respect in what Laseen offered,’ the assassin said. ‘It was a raw bribe, reaching for the worst in me. But from Tavore …’

‘Nothing but respect. Now I see it, Kal. I see it.’

‘Quick?’

‘What?’

‘Is she alive? Do you think … is Tavore still alive?’

Quick Ben kicked a stone from his path. ‘Even her brother can’t answer that. I just don’t know.’

‘But do you – are you …’

‘Do I have faith? Is that what you’re asking?’ He waved about. ‘Look around! This whole damned army is marching on faith! We just have to get on with it, right?’

‘Fine then,’ Kalam growled. ‘Let me ask you this: can Paran pull it off on his own? If he has to?’

Quick Ben rubbed at his face. Scowling, he spoke under his breath. ‘Listen. Have you been paying attention?’

‘To what?’

‘Just … when he walks through camp. Or rides. Do you hear the soldiers – calling up to him as he passes? Jests flying back and forth, laughter and nods, all of it. They’re here because following him is what they need, what they want. The Host lost Dujek Onearm – that should’ve finished them, but it hasn’t, has it? Our old captain here is now leading the whole army. You say Tavore asks because for her that’s what’s needed. But her brother, he just expects.’

Kalam slowly nodded. ‘Five coins to that, Quick. Still’ – and he shot the wizard a sharp look – ‘Shadowthrone sent you here, didn’t he?’

Quick Ben made a face. ‘The Emperor’s drawing in all the old webs – frankly, I’m appalled how he can still do that, you know? What kind of knots did he tie on to us anyway? Gods below.’

‘Do you trust him?’

‘Shadowthrone? Are you mad?’

The assassin paused, shook himself, and said, ‘That’s it, then. Kalam is done with his questions – you, wizard, you cover my back and I’ll do the same for yours. Let’s go and kill Forkrul Assail. Lots of them.’

‘It’s about time you regressed to your usual brainless bear-like self. So, there will be a camp up there, where the officers are all gathered. Well behind the entrenchments. Watered and Pures and whatever. We need to find the Pures first this time – take them out of the way and the rest won’t be as bad.’

‘Right. So what’s all this about me not sheathing my Otataral knife? Why should that be a problem?’

Quick Ben shrugged. ‘How does one make Otataral?’

‘No idea.’

‘Of course you haven’t!’ the wizard snapped. ‘You make it by pouring as much magic into one place at one time as you possibly can, and if you’re lucky a threshold is crossed – a firestorm that burns everything out, making—’

‘Otataral.’

‘Will you stop interrupting me? My point is, what happens when ten thousand dragons and a few hundred Elder Gods decide to get together and do the same thing?’

‘Otataral Island? Off Seven Cities? No wonder there’s so much—’

‘Be quiet! No. Not Otataral Island – that was just some localized scrap a million or so years ago. No. What you get, Kalam, is an Otataral Dragon.’

‘Hood take me – wait, don’t tell me they went and did that?’

‘Fine, I won’t. But that’s still not the point, Kalam.’

‘So what is the point, Quick Ben?’

‘Only that the dragon’s free and it’s headed this way and, most important, it can smell Otataral. So, every time you use it— Aack!’

Kalam had his hands round the wizard’s throat. He dragged his friend close. ‘Hedge was right about you,’ he whispered, as Quick Ben’s eyes bulged and his face darkened. ‘You’re insane, and worse, you think it’s funny!’ Feeble hands clawed at Kalam’s wrists. Snarling, the assassin flung Quick Ben away.

Staggering, the wizard fell to his knees, coughing, gasping to draw breath.

Three soldiers came running up, but Kalam held out a hand to halt them. ‘Return to your ranks. He’ll live, and if I kick him while he’s down, it’ll only be once or twice.’ Seeing the look in their eyes, the assassin snorted. ‘Aye, he’s the High Mage. My point exactly. Now,’ his expression hardened, ‘get lost.’

The soldiers retreated.

Kalam turned to glare at Quick Ben. ‘Hedge always kept a sharper back, you know. Had your face painted on it. He used to tell us, if you went and killed him with one of your schemes, with his last act he was going to wing it at the back of your head. You know, I used to think that was a bit extreme.’

Leaving the gagging man on his hands and knees, Kalam resumed his walk.

My brother could not have planned for this. To see so much of his work … unravelled. He understood the necessity of balance, but he also understood the wonder that is life itself. No, he could not have meant this to happen. Silchas Ruin glanced over to where Tulas Shorn stood on the bluff’s edge. Escape from death is never the escape you think it is. ‘Would we have done it?’ he called over.

The undead warrior’s head turned, tilted slightly. ‘We were young. Anything was possible.’

‘Then … one of us would have knelt before the body of the other, weeping.’

‘That is likely.’

‘But now … Tulas, it seems we shall fight side by side, and there will be none to kneel by our bodies, none to weep for us.’

‘My Hounds are wandering – I can feel them. Hunting interlopers, dreaming of the chase. They wander the broken fragments of Kurald Emurlahn.’

Silchas Ruin was silent, wondering where his friend’s thoughts were taking him.

Tulas Shorn sighed, the breath a long, dry rattle. ‘Do you know what I envy most about my Hounds? Their freedom. Nothing complicated in their lives. No … difficult choices.’

Nodding, Silchas looked away. ‘We face one now, don’t we?’

‘The Eleint will be driven to frenzy. Their entire being will be consumed with the need to kill Korabas – can you not feel it in your own blood, Silchas?’

Yes.

Tulas continued, ‘We are left to a matter of faith. I doubt even Anomander could have anticipated that the Elder Gods would be so desperate, so vengeful.’

‘And this is what is troubling me,’ Silchas Ruin admitted. ‘We cannot assume that all the Elder Gods acceded to the unchaining of the Otataral Dragon.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Tulas Shorn walked back from the edge. ‘Will any of them regret the annihilation of the gods? I doubt it. Once their children are gone, their resurrection is assured.’

‘To inherit what, Tulas?’

‘Ah, yes, but they do expect the Eleint to kill Korabas. They require it, in fact.’

‘Must we satisfy them?’ Silchas asked.

Tulas Shorn was silent for a while, and his face taken into death could give no expression, and the eyes were closed doors. ‘My friend, what choice have we? If Korabas survives, this realm will die, and it will be the first of many.’

‘Leaving in its wake a land without magic. But even in such places life will return.’

‘We cannot be certain of that. For all that we have explored the secrets of sorcery, we still know so little. We have flown over lifeless flesh – we have seen what happens when everything is truly stripped away.’

Silchas Ruin studied his friend for a moment, then lowered himself into a squat and stared out over the valley to the south. ‘Am I fooling myself?’

‘About what?’

Silchas started, unaware that he had spoken out loud. ‘My brother knew well the Elder Gods. He’d clashed with them often enough.’

‘It may be that his answer to the threat posed by the Elder Gods was to free Draconus.’

Draconus. ‘Then what will Draconus do?’

‘I do not know, but even thinking about it fills me with fear. We know well what comes when Draconus is awakened to true anger – his solution may prove worse than the problem. Abyss knows, friend, we have seen that for ourselves. Still, since you have asked, I will give the matter some thought. Draconus … freed. Who can oppose him, now that your brother is dead? I don’t know – this world has moved on. What would he do first? He would hunt down and kill the ones who freed Korabas. He always took retribution seriously.’

Silchas Ruin was nodding. ‘And then?’

The undead warrior shrugged. ‘Kill Korabas?’

‘Leaving a realm filled with Eleint?’

‘Then … perhaps he would stand back and watch the two elemental forces collide and maul each other, until one emerged victorious – but so weakened, so destroyed, that he need only act expeditiously, without rage. It may be that this is what your brother demanded of Draconus, in exchange for his freedom.’

Silchas Ruin held his hands up to his face. After a moment he shook his head. ‘Knowing my brother, there was no demand. There was only giving.’

‘Friend,’ said Tulas Shorn, ‘what is it that is in your mind?’

‘That there is more to the unchaining of Korabas than we know. That, in some manner we have yet to fathom, the Otataral Dragon’s freedom serves a higher purpose. Korabas is here because she needs to be.’

‘Silchas – your living senses are sharper than my dead ones. How many Eleint have come into this world?’

The white-skinned Tiste Andii lowered his hands from his face and looked over at Tulas Shorn. ‘All of them.’

Tulas Shorn staggered back a step, and then turned away – almost as if his every instinct was demanding that he flee, that he get away. Where? Anywhere. And then he faced Silchas again. ‘Korabas does not stand a chance.’

‘No, she does not.’

‘The Eleint will conquer this world – who is there to stop them? My friend – we have been made irrelevant. All purpose … gone. I will not surrender to T’iam!’

The sudden anger in Tulas made Silchas straighten. ‘Nor will I.’

‘What can we do?’

‘We can hope.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You say you sense the Hounds of Shadow—’

‘Not close—’

‘And you tell me that they possess a new master, the usurper of Kurald Emurlahn—’

‘Who commands nothing.’

‘No. Not yet. There is a game being played here – beyond all that we think we understand of this situation. You say the Hounds are wandering. The question that needs to be asked is: why? What has Shadow to do with any of this?’

Tulas Shorn shook his head.

Silchas Ruin drew out his Hust sword. ‘That usurper gave this weapon to me, as I told you. See the blade? Watermarked and etched with dragons. But there is more – there is my brother’s sacrifice. There is the return of Mother Dark.’

‘And now Draconus. Silchas – your brother, he cannot have meant to—’

‘But I think he did, Tulas. We children were as responsible for what happened between Mother Dark and her consort as anyone was – even Osserc. My friend – they set something into play. Anomander, this Shadowthrone, even Hood, and perhaps many other gods hidden from our view, for ever veiled.’

‘Draconus will never return to Mother Dark – do you truly believe those wounds could ever heal?’

‘Tulas, the Eleint must be faced down – they must be driven back. They are the Children of Chaos, and who has always stood against Chaos? What was Dragnipur, Tulas, if not a broken man’s attempt to save the woman he had lost? It failed – Abyss knows how it failed – but now, at last, Draconus has been freed – his own chains for ever cut away from him. Don’t you see? My brother ended Mother Dark’s vow of isolation – once again she faces her children. But why should it stop there? Tulas! My brother also freed Draconus.’

‘Anomander would force the wounds to heal? The arrogance of the man!’

‘He forces nothing, Tulas. He but opens the door. He makes possible … anything.’

‘Does Draconus understand?’

Now that is the question, isn’t it? ‘When he is done killing the Elder Gods he feels should be killed, he will pause. He will ask himself the question, what now? And then, perhaps, it will come to him. The fullest recognition of Anomander’s gift.’

‘My friend, if I truly had breath, you would have taken it from me. But … how can you be certain? Of any of this?’

Silchas Ruin studied the sword in his hand. ‘I think I know who crouches at the centre of this mad web. Tulas, when I veer, what happens to this Hust sword?’

‘It becomes one with the fibre of your flesh and bone – as you well know, Silchas.’

‘Yes … but this is a Hust – a slayer of dragons.’

‘Was the usurper trying to tell you something, do you think?’

‘I begin to suspect the gift wasn’t the sword. The gift was what the sword meant – what it means.’ He sheathed the weapon. ‘The time has come, friend, for our last stand. War we shall now wage.’

Another rattle from Tulas Shorn’s dry throat, but this time it was laughter. ‘I delight in this irony, beloved blade-brother. Very well, let us go and kill some dragons.’ Then he paused and cocked his head at Silchas. ‘Korabas … will she thank us?’

‘Do you expect her to?’

‘No, I suppose not. Why should she? We will fail.’

‘Now,’ Silchas mused, ‘you give me reason to wonder. After all, will this not be the first time that she does not fall alone?’

Tulas was silent for a moment, and then he said, ‘My friend, our deaths shall be our gift to her.’

‘Tulas, can two Ancients make a Storm?’

‘We shall have to try.’

Anomander, I believe I shall see you soon. And Andarist, too.

‘Since we are about to die, Silchas, will you tell me what happened to the Throne of Shadow?’

Silchas Ruin smiled and shook his head. ‘Perhaps, if the throne so desires, it will one day tell you itself.’

‘Thrones cannot speak.’

‘That is true, and it’s just as well, don’t you think?’

‘It is a good thing we are going to die side by side,’ Tulas Shorn growled, ‘else I would be forced to fight you after all.’

They had moved well apart, and now they veered.

And two Ancient dragons, one living, the other undead, lifted into the empty sky.

Olar Ethil crouched in the grasses like a hare about to be flushed by a hawk. Torrent studied her for a moment longer, struggling to disguise his dark satisfaction, and then turned to check once more on the three children. They slept on – the hag had done something to them. It was just past midday and they’d not travelled far since the dawn. Behind him, the Bonecaster was muttering to herself.

‘Too many came through – nowhere to hide. I know now what is being attempted. It cannot work. I want it for myself – I will have it for myself! There are Ancients in the sky, but I am the most ancient one of all. I will see them driven back … but first, Korabas needs to die. They need to fail!’

Torrent walked over to his horse. Examined the primitive-looking arrows in the quiver strapped beside the bow. Then he glanced back at Olar Ethil. ‘What are we waiting for?’

Her battered face lifted. ‘I will not be part of this fight.’

He looked round, seeing nothing but empty plains. ‘What fight?’

‘You are as good as dead already, pup. Soon I won’t need you any more. I have gifts to give. And he will forgive me – you’ll see, he’ll forgive me.’

‘How can I see anything if I’m to be dead soon?’

She straightened, kicked at the grasses. Two skeletal lizards dodged out, evading her gnarled foot. He heard their clacking jaws as they scampered past him, down the slope and away.

‘That’s it then,’ Olar Ethil rasped, watching them flee. ‘They’re gone. Good. I never trusted them – GO!’ She hobbled to the edge of the ridge, shouted after them, ‘Find the great Storm of T’iam! As if that will help you, hah!’ Then she wheeled and stabbed a crooked finger at Torrent. ‘I am watching you, pup!’

Torrent sighed. ‘It’s all going wrong, isn’t it?’

‘Errastas was a fool! And all the Elders who listened to him – his madness will kill them all! Good! So long as he leaves me alone.’

‘You’ve lost your mind, hag.’

‘Wake them up!’ Olar Ethil snapped. ‘We need to go south – and we must hurry!’

‘I smell the sea on this wind,’ Torrent said, facing east.

‘Of course you do, you fool. Now get the runts up – we must go!’

You are losing your grip, witch, and you know it, don’t you? You think that whatever you set out to do will be enough, that it will solve everything – but now you’re discovering that it won’t. I hope I do live for a while longer – long enough to be standing over your corpse.

‘Your mind leaks, pup.’

It only leaks what I let through.

She shot him a look. Torrent turned away, went to awaken the children.

Telorast lunged and leapt alongside Curdle. ‘We’ll be safe there, Curdle, won’t we? The chains of our curse – broken in the Storm! Right?’

‘What I planned from the very start, Telorast – and if you weren’t so thick you’d have guessed that long ago.’

‘It was that priest of the Worm, that clever drunk one – better than Not-Apsalar, better by far! He told us everything we needed to know, so I don’t have to guess, Curdle, because between us I’m the smarter one.’

‘The only smart thing you ever did was swindling me into being your friend.’

‘Friend lover sister or better half, it’s all the same with us, and isn’t that the best, Curdle? This is what it means to live a life of mystery and adventure! Oh – is my leg coming off? Curdle! My leg!’

‘It’s fine. Just wobbly. Soon it won’t matter. Soon we will have the bodies to match our egos and won’t that be a scary thing? Why, I can smell us a throne, Telorast. Can you?’

But Telorast had skidded to a halt. ‘Wait! Curdle, wait! That Storm – it’ll devour us!’

‘So we get eaten – at least we’ll be free. And sooner or later, the Storm will break up. It has to.’

‘More like tear itself apart,’ Telorast hissed. ‘We’ve got to be careful then, Curdle, so we don’t get eaten for real.’

‘Well of course we’ll be careful. We’re brilliant.’

‘And sneaky.’

‘That’s why creatures like us never lose, Telorast. We overflow with talents – they’re spilling out everywhere!’

‘So long as my leg doesn’t fall off.’

‘If it does I’ll carry you.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, drag you.’

‘You’re so sweet, Curdle.’

‘It’s because we’re in love, Telorast. Love is the reason I’d drag you anywhere. We love ourselves and so we deserve two thrones – at least two! We deserve them so we’ll have them, even if we have to kill ten thousand babies to get to them.’

‘Babies? Killing babies?’

‘Why not?’

They resumed their swishing rush through the grasses. ‘I can almost see them, Telorast! An army of babies between us and those thrones. They can swing their bone rattles all they like – we’ll chew through them like cheese!’

‘And kittens and puppies and small mice, too!’

‘Stop it, Curdle – you’re making me hungry! And save your breath – we’ll need it to kill Korabas.’

‘Can’t kill Korabas with our breaths, Telorast – she’s Otataral, remember? We’ve got to do it the hard way – piece by bloody piece, until she’s raining down from the sky!’

‘It will be great. Won’t it? Curdle, won’t it?’

‘The best, Telorast. Almost as good as eating babies!’

‘How long is this going to take? Are we there yet, Curdle? My legs are about to fall off, I swear it.’

‘Hmm, maybe we should veer. For a bit, I mean. Just a bit, and then back down, and then we run for a while, and then veer again – what do you think?’

‘I think you’re almost as clever as me.’

‘And you’re almost as clever as me. We’re almost as clever as each other! Isn’t that great?’

Paran reined in to let the boy off. Ordering the rest of the troop to remain where they were, he waved Mathok to accompany him as he rode closer to the foot of the pass. The old mountains formed a saddle neck ahead, and the slope gave them a clear view of the trenches, berms and redoubts crowding there.

Figures swarmed the defences.

‘We’ve been seen,’ Mathok said.

Five hundred strides from the base of the rough slope, Paran halted. Studied the vista. A cobbled road worked its way up the pass. At the first line of defences a half-ring of staked earthworks curled to face inward on that road – to attempt an assault there would invite a deadly enfilade. But the rest of the ground to either side of that road was rough and broken, almost a scree.

‘Had a wife once,’ Mathok muttered, ‘just like this.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The closer I got the uglier she looked. One of the many pitfalls in getting drunk at the full moon. Waking up to the horrors you’ve committed, and then having to live with them.’

There were two distinct tiers to the defences, and the closer one bore the standards of Kolanse. ‘Shriven auxiliaries,’ Paran said. ‘We’ll have to go through them to get to the Wolf army. Now that’s an unexpected complication.’

‘But you know, I loved that woman with all my might – she was my best wife, it turned out.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She inherited and left me for a prettier man. You see, she woke up that morning feeling the same horror as me, and the closer I got …’

‘Mathok, looks like we’re going to have a fight on our hands after all.’

‘Your words make me happy.’

‘We need to overwhelm and rout the Shriven. Then we can deal with the mercenaries. As it turns out,’ he added, collecting his reins, ‘that might be just what we need to convince them to surrender.’

‘There’ll be a Pure up there, High Fist. More fun for Kalam and your High Mage.’

‘We’ll draw up tonight. Mathok, your warriors won’t be much use if they stay mounted.’

The man shrugged. ‘Why do raiders ride horses, High Fist? Because it’s the quickest means of getting away.’

‘You’re not just raiders any more, Mathok.’

‘We’ll skirmish if that’s what you need, but we won’t like it. Now, that road, that’s a wide road, a military road. Clear the flanks and we can ride straight up it.’

‘Into the waiting teeth of those mercenaries? And uphill at that? I’ll not see you wasted. Sorry, no matter how thirsty you are for blood, you may have to wait a while longer.’

The warrior grimaced and then shrugged. ‘We’re thirsty for blood, yes, but not if most of it is our own.’

‘Good,’ Paran grunted. ‘Keep your mob in check, that’s all I ask.’

Mathok was studying him in a peculiar fashion. ‘High Fist, I’ve heard a lifetime of tales about the Malazan army. And I’ve run from a few close calls in my day, ended up getting chased for weeks.’ He jutted his chin at the pass. ‘But this – even those Shriven look to be enough to not only stop us dead, but hurt us bad in the doing.’

‘Your point?’

‘I fear for the Host, that’s all.’

Paran nodded. ‘Come the morning, Mathok, find a high vantage point for you and your warriors. And I will show you everything you need to know about the Malazan army.’

Two turns of the sand after the sun had set, the Host drew up a short distance from the base of the pass. Beneath the luminous green glow of the Jade Strangers, the companies broke out into their bivouacs. Forward pickets were established, although no probes were expected from the enemy. Soldiers ate a quick meal, and then rested. Most slept, although a few attended to their weapons and armour, their leather harnesses, their shields and footwear. Trailed by Fist Rythe Bude, Paran walked among the camps, exchanging words here and there with those soldiers too charged up or nervous to sleep.

He had never expected to be commanding an army. He had never expected to take the place of Dujek Onearm. He thought often of that man, and took from Dujek all he could. The Host had known bad times. It deserved better, but Paran suspected that this sentiment was felt by every commander.

When he and Rythe Bude finally retired to the command tent, they found Kalam and Quick Ben awaiting them. It was two turns before dawn.

The assassin was wrapped in black muslin, pulling on his stained and worn leather gloves, and though he was wearing chain beneath the cloth, there was almost no sound while he paced. Quick Ben sat on the ground leaning back against a squat four-legged chest, his legs stretched out, his eyes half shut.

Paran stared down at the wizard. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Are you ready? Usually I can smell when there’s been magic going on, and I can’t smell a thing, High Mage.’

Quick Ben opened one eye to regard him. ‘If you can tell, High Fist, then so can the Pures up there. Trust me. We’re ready.’

Paran glanced across at Rythe, who simply shrugged in reply. He squinted at her. ‘Get some sleep, Fist.’

‘Yes sir.’

After she’d left, Paran stepped into Kalam’s path. Muttering an oath, the assassin halted. Bared his teeth and said, ‘You’re getting on my nerves, High Fist.’

Quick Ben spoke. ‘Do you have that card ready, High Fist?’

Paran nodded, edging to one side so that Kalam could resume pacing.

‘Good,’ said the wizard. He sat up, reached for a leather satchel lying beside him. Rummaged inside it for a moment and then drew out a crooked stick on which was tied an arm’s length of twine. One end of the stick had been hacked into something resembling a point. Quick Ben stabbed that end into the floor. Then he removed from his satchel two small balls of weighted, knotted cloth, one black, the other gold. He bound these to the string, moving them away from the stick until the twine stretched straight. ‘Kalam,’ he said, ‘it’s time.’

The assassin halted, shook himself like a bear.

Climbing to his feet, Quick Ben faced Paran. ‘Don’t you even blink, sir. Understand?’

‘I will be vigilant, High Mage,’ Paran assured him. ‘But you have me a little concerned here. What do you think awaits you?’

‘Beyond one or two Pure Forkrul Assail?’ Quick Ben snorted, and then scowled. ‘Not sure. Something.’

‘Let’s get on with this,’ Kalam growled.

Paran drew off his helm, set it down on the map table. In battle, he would attach the full face grille. It was an arcane piece, Untan, a gift from Rythe Bude, but he still wasn’t used to its full weight. Turning to face the two men he began, ‘I think we should—’ and then fell silent. He was alone in the tent. ‘Gods below, he’s good.’

Heart suddenly pounding, nips of pain flaring in his stomach, he drew out the wooden card Ormulogun had prepared. Studied it in the lantern light. The first truly Malazan card for the Deck of Dragons. Artist, you did me proud. A single misshapen, vaguely polished object in the centre of a dark field.

‘Behold,’ Paran said under his breath, ‘the Shaved Knuckle in the Hole.’

Invisible to all eyes, even those of the Pures, Kalam made his way silently up the cobbled road. Well, hopefully invisible to the Pures. Either way, we’ll soon find out. To his right and left now, deep foxholes where sentries stood, chests against the pit side, looking down on the foreign invaders. At their feet, the dull glow of signal lanterns. Past them, the first berms fronting the lead trench: mounded rocks and earth, high enough to provide cover from arrows and quarrels, treacherous enough underfoot for the attackers to lose their balance and slow their charge.

The trenches themselves were solid with Kolanse soldiers, well armoured and armed with pikes. Seven paces behind them, higher up the slope, ran a long slit trench, stepped for the archers. They would loose their arrows at nearly point-blank range, over the heads of the first line of defenders and taking the Malazans at the top of the berm.

Kalam hoped that Paran’s damned card was working. He hoped that the High Fist was now seeing what he was seeing. This could be brutal. There’s a decent commander up here, somewhere. Quick Ben – I don’t think this is the work of a Forkrul Assail. This has the feel of a professional campaigner. Probably the Wolves commander. I hope you’re thinking what I’m thinking.

Hold on … mercenaries wearing wolf furs? No, couldn’t be them. Just some other bastards. Got to be.

Two more tiers to match the lead line, with levelled ramps allowing for retreat, should the first trench be overrun. And plenty of reserves, positioned in three fortified camps just above the last tier. Kalam judged there to be at least six thousand Shriven here. Glad I’m not you, Paran.

Higher still, where at last Kalam thought he could see the summit’s edge, beyond which the pass levelled out. A massive stone gate straddled the road, with a low skirting wall above a moat stretching out to either side, effectively blocking the entire pass. And this area was well lit, revealing companies of heavy infantry. They were awake, divided into squads of ten, each squad forming a circle facing inward – the soldiers were praying.

Fanatics. That’s bad. We’ve seen this before, too many times. Surrender? Not a chance. Hold on … They were still too far away for him to be certain. He looked for standards, but none were raised. There, a fully armoured soldier near the gate. Gods below! Fucking Perish! Kalam paused, his mind racing, sweat suddenly trickling beneath his garments. They turned on us? Krughava? I can’t believe this – soldiers of the Wolves. Gods, who else could they have been? Kalam, you idiot. Hood take me, Hood take us all.

But … if Krughava’s here, it’s no wonder the defences are bristling.

All right, woman. He began moving forward once more. Betray us and you get what you deserve.

The gateway was barred, with projecting spikes, all blackened iron. The lowest row of spikes, ankle-high, jutted a hand’s length beyond the higher ones, except for a matching row at eye level. There was a lone Perish sentry standing behind the gate, visor lowered, heavy spear leaning against one shoulder.

Ten paces away, Kalam slipped down from the road, made his way along the drainage ditch, and down into the moat. At the bottom, short wooden spikes were jammed between sharp-edged rocks. The bank furthest from the wall was soaked in pitch. Firewall. Nothing nice here, nothing at all. Hope you’re close, Quick Ben. Hope you know what I’m going to have to do here.

He carefully picked his way across the moat. Waited a moment, and then whispered the chain-word the wizard had given him. Sudden weightlessness. Reaching up, he made his way up and over the wall. At he touched ground on the other side, the weightlessness faded. Well, no alarm yet. So far, Quick’s promise of being able to hide magic seems to be holding. Ahead, more guards, but widely spaced enough for the assassin to slip easily between them. He set out, made his way into the camp.

Past the squad circles, the soldiers still praying, to an empty marshalling area in the centre, and opposite it, two command tents, the one on the right surmounted by a wolf skull atop the centre pole. Grey Helms all right. But … this can’t be all of them. Unless Tavore made them pay dearly for the treachery. But if she did, then she’s probably dead. She never got her chance.

Well then. If vengeance is all we have left, let’s get started …

The other tent was larger, of the same style as those in the besieging camp outside the keep. It was lit from within and two guards flanked the front flap, both Kolansii.

Drawing two throwing knives, Kalam advanced on them, moving fast. At five paces away, he raised both weapons and threw them simultaneously in a single fluid motion. Each found the base of a throat. Bodies buckled, blood splashing down, but before they could fall Kalam had reached them, grasping the knife grips to hold both men up before carefully settling them to the ground.

How much noise? Oh, who cares?

Leaving the daggers where they were, the assassin drew his two long knives, slashed the flap’s draw strings, and then bulled through.

He clearly caught the Pure by surprise – nothing stealthy or subtle in this approach after all – and collided hard with the Forkrul Assail. One long knife plunged deep directly beneath the heart. The other, moving up to slash across the throat, was blocked by a forearm hard as iron. Even as the Assail stumbled back, his hands lashed out.

The first blow caught Kalam high on his right shoulder, spinning him off his feet. The second one slammed into his chest on the left side, crushing chain, breaking at least two ribs and fracturing others. The impact flung the assassin backwards. He rebounded from the tent wall to the left of the entrance.

Half stunned with pain, Kalam watched the Assail pull the long knife from his chest and fling it away.

‘Oh,’ he gasped, ‘did I make you mad?’

Snarling, the Assail advanced on him.

The ground disappeared beneath his feet. With a howl, the Pure plunged from sight. There followed a thud.

Quick Ben materialized just on the other side of the hole. Drew out a small round ball of black clay. Leaned over to peer down. ‘Compliments of the marines,’ he said, and dropped the ball.

The wizard had to lunge backward as a gout of fire shot from the hole, and all at once the tent ceiling was aflame, and Quick Ben was nowhere to be seen.

Swearing, Kalam retrieved his long knife – he’d somehow held on to the other one – and leapt for the entrance.

Rolling clear, groaning at the blinding agony exploding in his chest, he staggered to his feet. On all sides, Perish soldiers were rushing to the burning tent. He saw them drawing their swords.

‘Quick Ben! I’m invisible, right? Quick Ben!’

He heard a hiss: ‘Sheathe that damned knife!’

Hood’s breath! Kalam spun and ran from the nearest attacker. Slammed the knife back into its scabbard. ‘Try again!’ he bellowed.

He stumbled, fell with a grunt. There was blood in his mouth. Not good.

A hand settled on his back. ‘Don’t move,’ came Quick Ben’s whisper.

The Perish were retreating now from the raging flames, and the fire was almost close enough to reach out and touch, but Kalam felt no heat. ‘Can we talk?’ he asked.

‘Now we can, aye.’

‘You said a sharper!’

‘I changed my mind. Needed to make certain. Besides, the sharper’s pretty loud.’

‘A Hood-damned burner, though? Now that’s keeping things nice and quiet! Any more Pures?’

‘No. Shh – something’s close. Tracking us.’

‘How?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘I wanted to go after the Perish commander – Krughava or whoever it is.’

‘You’re bubbling blood with every breath, Kalam. You’re in no shape for anything.’

‘Stabbed the bastard in the heart and it didn’t do a damned thing.’

‘I’m sure it did. But they’ve got two hearts.’

‘Thanks for telling me.’ Kalam grimaced, fought down a cough. ‘These are the Perish, aren’t they?’

‘Aye. Now, be quiet, and let me drag you away. That fire’s starting to burn through what I threw up around us.’

But the mage dragged Kalam for only two tugs before the assassin felt Quick Ben’s hands suddenly grip tight. ‘Shit, it’s here.’

Blinking, Kalam twisted, looked round. ‘I don’t see—’

‘Smells like an enkar’l, feels like a Toblakai.’

Not a chance – oh, gods below, what’s it doing here? He could feel it now. A massive, looming presence. ‘What’s it doing?’ he hissed.

‘Er, sniffing you.’

Kalam felt his skin crawl. ‘Why can’t I see it?’

‘Because it doesn’t want you to.’

The assassin almost shouted when a sharp talon tracked gently across one cheek, ending up directly beneath an eye. He forced himself to lie perfectly still.

‘A servant of the Wolves, I think.’

Aye. Don’t tell me what I already know.

Then the hand pressed down on Kalam’s chest, directly over his shattered ribs. But there was no pain, just a sudden heat. A moment later the hand was gone. And then—

‘Hood take me,’ Quick Ben muttered a few heartbeats later. ‘Gone. Never seen the like. It fucking healed you, Kalam. Why did it do that?’

Feeling shaken, fragile, as if he’d inhaled a fist and had only just now coughed it back out, the assassin slowly regained his feet. There was chaos on all sides of the burning tent, and he saw a Perish officer, one of Krughava’s ship commanders. He was standing staring at the tent with an odd, almost satisfied expression on his lean face.

‘Ready to try for him?’ Quick Ben asked.

Kalam shook his head. ‘No. We don’t touch the Perish.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Unless you want that thing to come back, a whole lot madder.’

‘Good point.’

‘You’re sure there aren’t any more Pures?’

‘No.’

‘Time to go, then.’

They set out, winding unseen through the crowd of soldiers. At the skirting wall, the assassin paused and glanced back. And nodded. ‘Always an even trade …’ Not that I can remember what I did to make him so happy.

In his tent, Paran slowly sat back, carefully setting down the wooden card. He could have pulled them out, right at the moment the demon closed on them. But something had held him back. That was a chosen servant of the Wolves of Winter. I felt its anger, and then I felt its … what was it? Solicitude? I didn’t know they could even feel things like that.

He straightened, walked over to the stick, took it in his hand, and pulled it from the ground. The balls on the string snapped after it.

A thunderous concussion in the confines of the tent, clouds of dust, and Quick Ben and Kalam staggered into view. The wizard’s expression twisted with outrage. He glared across at Paran. ‘That was a little late, High Fist! We were already halfway back.’

Paran waved at the dust. He could hear footsteps from beyond the flap and called out, ‘Everything’s fine!’

From outside, a soldier’s voice hissed, ‘Hear that, Gebbla? When a High Fist farts the whole world shakes!’

‘Shh, y’damned idiot!’

The footsteps retreated.

Paran sighed. ‘I got impatient waiting for you. Sorry. I didn’t know retrieving you was going to be so messy.’

‘It was for emergencies, sir. I feel like I’ve been pulled inside out.’

‘Aye to that,’ Kalam growled, moving over to sit down heavily on the chest. The stout legs snapped and the chest thumped down hard. The assassin winced. ‘Just what my old bent spine needed, gods below.’ He started pulling off his gloves.

‘My sister’s allies, then – am I correct, Kalam?’

‘Good guess.’

‘Allies no longer,’ said Quick Ben, and now he was the one pacing in the confines of the tent. ‘But that was Erekala, not the Mortal Sword. Didn’t see the Shield Anvil either. This force is the one that came from the sea. The soldiers left to travel with the fleet.’

‘So it could be that Krughava has no idea they’ve turned,’ Kalam said.

‘That alliance always had me nervous,’ Quick Ben said. ‘Fanatical worshippers of a world without humans – how does that make any sense? Even if Krughava hasn’t turned, it’s only a matter of time – all they have to do is follow their faith to its logical conclusion. I warned Tavore—’

‘Now you’re lying,’ Kalam said in a growl.

The wizard turned on him. ‘How would you know?’

‘Just guessing. Because I know you, remember? You’re just mad at yourself because you never anticipated this happening.’

‘Fine. Have it your way then. The point is, Tavore is in trouble. She could get backstabbed at any time, and there’s no way we can warn her.’

‘Maybe there is,’ Paran said. ‘Once we get through this pass, I want you and Kalam riding ahead, fast as your horses can take you. Find my sister.’

‘Did you see those defences, sir?’ Kalam demanded. ‘How do you hope to get the Perish to surrender? They can stop the Host right here, right now.’

But Paran was frowning. ‘Why didn’t that demon tear you to pieces, Kalam?’

The assassin looked away, shrugged. ‘Met it before. Did it a favour. Maybe. I think. Can’t remember exactly. But it was back in Seven Cities, the middle of the Whirlwind. Things happened.’

‘You weave a fine tale, Kalam,’ Quick Ben observed.

‘I leave the endlessly flapping mouth to you, wizard.’

‘Clearly a wise decision. But next time, just summarize.’

Six High Watered officers stood uneasily before Erekala, twenty paces behind them the blackened stain and charred wreckage of the Pure’s tent, from which embers still blinked open and closed like glowing eyes amidst the ashes, and smoke lifted its black pall.

The times the Perish commander had had occasion to engage with these mixed-bloods, they had looked upon him with disdain. Now such superiority had been swept away, in a conflagration of fire. Brother Serenity was dead. But uttering that statement was akin to stating the impossible. One rank below Reverence and Diligence, Serenity’s power had been immense, matched only by that of Calm – or so Erekala had been led to believe.

And Serenity has this night fallen to two Malazans. And come the dawn, we shall face in battle eight thousand more. But did the Pure Brother heed my caution? He did not. ‘We have found blood trails leading out from the Pure’s tent,’ he now said. ‘It is fair to assume that Brother Serenity fought hard against his assailants; indeed, that he might have seriously wounded them, perhaps even killed one.’

But he could see no effect from these words. Sighing, Erekala continued, ‘Will you elect one among you to assume command of the Shriven? Alternatively, you can place yourselves under my command. Dawn is fast approaching, sirs, and we shall soon be locked in battle.’

One of the officers stepped forward. ‘Sir, in all matters tactical, Brother Serenity instructed us to obey your commands.’

Erekala nodded. ‘As you have done.’

‘Sir,’ the officer began, and then hesitated.

‘Speak your mind.’

‘The Pures have felt Brother Serenity’s death. They are wounded, confused, and from them we receive no guidance. Indeed, Akhrast Korvalain itself has been damaged here.’

‘Damaged?’ This was unexpected. ‘How so?’

‘Another Hold manifested here, last night.’

‘Indeed?’ He scanned the faces before him. ‘Perhaps you too readily discounted the efficacy of seven thousand Perish praying to their gods.’

‘We do not speak of the Beast Hold, sir.’

Erekala was silent, for now he was the one left shaken. In a quiet voice he asked, ‘And have you identified the intruder, sir?’

‘Not us, Commander. Sister Reverence, however – from the storm of her thoughts, we sense her … recognition.’

‘Go on.’

The man shook his head. ‘This is all we have, sir.’

‘Is it now your thought that another ancient Hold has set itself against Akhrast Korvalain?’

‘We would know more of these Malazans, sir.’

Erekala frowned. ‘Have you become uncertain regarding my preparations here?’

‘No, Commander. Today, the enemy shall be savaged, possibly shattered. But we seek to understand – are these Malazans nothing more than humans?’

‘No different from us Perish, you mean?’

‘Then … do they too serve an Elder God?’

‘The Malazan Empire long ago outlawed cults of war in its military … but that is not to say that there are no secret believers among the ranks.’ He studied the faces arrayed before him. ‘Has it not occurred to the Forkrul Assail that, in so forcefully asserting the power of Akhrast Korvalain, they would invite the attention of the other Elder Holds?’

‘It was our understanding that across most of this realm the Holds were abandoned, giving way to a younger ascendancy.’

Erekala cocked his head. ‘And was this the case for the Perish?’

At last, a faint sneer from the officer. ‘You were judged an aberration.’

The commander smiled. ‘We can resume this discussion at a later time. You will descend among the Shriven and take command of your companies.’

The officers saluted.

Watching them march off, Erekala gestured to one of his aides. ‘Sister Staylock, make the soldiers aware that we may face more than one enemy this day.’

The young woman frowned. ‘Sir?’

‘And then assure them that the Wolves shall guard us against all threats.’

‘Yes sir.’

Alone once more, Erekala made his way to the viewing platform he’d had raised fifty paces to the left of the gate. From there, he would have an unobstructed view of the enemy assault upon his defences. Malazans. To utter the name alone is sufficient to pale the most hardened soldier – especially among those who have faced them. What is it about these foreigners, these blades of empire, that so sets them apart?

As he reached the ladder, he paused, recalling all that he had seen of that terrible withdrawal from Malaz City. Adjunct Tavore, did you know you would come to this land to find other Malazans awaiting you? Are they your allies, or some other gambit orchestrated by Empress Laseen? Are they hunting you? Or is this simply another invasion? A sudden chill tracked through him. If allies … then all of this must have been planned. The thought frightened him.

He quickly climbed upward. Reaching the platform – the smell of fresh pine sharp in the air – he crossed the raw wooden boards to the rail facing north. The sky was lightening around him, although the approach to the pass remained in shadow. He could see enemy ranks now arrayed in five distinct wedges at the base. Can they not see what awaits them? Perhaps they will succeed in taking the first trench – but the second? It is impossible. The Grey Helms will not even draw weapons this day. His unease deepened. Call the Malazans every vile name there is, but do not call them fools.

He stood, alone on the platform, and waited to see what would come.

Grainy-eyed from lack of sleep, Ganoes Paran walked until he was opposite the disordered mob. This was always the problem, he reflected, when trying to manage four hundred sloppy, unruly marines. The hard eyes, the weathered faces, the sense that they were all half wild and straining at the leash. To make matters worse, this lot slouched before him on this chill morning were, one and all, sappers.

Paran glanced back to the mass of wooden crates laid out behind him. There were no guards stationed around them. This entire gathering was taking place two hundred paces north of the camp’s edge. With good reason. He felt a trickle of sweat work its way down his spine.

Facing the sappers once more, and with a glance at Noto Boil, and then Captain Sweetcreek who stood well off to one side, Paran cleared his throat, and began. ‘I am well aware of your frustration – I held you back from the keep defences, set you to doing repairs and nothing else. I dare say your swords are rusted in their scabbards by now …’ Paran paused, but saw no reaction from them, not a smile, not a nod. He cleared his throat again. ‘I decided that it would be to our tactical advantage to withhold you sappers, along with your particular … talents, for as long as possible.’

There was not a sound from the assembled troops, and all eyes were fixed on Paran. He glanced again at Noto Boil. The man was standing a few paces behind and off to one side, fish-spine moving up and down in his mouth. Staring back at the sappers.

Sighing, the High Fist resumed. ‘In retrospect, perhaps I should have delayed my raid on that Moranth warehouse, and not just for reasons of safety, though as I am sure you all know, the Moranth are very efficient and careful when storing munitions. Nonetheless, transporting them in bulk and overland entails undeniable risks. Fortunately, here we are.’ And he gestured behind him. ‘And there they are.’

He had been waiting for a heightening of tension, a stirring of anticipation. The first of broadening smiles, soldiers finally straightening to attention, even. Instead … Paran’s gaze narrowed. Nothing.

I might as well be describing the weather. What’s wrong with them?

Thought they respected me. Thought that maybe I’d finally earned the rank I was saddled with. But now … feels like it was all a sham.

‘You may be pleased to know that your waiting is at an end. This morning, you will avail yourselves of these munitions, and return to your squads. The marines will lead the assault. You are to break the defences and, if possible, advance to the second trench. This assault must be rapid and sustained …’ His words trailed away as he caught something at the corner of his eye.

Standing in the front row off to his right, where the sun’s light slanted across unobstructed, a grizzled corporal, his broad, flat face seamed with scars visible even from where the High Fist stood. Paran squinted at the man. Then he gestured to Noto Boil. The cutter walked over, pulling the spine from his mouth.

‘Noto Boil,’ Paran said in a low tone.

‘Sir?’

‘Walk over to that corporal – that one there – and take a closer look, and then report back to me.’

‘Is this a test?’

‘Just do it.’

The cutter reinserted the spine and then headed over to halt directly in front of the corporal. After a moment, he swung round and made his way back.

‘Well?’ Paran demanded.

Noto Boil removed the spine. ‘The man is crying, High Fist.’

‘He’s crying.’

‘So it seems, sir.’

‘But … why is he crying?’

Noto Boil turned back to regard the corporal once more. ‘Was just the one tear. Could be anything.’

Swearing under his breath, Paran marched over to stand before the corporal. The marine’s stare was fixed straight ahead. The track of that lone tear, etching its way down from his right eye, was already dulled with grit and dust. ‘Something in your eye, Corporal?’

‘No sir.’

‘Are you ill?’

‘No sir.’

‘You’re trembling.’

The eyes flicked briefly in their thinned slits, locked for an instant with Paran’s own. ‘Is that so? Didn’t know that, sir. Beggin’ your pardon.’

‘Soldier, am I blocking your view?’

‘Yes sir, that you are, sir.’

Slowly, Paran edged to one side. He studied the sapper’s face for a half-dozen heartbeats, and then a few more, until … oh, gods below! ‘I thought you said you weren’t sick, Corporal.’

‘I’m not, sir.’

‘I beg to differ.’

‘If you like, sir.’

‘Corporal.’

Another flicker of the eyes. ‘Sir?’

‘Control yourselves. Be orderly. Don’t blow any of us up. Am I understood?’

A quick nod. ‘Aye, sir. Bless you, sir.’

Startled, Paran’s voice sharpened, ‘Bless me?’

And from the mob of sappers came a muttered chorus, echoing the corporal’s blessing. Paran stepped back, struggled for a moment to regain his composure, and then raised his voice. ‘No need to rush – there’s plenty for everyone.’ He paused upon hearing a faint whimper, then continued, ‘In one turn of the sand I want you back with your squads. Your sergeants have been apprised of this resupply so you can be sure that the word has gone out. By the time you get back to them they will all have done with their prayers, sacrifices, and all the rest. In other words, they’ll be ready for you. The advance begins two turns of the sand from now. That is all.’

He set off, not looking back.

Noto Boil came up alongside him. ‘High Fist.’

‘What?’

‘Is this wise? That’s more munitions than any of them has ever seen.’

‘In those crates are just the sharpers, burners and smokers. I haven’t even let them see the cussers and redbolts—’

‘Excuse me, sir, the what bolts?’

‘It turns out, Noto, that there exists a whole class of munitions exclusive to the Moranth. Not for export, if you understand me. Through a card I was witness to the demonstration of some of them. These ones, which I have called redbolts, are similar to onager bolts. Only they do not require the onager.’

‘Curious, High Fist. But if you haven’t shown them to any sapper yet, how will anyone know how to use them?’

‘If we need to fight the Perish, well, it’s possible that a crash course will be necessary. For the moment, however, why distract them?’

They were approaching the camp edge, where two companies of regulars and heavies were assembled, one to either side of the cobbled road. Between them and awaiting their arrival was Fist Rythe Bude.

Noto Boil said, ‘One more question, sir.’

Paran sighed. ‘What?’

‘Those cussers and redbolts, where did you hide them?’

‘Relax. I made my own warren for them – well, to be more precise, I walled off a small area in a different warren, accessible only to me, via a card.’

‘Ormulogun?’

‘Excuse me? Did he paint the card? Of course.’

‘Did he use a funny red slash, sir? Like lightning, only the colour of blood?’

Paran frowned. ‘Redbolt symbol, yes. How did you know that?’

Noto Boil shrugged. ‘Not sure, sir. Seen it somewhere, I suppose. No matter.’

Corporal Stern wiped at his eyes. Crates were being cracked open, the sappers working quickly. He scanned the remaining boxes, swore under his breath, and then turned. ‘Manx, get over here.’

The Dal Honese shaman waddled over. ‘Just what we figured! Only the small stuff. That bastard don’t trust us.’

Stern grunted. ‘You idiot. I don’t trust us. But listen, if we—’

Manx held up a hand in front of Stern’s face. ‘Got it covered. See?’

The corporal tilted his head back, studied the tattoo blazoned across the hand’s palm. A blood-red jagged slash. ‘That’s it? That’s all you need?’

‘Should do. We made sure the toad described it in detail.’

‘Right. Has he recovered?’

‘Well, we roasted him a bit crispy here and there, but he’ll survive. It all kind of went wrong for a bit – I mean, we had ’em both trussed up, and we figured just threatening the toad would be enough to make the artist break down and talk. We was wrong. In fact, it was Ormulogun who suggested the roasting bit – never seen the old lunatic happier. We thought they was friends—’

‘Be quiet, will you? You’re babbling. I don’t care what happened, so long as you didn’t kill either of them.’

‘They’re alive, I told you. Trussed up and gagged for now. We’ll let ’em go later.’

Stern looked round, raised his voice, ‘Sappers! Leave room for a cusser or two!’

‘Ain’t no cussers, Stern.’

‘Never mind that. It’s taken care of. Now let’s get this done – and carefully. We make a mistake here and we don’t take none of the bad guys with us on the way out, and that’ll send our souls to the fiends of the Sapper’s Torment for ever – and nobody wants that, do they?’

A sudden hush, a renewed attention to caution, and here and there, a few subtle gestures warding against the curse of the Sapper’s Torment.

Satisfied, Stern nodded. ‘Manx, stay close to me from now on.’

‘We ain’t never used one of those redbolts, Stern.’

The man grunted. ‘Show me a munition I can’t figure out and I’ll show you the inside of the Cobra God’s nose.’

Manx shot him a look. ‘Figured you had north Dal Hon blood in you.’

‘What’s in my blood don’t matter. I just know that when a sapper steps on to the field of battle, they’d be wise to call on every god they ever heard of.’

‘Amen and a spit in the eye t’that.’

Stern hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Amen and a spit in the eye back. Now, you ready? Good. Let’s go find our squad. The sarge is gonna love this.’

‘No he ain’t!’

‘Sarge loves what I tell him to love, Manx. Credo of the Sapper’s Knuckle.’

‘“Who’s holding the sharper?” Aye, Sapper’s Knuckle. Hey, Stern.’

‘What?’

The shaman was grinning. ‘See what this means? Us sappers. We’re back to what we never were but could’ve been, and don’t that taste sweet?’

‘It’s only sweet if we don’t mess this up. Now pay attention where you’re stepping. I seen gopher holes.’

‘Ain’t gophers, Stern. These are prairie dogs.’

‘Whatever. Stick a foot in one of those and we all go up.’

Commander Erekala could feel the wind freshening, down from the north, funnelling up the narrow approach to the pass. Carried on that breeze was the smell of iron, leather, sweat and horses. Sister Staylock stood at his side, with a half-dozen messengers stationed behind them should commands need to be sent down to the flag stations positioned along the wall.

The enemy forces were shaking out, seething motion all along the front lines. The medium and heavy infantry that had been positioned there in solid ranks since dawn were now splitting up to permit new troops to move forward in ragged formation. These newcomers bore no standards, and most of them had their shields still strapped to their backs. From what Erekala could make out, they were armed with crossbows and short swords.

‘Skirmishers?’ asked Staylock. ‘They don’t look light on their feet, Commander – some of them are wearing chain. Nor are they forming a line. Who are these soldiers?’

‘Marines.’

‘They appear … undisciplined, sir.’

‘It is my understanding, Sister Staylock, that against the Malazan marines the armies of the Seven Holy Cities had no counter. They are, in fact, unlike any other soldier on the field of battle.’

She turned to eye him quizzically. ‘Sir, may I ask, what else have you heard about these marines?’

Erekala leaned on the rail. ‘Heard? Yes, that would be the word.’

They were advancing now, broken up into squads of eight or ten, clambering steadily over the rough ground towards the first trench, where waited masses of Shriven – Kolansii regulars. Solid enough soldiers, Erekala knew. Proficient if not spectacular, yet subject to the sorcery of the Forkrul Assail. Without the Pure, however, there would be no power sufficient to unleash in them any battle frenzy. Still, they would not buckle so long as the mixed-blood commanders held their nerve.

‘I don’t understand you, sir.’

He glanced across at her. ‘The night of the Adjunct’s disengagement from the docks of Malaz City, Sister – where were you stationed?’

‘The outer screen of ships, sir.’

‘Ah. Do you recall, did you by chance happen to hear thunder that night – from the island?’

Frowning, she shook her head. ‘Sir, for half that night I was in my sling, fast asleep.’

‘Very well. Your answer, Sister, is not long in coming, I fear.’

Thirty rough and broken paces below the first berm now, the squads thinning out, those wielding crossbows raising their weapons.

On the Shriven side, the pikes angled down, readying for the enemy to breach the top of the berm. The iron points formed a bristling wall. From the second trench the archers had moved up, nocking arrows but not yet drawing. Once the Malazans reached the ridge line, coming into direct line of sight, the arrows would hiss their song, and as the first line of bodies tumbled, the archers would begin firing in longer arcs – to angle the arrows down the slope. And the advance would grind to a halt, with soldiers huddling under their shields, seeking cover from the rain of death.

Twenty paces now, where there was a pause in the advance – only an instant – and then Erekala saw arms swinging, tiny objects sailing out from the hands.

Too soon.

Striking the bank two-thirds of the way up. Sudden billowing of thick black smoke, boiling out, devouring the lines of sight. Like a bank of fog, the impenetrable wall rolled up and over the berm’s topside.

‘Magery?’ gasped Staylock.

Erekala shook his head.

And from that rising tide of midnight, more objects sailed out, landing amidst the pike-wielding press of Shriven.

Detonations and flashes of fire erupted along the entire length of the trench. The mass of Kolansii shook, and everywhere was the bright crimson of blood and torn flesh.

A second wave of munitions landed.

The report of their explosions echoed up the slope, followed by screams and shrieks of pain. The smoke was rolling into the trench, torn here and there by further detonations, but this just added dust and misted blood to the roiling mix.

Along the second trench, the archers were wavering.

‘Begin firing blind,’ Erekala murmured. ‘Do it now.’

And he was pleased to see Watered officers bellowing their commands, and the bows drawn back.

A sleet of quarrels shot out from the smoke and dust, tore into the archers. And the heads of many of these quarrels were explosive. The entire line disintegrated, bodies tumbling back to the crouching loaders.

More grenados arced after the quarrels, down into the trench. Closer now, Erekala could see limbs, ripped clean from bodies, spinning in the air.

Higher up the slope, the reserve companies boiled into motion, rushing down towards the third trench, while those troops who had been stationed in that position were now foaming up over their own berm, to begin a downhill charge. The line of archers dug in above the third trench were swept up in the wholesale advance.

‘What are they doing?’ demanded Staylock.

‘The trenches are proving indefensible against these munitions,’ Erekala replied. ‘The half-blood officers have correctly determined the proper response to this – they must close with the marines. Their elevation and their numbers alone should win the day.’

The marines, he now saw beneath the fast thinning smoke, had overrun the archers’ trench, and looked to be digging in all along the line – but Erekala had ensured that the earthworks were designed in such a manner as to expose them to attack from higher up the slope. Those trenches offered them nothing. The marines began scurrying in full retreat.

‘They’re panicking,’ hissed Staylock. ‘They’ve run out of toys, and now …’

The descending, elongated mass of Kolansii was like an avalanche racing after the straggly marines.

‘Hold up at the lowest trench,’ Erekala pleaded. ‘Don’t follow the fools all the way down!’

The sound of that charge, past the archers’ trench and into the dip of the first trench, was like thunder.

There were officers in the lead ranks. Erekala saw them checking their soldiers—

The whole scene vanished in multiple eruptions, as if the entire slope had exploded beneath the Kolansii forces. The concussion rolled upwards to shake the summit, fracturing the wall and shaking the stone gates, taking hold of the wooden platform Erekala and the others stood on and rattling it so fiercely that they all lost their footing. Rails snapped and men and women tumbled over the sides, screaming.

Erekala grasped one side post, managed to hang on as successive shock waves slammed up the slope. Wolves protect us!

Twisting now on the strangely tilted platform, he saw the clouds lifting to blot out the view to the north – dust and dirt, armour and weapons and sodden strips of clothing – all of it now swept down towards them, a grisly rain of devastation.

Unmindful of the deadly deluge, Erekala pulled himself upright. One of the legs of the platform had snapped and he was alone – even Staylock had plummeted to the broken ground below.

A sword tip stabbed deep into the pine boards just off to his left, the blade quivering with the impact. More rubble rained down.

He stared downslope, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. All but the highest, nearest trench – along with the levelled ground behind it – was torn chaos, the ground wounded with overlapping craters steaming amidst chewed-up corpses. Most of the Kolansii army was simply … gone.

And then he saw movement once again, from the downward end – the same marines, swarming back up the slope, into the huge bites in the earth, up and over. Squads advancing, others drawing into tight clumps and beginning work on something.

Streams of Kolansii survivors, stunned, painted crimson, were retreating up towards the stone wall, clumping on the cobbled road. Most of the soldiers had flung away their weapons.

Just like that, the Kolansii are finished.

Strange crackling bursts of fire from the marines, and Erekala’s eyes widened to see streaks of flame race out from squad positions, sizzling as they lunged up and into the air, arcing upslope.

Of the dozen terrifying projectiles launched, only two directly struck the crowded road.

The platform under Erekala pitched back, flinging him round. He lost his grip, slid past the embedded sword, and then he was falling. There was no sound. He realized that he had been deafened, and so in sweet, perfect silence, he watched the ground race up to meet him. And overhead, shadow stole the morning light.

Staylock had only just picked herself up – bruised and aching – when a closer detonation threw her back to the ground. The wall before her rippled, punching away the soldiers huddled against its protective barrier. And then, with a roar of fire, something descended on the gate to her right. The stones disintegrated in a flash of light. The sound of the impact threatened to crush her. Stunned, she staggered away from the blazing gate – saw Commander Erekala lying not ten paces away, in the wreckage of the toppled platform. Vague motions from his body drew her to him.

‘Brother Erekala!’ she cried.

His eyes were open, but the whites were crazed with blood. His mouth opened and closed like that of a beached fish, but she could hear no breaths going in or out.

Just as she reached his side she heard a desperate gasp from the man, and all at once he was on his side, coughing.

‘Commander!’

But he did not hear her – she could see that. She looked up – entire companies of Perish had been thrown to the ground by multiple impacts.

This is not war.

This is slaughter.

And in her skull, she thought she could hear the howling of her gods. A sound of impotent rage and blind defiance. A sound that understood nothing.

A gloved hand grasped Stern by the shoulder and spun him round. Snarling, he reached for his sword, and then stared. ‘Fist!’

‘Cease the bombardment immediately!’

The corporal looked up and down the rough line of redbolt stations. The crates positioned behind them had each been cracked, and bundles of fleece-packed padding lay torn and scattered between the crates and the launch sites. He did a quick count of the nearest ones. ‘Still got four or five salvos left, sir – right down the line!’

‘I said stop! The High Fist does not want the Perish engaged!’

Stern blinked. ‘But we ain’t engaging the Perish!’

‘Have you any idea how far those bolts are going?’

The corporal turned to spit grit from his mouth – there was another taste there, bitter, new to his tongue. ‘We’re softening up that wall, that’s all. Not one’s gone beyond it, Fist. On my word!’

‘Pass it down, cease your fire!’

‘Aye, Fist! – oh, Fist – did you see that Fiddling Hedge Drum? Gods below – in all my days left I’ll never forget—’

He stopped when he saw the black rage in her face. ‘We wanted them broken, sapper – not all dead!’

Stern scowled. ‘Sorry, Fist, but nobody told us that.’

For a moment he thought she might attack him. Instead, off she stormed. Stern watched her head laterally across the slope to where regulars and heavies were drawing up, struggling to stay on what was left of the cobbled road. Shit, we’re going to have to rebuild that, aren’t we? But isn’t that the secret truth of everything in the military? Order us to blow it up, and then order us to rebuild the fucker. Ah, the sapper’s lot …

Manx crunched down at his side, his face flash-burned and smeared with greasy smoke. ‘Why’re we holding up? Got plenty left!’

‘Fist’s orders, Manx. Listen, pass word along – repack the crates, use all that extra padding.’ He straightened, arched out the ache in his lower back, and then looked round. Enormous holes in the earth, huge craters steaming, heaps of shattered bodies, dust and dirt and blood still raining down through the choking smoke. He sighed. ‘Looks like our work here is done.’

Staylock helped Erekala to his feet. There was a storm in his head, a droning rush as if the heavens had opened to a deluge, and beneath that pounded the labouring drum of his own heart. Looking up, squinting through the pall of smoke and dust, he saw his soldiers swarming like wasps – officers were shouting, straining to assert some order in the chaos. ‘What – what is happening?’ He heard his own question as the faintest of whispers.

Staylock replied from what seemed a thousand paces away. ‘There are Malazans on the other side of the pass, Commander – at least four companies.’

‘But that’s impossible.’

‘They simply appeared, sir. Now we are trapped between two armies!’

Erekala shook his head, struggling to clear his thoughts. This cannot be. We were told there was no other way through the mountains. ‘Form up into hollow squares, the wounded in the centre.’ Staggering, he set out towards the southern stretch of the pass. Behind him, Staylock was shouting orders.

Pushing through his soldiers – appalled at their shattered discipline – Erekala moved through the camp, still half dazed, until he was beyond the last of the Perish tents. The smoke and dust flowed past him, carrying with it the stench of burnt meat and scorched cloth and leather. He thought back to what he had seen down among the trenches and shivered. What has come to us? What have we become, to do such things?

Within sight of the Malazans, he halted. There was no mistaking this – the companies he now looked upon were the same as those he had seen earlier, down on the north side of the pass. Warren. But … no one has such power – I doubt even the gods could open such gates. Yet, how can I deny what I see with my own eyes? The enemy was drawn up, presenting a curious mix of heavy infantry, marines with crossbows, regulars and skirmishers. Beyond them a single small tent had been raised, around which soldiers clustered.

A messenger ran up to Erekala from behind. ‘Sir! The enemy has reached the highest trench and continues to advance.’

‘Thank you,’ Erekala replied. He saw two figures emerging from the ranks, walking side by side, one tall, the other almost as tall but much broader across the shoulders. The ebon sheen of their skin cut a stark contrast to the bleached landscape. Dal Honese or southeast Seven Cities – ah, I know these two men. The thin one – I remember him standing at the prow, facing down the Tiste Edur fleet. The High Mage, Quick Ben. Meaning the other one is the assassin. They do not belong here. But, among all the flaws afflicting me, blindness is not one of them. Ignoring the soldier behind him, the commander set out to meet the two men.

‘Look at us now,’ Quick Ben muttered.

‘Never mind us,’ Kalam growled in reply. ‘I see the commander – that’s Erekala, right? See the ranks behind him? They’re a mess.’

‘You know,’ the wizard said, ‘I didn’t think it was possible. Opening two gates at the same time like that, and the size of them! Gods below, he really is the Master of the Deck.’

Kalam glanced across at him. ‘You were sceptical?’

‘I’m always sceptical.’

‘Well, impressive as it was, Paran came out half dead – so even he has his limits.’

‘Minala’s all over him – jealous, Kalam?’

The assassin shrugged. ‘That’s one bone I never had in my body, Quick.’

‘Her and Rythe Bude – what is it with Ganoes Paran anyway? All these women slobbering all over him.’

‘He’s younger,’ Kalam said. ‘That’s all it takes, you know. Us old farts ain’t got a chance.’

‘Speak for yourself.’

‘Wipe that grin off, Quick, or I’ll do it for you.’

They were closing on Erekala now, and would meet approximately halfway between the two armies. The way it should be. ‘Look at us,’ Quick Ben said again, low, under his breath. ‘What do we know about negotiating?’

‘So leave it to me,’ Kalam replied. ‘I mean to keep it simple.’

‘Oh, this should be fun.’

They halted six paces from the Perish commander, who also stopped, and the assassin wasted no time. ‘Commander Erekala, High Fist Paran extends his greetings. He wants you to surrender, so we don’t have to kill all of you.’

The man looked like he’d been caught in the blast-wave of a cusser or sharper. His face was speckled with tiny cuts and gashes. Dust covered his uniform and he’d lost one chain-backed gauntlet. Erekala opened his mouth, shut it, and then tried again. ‘Surrender?’

Kalam scowled. ‘Those sappers have only just started. You understanding me?’

‘What have you done?’

Kalam grimaced, glanced away, hands now on his hips, and then looked back at the commander. ‘You’re seeing how it’s going to be – the old way of fighting is on its way out. The future, Erekala, just stood up and bit off half your face.’

Erekala was clearly confused. ‘The future …’

‘This is how it’ll be. From now on. Fuck all the animals – they’ll all be gone. But we’ll still be here. We’ll still be killing each other, but this time in unimaginable numbers.’

The commander shook his head. ‘When all the beasts are gone—’

‘Long live the cruellest beast of all,’ Kalam said, suddenly baring his teeth. ‘And it won’t end. It’ll never end.’

Erekala’s eyes slowly widened, and then his gaze shifted past Quick Ben and Kalam, to the waiting ranks of Malazan soldiers. ‘When all the beasts are gone,’ he whispered, and then raised his voice, once more addressing Kalam. ‘Your words … satisfy me. Inform your High Fist. The Perish Grey Helms surrender.’

‘Good. Disarm – we’ll collect your weapons on our way through. Sorry we can’t help with your wounded, though – we’re in something of a hurry.’

‘And what do you intend to do with my brothers and sisters?’

Kalam frowned. ‘Nothing. Just don’t follow us – your role in this whole Hood-damned mess is now done. Look,’ the assassin added, ‘we had to get through the pass. You got in our way. We got no qualms killing the Assail and their Shriven – that’s what we’re here to do. But you Perish – well, the High Fist made it clear enough – you ain’t our enemy. You never was.’

As they made their way back Quick Ben shot Kalam a look. ‘How did you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘The thought of us humans slaughtering each other for ever and ever – how did you know that he’d settle with that?’

The assassin shrugged. ‘I just told him how it was going to be. Soon as he heard it, he knew the truth of it. They may be fanatics but that don’t make them fools.’

Quick Ben snorted. ‘Beg to differ on that one, Kalam.’

Grunting, Kalam nodded and said, ‘Soon as I said it … all right, try this. Even a fanatic can smell the shit they’re buried in. Will that do?’

‘Not really. They’re fools because they then convince themselves it smells sweet. Listen, you basically told him that his sacred beasts were finished.’

‘Aye. Then I made it taste sweet.’

Quick Ben thought about that for a time, as they approached the ranks, and finally he sighed. ‘You know, Erekala ain’t the only fool around here.’

‘What’s that smell? And I thought you were smart, wizard. Now, get us some horses while I report to Paran.’

‘Tavore?’

‘If she’s alive, we’ll find her.’

With an enraged scream, Korabas snapped her head down, jaws closing on the Eleint’s shoulder. Bones exploded in her mouth. With the talons of one of her feet, she scythed the beast’s underbelly, and then struck again, claws plunging deep. Blood and fluids gushed down as she tore loose the dragon’s guts. With its carcass still in her jaws, she whipped it to one side, into the path of another Eleint.

Claws scored across her back. The Otataral Dragon twisted round, lashing with her talons. Puncturing scaly hide, she snatched the dragon close, bit through its neck, and then flung it away. Jaws crunched on one ankle. When her own jaws lunged down, they closed sideways around the back of the Eleint’s head. A single convulsive crunch collapsed the skull. Another dragon hammered down on her from above. Talons razored bloody tracks just beneath her left eye. Fangs chewed at the ridge of her neck. Korabas folded her wings, tearing loose and plummeting away from the attacker. A dragon directly below her took the full impact of her immense weight. It spun away, one wing shattered, spine snapped, and fell earthward.

Thundering the air, she lifted herself higher once more. Eleint swarmed around her, like crows surrounding a condor, darting close and then away again. The air was filled with their reptilian shrieks, the Ancients among them roaring their fury.

She had killed scores already, had left a trail of dragon corpses strewn on the dead ground in her wake. But it was not enough. Blood streamed from her flanks, her chest creaked with her labouring breath, and the attacks were growing ever more frenzied.

The change was coming. She could taste it – in the gore sliming her mouth, shredded between her fangs – in the frantic furnaces of her nostrils – in the air on all sides. Too many Eleint. Too many Ancients – the Storms are still in collision, but soon they will merge.

Soon, T’iam will awaken.

Another Storm struck. Howling, Korabas lashed out. Crushing chests, tearing legs from hips, wings from shoulders. Ripping heads from necks. She bit through ribcages, sent entrails spilling. Bodies fell away, trailing tails of ruin. The air was thick with blood, and much of it her own. Too much of it my own.

T’iam! T’iam! Mother! Will you devour me? Will you devour your child so wrong, so hated, so abandoned?

Mother – see the coming darkness? Will you hear my cries? My cries in the dark?

There was terrible pain. The blind rage surrounding her was its own storm, all of it whirling in and down to ceaselessly batter her. She had not asked to be feared. She had not wanted such venom – the only gift from all of her kin. She had not asked to be born.

I hurt so.

Will you kill me now?

Mother, when you come, will you kill your wrong child?

Around her, an endless maelstrom of dragons. Weakening, she fought on, blind now to her path, blind to everything but the waves of pain and hate assailing her.

This life. It is all that it is, all that I am. This life – why do I deserve this? What have I done to deserve this?

The Storms ripped into her. The Storms tore her hide, rent vast tears in her wings, until her will alone was all that kept her aloft, flying across these wracked skies, as the sun bled out over the horizon far, far behind her.

See the darkness. Hear my cries.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

HE’D BROUGHT THE BUNDLED FORM AS CLOSE AS HE DARED, AND now it was lying on the ground beside him. The cloth was stained, threadbare, the colour of dead soil. Astride his lifeless horse, he leaned over the saddle horn and with his one eye studied the distant Spire. The vast bay on his left, beyond the cliffs, crashed in tumult, as if ripped by tides – but this violence did not belong to the tides. Sorceries were gathering and the air was heavy and sick with power.

It had all been unleashed and there was no telling how things would fall. But he had done all that he could. Hearing horse hoofs behind him he twisted round.

Toc saluted. ‘Sir.’

Whiskeyjack’s face was cruel in its mockery of what it had once been, in the times of living. His beard was the hue of iron below a gaunt, withered face, like the exposed roots of a long-dead tree. The eyes were unseen beneath the ridge of his brows, sunken into blackness.

We are passing away. Sinking back from this beloved edge.

‘You cannot remain here, soldier.’

‘I know.’ Toc gestured with one desiccated hand, down to the shrouded form lying on the ground. Behind Whiskeyjack the Bridgeburners waited on their mounts, silent, motionless. Toc’s eye flitted over them. ‘I had no idea, sir,’ he said, ‘there were so many.’

‘War is the great devourer, soldier. So many left us along the way.’

The tone was emptied of all emotion and this alone threatened to break what remained of Toc’s heart. This is not how you should be. We are fading. So little remains. So little …

When Whiskeyjack wheeled his mount and set off, his Bridgeburners following, Toc rode with them for a short distance, flanking the solid mass of riders, until something struck him deep inside, like the twist of a knife, and he reined in once more, watching as they continued on. Longing tore at his soul. I once dreamed of being a Bridgeburner. If I had won that, I would now be riding with them, and it would all be so much simpler. But, as with so many dreams, I failed, and nothing was how I wanted it. He drew his mount round and stared back at that now distant shape on the ground.

Fallen One, I understand now. You maimed me outside the city of Pale. You hollowed out one eye, made a cave in my skull. Spirits wandered in for shelter time and again. They made use of that cave. They made use of me.

But now they are gone, and only you remain. Whispering promises in the hollow of my wound.

‘But can’t you see the truth of this?’ he muttered. ‘I hold on. I hold on, but I feel my grip … slipping. It’s slipping, Fallen One.’ Still, he would cling to this last promise, for as long as he could. He would make use of this one remaining eye, to see this through.

If I can.

He kicked his horse into motion, swinging inland, into the wake of the Guardians of the Gate. The hamlets and villages of the headland were grey, abandoned, every surface coated in the ash from the Spire. Furrowed fields made ripples of dull white, as if buried in snow. Here and there, the jutting cage of ribs and hip bones made broken humps. He rode past them all, through the hanging dust cloud left behind by the Bridgeburners. And in the distance ahead, rising above banks of fog, the Spire.

Huddle close in this cave. It’s almost time.

Once, long ago, the treeless plains of this land had been crowded with vast herds of furred beasts, moving in mass migrations to the siren call of the seasons. Brother Diligence was reminded of those huge creatures as he watched the bulky provision wagons wheel upslope on the raised tracks, away from the trenches and redoubts. Feeding almost fifty thousand soldiers had begun to strain the logistics of supply. Another week of this waiting would empty the granaries of the city.

But there would be no need for another week. The enemy was even now marshalling to the south, with outriders riding along the far ridge on the other side of the valley’s broad, gentle saddle.

The dawn air was brittle with surging energies. Akhrast Korvalain swirled so thick it was almost visible to his eyes. Yet he sensed deep agitation, alien currents gnawing at the edges of the Elder Warren’s manifestation, and this troubled him.

He stood on a slightly raised, elongated platform overlooking the defences, and as the day’s light lifted he scanned yet again the complicated investment of embankments, slit-trenches, machicolations, fortlets and redoubts spread out below him. In his mind, he envisioned the enemy advance, watched as the subtle adjustments he’d had made to the approaches funnelled and crowded the attackers, punishing them at the forefront by onager defilade, and then taking them on the flanks by enfilading arrow fire from the mounded redoubts. He saw the swarming waves of enemy soldiers thrust and driven this way and that, chewing fiercely at the strongpoints only to reel back bloodied.

His eyes tracked down to the centre high-backed earthworks where he had positioned the Perish Grey Helms – they were locked in place, thrust down on to the flatland, with few avenues for retreat. Too eager to kneel, that Shield Anvil. And the young girl – there had been a feral look in her eyes Diligence did not trust. But, they would fight and die in one place, and he was confident that they would hold the centre for as long as needed.

By all estimations his defenders outnumbered the attackers, making the enemy’s chances for success virtually non-existent. This invasion had already failed.

The planks underfoot creaked and bowed slightly and Brother Diligence turned to see that Shield Anvil Tanakalian had arrived on the platform. The man was pale, his face glistening with sweat. He approached the Forkrul Assail as if struggling to stay upright – and Diligence smiled upon imagining the man flinging himself prostrate at his feet. ‘Shield Anvil, how fare your brothers and sisters?’

Tanakalian wiped sweat from his upper lip. ‘The Bolkando forces possess a mailed fist in the Evertine Legion, Brother Diligence. Commanded by Queen Abrastal herself. And then there are the Gilk Barghast—’

‘Barghast? This is your first mention of them.’ Diligence sighed. ‘So they have at last come to the home of their ancient kin, have they? How fitting.’

‘They see themselves as shock troops, sir. You will know them by their white-painted faces.’

Diligence started. ‘White-painted faces?’

Tanakalian’s eyes narrowed. ‘They call themselves the White Face Barghast, yes.’

‘Long ago,’ Diligence said, half in wonder, ‘we created a Barghast army to serve us. They sought to emulate the Forkrul Assail in appearance, electing to bleach the skin of their faces.’

Frowning, the Shield Anvil shook his head. ‘There was, I believe, some kind of prophecy, guiding them across the seas to land north of Lether. A holy war to be fought, or some such thing. We believe that only the Gilk clan remains.’

‘They betrayed us,’ Diligence said, studying Tanakalian. ‘Many Pures died at their hand. Tell me, these Gilk – are they in the habit of wearing armour?’

‘Turtle shell, yes – most strange.’

‘Gillankai! Their hands are drenched in the blood of Pures!’

Tanakalian backed a step in the face of this sudden fury. Seeing this, Diligence narrowed his gaze on the Shield Anvil. ‘How many warriors among these Gilk?’

‘Three thousand, perhaps? Four?’

Snarling, Diligence turned to face the valley again. ‘The weapons of the Forkrul Assail are our hands and feet – the Gillankai devised an armour to blunt our blows. Shield Anvil, when they come, concentrate against these Barghast. Break them!’

‘Sir, I cannot command the presentation of enemy forces. I came here to tell you it is my suspicion that the Evertine Legion will engage the Grey Helms – a clash of heavy infantry. We shall lock jaws with them and we shall prevail. As such, sir, we leave the Gilk, the Saphii and other assorted auxiliaries to your Kolansii. In addition to the Letherii, of course.’

‘Any other threats you’ve yet to mention, Brother?’

‘Sir, you vastly outnumber the attackers. I expect we shall make short work of them.’

‘And does this disappoint you, Shield Anvil?’

Tanakalian wiped again at the sweat beading his upper lip. ‘Provided you do not seek to use your voice, sir, to demand surrender, we shall welcome all the blood spilled on this day.’

‘Of course. It is the slaughter you so desire. Perhaps I shall indulge you in this. Perhaps not.’

The Shield Anvil’s eyes flicked away momentarily, and then he bowed. ‘As you will, sir.’

‘Best return to your soldiers,’ Diligence said. ‘And keep a watchful eye on that Destriant. She is not what she would like us to believe she is.’

Tanakalian stiffened, and then bowed again.

Diligence watched the fool hurry away.

Watered Hestand thumped up on to the platform and saluted. ‘Blessed Pure, our scouts report the advance of the enemy – they will soon crest the ridge and come into view.’

‘Very well.’

‘Sir – there are not enough of them.’

‘Indeed.’

As Hestand hesitated, Diligence turned to eye the officer. ‘Your thoughts?’

‘Sir, surely their own scouts have assessed our numbers, and the completeness of our defences. Unless they hold some hidden knife or weapon, they cannot hope to best us. Sir …’

‘Go on.’

‘The High Watered among us have sensed the sudden absence of Brother Serenity, far to the northwest. Clearly, the forces that emerged from the keep are now advancing, and – somehow – they are proving their worth against even the most powerful Pures.’

‘Hestand.’

‘Sir.’

‘This is not the day to fret over distant events, no matter how disquieting they may be.’

‘Sir, it is my thought – perhaps the enemy now arraying before us possess similar efficacy, when it comes to the Forkrul Assail.’

After a long moment, Diligence nodded. ‘Well said. I appreciate your persistence on this matter. By your courage you chastise me. Hestand, you are wise to awaken caution. As you have observed, the enemy before us cannot hope to prevail, nor can they be so blind that they cannot see the hard truth awaiting them. Raising the question, what secret do they possess?’

‘Sir, what can we do?’

‘Only wait and see, Hestand.’ Diligence turned back to the valley, tracked with his eyes down the paths leading to the centre redoubt – and the wolf standards of the Perish. ‘Perhaps I should compel the Shield Anvil. He is holding something back – I see that now. What I took for nerves before battle – I may have misread him.’

‘Shall I retrieve the Perish commander, sir? Or perhaps send a squad down to arrest him?’

Diligence shook his head. ‘And invite a mutiny among the troops holding our centre? No. I believe I must undertake this task in person.’

‘Sir – is there time?’ And Hestand now pointed to the south ridge.

The enemy were presenting in a solid line along the crest. Diligence studied the distant scene for a moment, and then he nodded. ‘There is time. Await me here, Hestand. I shall not be gone long.’

She had ascended the Spire and now stood, her back to the altar and the Heart it held, facing out on to the bay. The fleet of anchored Perish ships rocked like wood chips in a cauldron of boiling water, and as she watched she saw a trio of masts snap in a writhing fury of shredded stays. The white spume of the waves sprayed high into the air.

Sister Reverence found that she was trembling. There is something down there, in the depth of the bay. Something building to rage.

Strangers have come among us.

Spinning, she faced inland, eyes darting as she studied the vast array of defences crowding the approach to the narrow isthmus. Twenty thousand elite Kolansii heavy infantry, their pikes forming thick bands of forest in solid ribbons all down the tiered descent. Fifteen hundred onagers clustered in raised fortlets interspersed among the trench lines, each one capable of releasing twelve heavy quarrels in a single salvo, with reloading time less than forty heartbeats. The defilade down the choke-point ensured devastation should any attacker strive to close on the lowest fortifications.

There was a taste of bitter metal in her mouth. Her bones ached despite the gusts of hot, rancid air belching out from fissures in the stone on all sides. I am afraid. Should I reach out to Brother Diligence? Should I avail myself of all these unknown terrors? But what enemy can I show him? An unruly bay – that vague bank of fog or dust to the south? These things are nothing. He prepares for a battle. He has his mind on real matters – not an old woman’s gibbering imagination!

She should never have sent Brother Serenity away. And now he was dead. She had shared his last visions – raging fire, the flames blackening his once-white skin, scouring the flesh of his face, boiling the water of his eyes until the balls burst – and his cries! Abyss below, his cries! The fire filling his mouth, the flames sweeping in, sucked past charred lips, igniting his lungs! Such a terrible death!

These humans were an abomination. Their brutal ways shook her to the core. There was no end to their capacity for cruel destruction, no end to their will to deliver horror and death. The world would find a clean breath once they were all gone, finally, a clean and blessedly innocent breath.

Akhrast Korvalain, attend me! This is the day we are challenged! We must prevail!

Reverence walked to stand before the altar. She glared down at the knotted object set in the surface of the stone. Awakening her sorcerous vision, she studied the now visible chains binding the Heart down – all her ancestors, their bones given new shapes, but their strength had not changed. There was no weakness in what she saw. The sight relieved her. No one shall take this from us. If I must, I will destroy it by my own hand.

The warren surrounding the Heart had kept it hidden for all this time. What had changed? How had it been found? Not even the gods could sense it, not hidden here at the heart of our warren. And yet we are about to be attacked. We are about to be besieged. I feel the truth of this! Who could have found it?

A sudden thought struck her, clenching like a fist in the centre of her chest. The Fallen One! But no – he is too weak! Bound by his own chains!

What gambit is he playing? To think that he could challenge us! No, this is madness! But then, was the Crippled God not mad? Tortured in agony, broken, ripped apart – fragments of him scattered across half the world. But I am the one holding his heart. I have … stolen it. Ha, and see how deep and how vast my love! Watch as I squeeze it dry of all life!

A marriage of justice with pain. Is this not the torture of the world? Of all worlds? ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘I will never relinquish my … my love. Never!’ This is the only worship worthy of the name. I hold in my hand a god’s heart, and together, we sing a thousand songs of suffering.

Distant eruptions drew her round. The Perish ships! Torn from their anchors, the huge vessels now lifting wild on the heaving swells – white foam spouting skyward, splinters as ships collided, broke apart, the wolfheads drowning on all sides – she saw the Kolansii ships in the harbour directly below, moored to the moles and the inside of the breakwater, all stirring, like beasts milling in blind confusion. Waves hammered the stone breakwater, lifting enormous sheets into the air. And yet. And yet … there is no wind.

There is no wind!

Grub was almost lost in the moulded scale saddle behind the shoulders of the Ve’Gath, and yet, as the beast loped forward, he was not tossed about as he would have been if on a horse. The scales were still changing, growing to shield his legs, including his thighs, as if the saddle sought to become armour as well – he was amazed at seeing such a thing. Flanged scales now rose to encircle his hips. He had a moment of fear – would this armour, extruded out from the beast he was riding, eventually encase him in entirety? Would it ever release him?

He turned his head to the rider travelling beside him, to see if the Ve’Gath’s thick hide was growing up in the same way, but no – there it remained an ornate saddle, that and nothing more. And Mortal Sword Krughava rode it with all the ease and familiarity of a veteran. He envied such people, for whom everything came so easily.

My father was not like that. He was never a natural fighter. He had nothing of the talent of, say, Kalam Mekhar. Or Stormy or Gesler. He was just an average man, forced to be more than he was.

I am glad I did not see him die. I am glad my memories see him as only alive, for ever alive.

I think I can live with that.

I have no choice.

They had left the K’Chain Che’Malle army halfway through last night, and now they were swiftly closing on the Letherii and Bolkando armies. If he stretched up – as far as the sheathing armour round his thighs would permit – he could see directly ahead the dark, seething stain of the troops ascending to the ridge. Grub glanced again across at Krughava. She was wearing her helm, the visor dropped down and the hinges locked. The wolfskin cape was too heavy to skirl out behind her, despite the swift pace the Ve’Gath were setting, but still it flowed down with impressive grace along the horizontal back of the K’Chain Che’Malle, sweeping down to cover its hips and the projecting mass of its upper leg muscles, so that the fur rippled and glistened as the muscles bunched and stretched.

She would have made a frightening mother, he decided, this Krughava. Frightening, and yet, if she gave a child her love, he suspected it would be unassailable. Fierce as a she-wolf, yes.

But I have no mother. Maybe I never had one – I don’t remember. Not a single face, swimming blurry in my dreams – nothing. And now I have no father. I have no one and when I look ahead, into my future, I see myself riding, for ever alone. The notion, which he trucked out again and again, as if to taste it on his tongue, stirred nothing in him. He wondered if there was something wrong with him; he wondered if, years from now, on that long journey, he might find it – that wrongness, like a corpse lying on the ground on the path ahead. He wondered what he would feel then.

Thinking back on their parting from the K’Chain army, Grub tried to recall the reasons behind his decision to leave Sinn’s side. Something had pulled him to Brys Beddict and all the Letherii and Bolkando, a vague belief that he would be more useful there, though he had no idea what he might do, or if he had anything to give. It was easier thinking of this like that, instead of the suspicion that he was fleeing Sinn – fleeing what she might do.

‘No one can stop me, Grub. No one but you.’ So she’d told him, more than once, but not in a reassuring way, not in a way that told him that he mattered to her. No, it was more like a challenge, as if to ask: What have you got hidden inside you, Grub? Let’s see, shall we? But he didn’t want to know what he had inside him. That day they’d come to do battle with the Moons, that day when there had been fire and stone and earth and something cold at the centre of it all, he had felt himself falling away, and the boy who had walked at Sinn’s side was somebody else, wearing his skin, wearing his face. It had been … terrifying.

All that power, how it poured through us. I didn’t like it. I don’t like it.

I’m not running away. Sinn can do what she likes. I can’t really stop her, and I don’t want her to prove it, to spite her own words. I don’t want to hear her laughing. I don’t want to look into her eyes and see the fires of Telas.

They had been seen, and now the warrior-beasts under them were shifting their approach, angling towards a small party that had ridden out to one side. Prince Beddict. Aranict. Queen Abrastal and Spax, and three people he’d not seen before – two women and a tall, ungainly-looking man with a long face. Just behind this group, standing alone and impossibly tall, was a woman shrouded in a cloak of rabbit-skins, down to her ankles, her hair a wild, tangled mane of brown, her face looking like it had been carved from sandstone.

The thumping gait of the Ve’Gath fell off as they drew nearer. Glancing down, Grub saw that the armour formed a high collar up past his hips, flaring out just beneath his ribs. And behind his back, an upthrust of overlapping scales formed a kind of back-rest, protecting his spine.

The K’Chain Che’Malle halted, and Grub saw Brys Beddict studying Krughava.

‘You are a most welcome sight, Mortal Sword.’

‘Where are my Perish positioned?’ Krughava demanded in a voice like grating gravel.

Queen Abrastal replied. ‘Centre, nearest line of defences and a little way past that. Mortal Sword, their position is untenable – they are provided no avenues of retreat. With a little pushing, we can attack them on three sides.’

Krughava grunted. ‘We are meant to maul ourselves on this studded fist, sirs. And should they all die, my Perish, it is of little interest to the Forkrul Assail.’

‘We more or less worked that one out,’ Spax said. The Gilk Warchief was in full turtleshell armour, his face painted white, the eyes rimmed in deep red ochre.

The Mortal Sword was momentarily silent, her gaze moving from one figure to the next, then slipping past to narrow on the huge woman standing fifteen paces back. ‘You have found new allies, Prince. Toblakai?’

Brys glanced back, made a face. ‘Gods below, I’ve never known a woman as shy as her. She is Teblor and she commands three hundred of her kind. She is named Gillimada.’

‘Where will you place them?’ Krughava’s tone was, if anything, yet harsher than it had been a moment earlier.

Grub saw them all hesitating, and this confused him. What is wrong?

Aranict lit a new stick from her old one and flung the latter away, speaking all the while, ‘Mortal Sword, there are over forty thousand Kolansii on the other side of the valley.’

‘Forty thousand?’

‘We are faced with a challenge,’ Brys Beddict said. ‘We must endeavour to engage the entirety of this force, for as long as possible.’

Queen Abrastal spoke. ‘Once the Pure commanding here learns of the real assault – the one upon the Spire – he will seek to withdraw as many of his troops as he can safely manage. We judge three bells to fast-march to the isthmus – in other words, they can reach that battle in time, Mortal Sword, and strike at Gesler’s flank. As yet, we can determine no way in which to prevent this happening.’

‘I will turn the Perish,’ pronounced Krughava. ‘I will pull them from their position and wheel them round, placing them to block the way east. We need only slow the enemy, sirs, not stop them.’

‘If you so succeed in regaining your command of the Grey Helms,’ said Brys, ‘will you welcome the company of the Teblor?’

Krughava’s thinned eyes switched to the Teblor commander. ‘Sirs,’ she said, loud enough for all to hear, ‘to fight alongside the Teblor would be an honour unsurpassed on this day.’

Grub sought to see the effect of these words, but from Gillimada there was no reaction at all.

‘Mortal Sword,’ said Queen Abrastal, ‘are you confident that you can resume command of the Grey Helms? And before you answer, this is not the time for unrealistic bravado.’

Krughava stiffened at that. ‘Do you imagine that I do not understand the severity of this moment, Highness? I will speak plainly. I do not know if I will succeed. But I will give my life in the effort – would you ask more of me?’

Abrastal shook her head.

‘We must, however,’ said Brys, ‘present ourselves to the enemy in such a manner as to deal with either eventuality.’

A loud voice suddenly boomed, ‘They talk bad!’

Gillimada was suddenly among them, her eyes level with the mounted men and women.

‘Excuse me?’

She fixed the prince with her gaze, her brow fiercely knotted. ‘The fish-faces. They use words that hurt. If this fight goes bad, the fish-face will speak, and make us kneel. Make us kill our own anger. You – you must be stubborn! You must say no and shake your heads no! You must see the fish-face in your head, and then you must push him or her to the ground, and then you must squat, and then you must shit on that fish-face! I have spoken!’

A short time of awkward silence, and then Grub saw that Aranict was staring straight at him.

He felt a strange shiver track up his spine. ‘I don’t know,’ he said in a small voice.

All eyes fixed on him and he felt himself shrinking inside his peculiar half-armour.

Aranict spoke. ‘Grub, we have heard what you achieved when you joined the battle between the K’Chain factions. The Teblor commander speaks of the power of Akhrast Korvalain – this sorcery of the voice – and we are uncertain if we will face that power today. Nor do we know how to oppose it if it should come.’

‘Shit!’ bellowed Gillimada. ‘I have spoken!’

Grub shook his head. ‘At the battle of the Moons … that was Sinn. Most of it. She just used me. As if I was a knife in her left hand. I don’t know what I can do.’

‘We shall deal with that threat when it comes,’ announced Brys Beddict. ‘For now, I would welcome suggestions on the engagement. Queen Abrastal, what are your thoughts?’

The Bolkando woman scowled. She unstrapped and drew off her helm, revealing a shaved head. ‘I think we should ignore the Perish – long may they sit in their holes, or’ – and she shot a glance at Krughava – ‘spin their standards round, should the Mortal Sword reassert her authority. Either way, we leave the centre alone.’

Brys was nodding. ‘I was thinking much the same. I have no taste for spilling Perish blood, and in truth the Assail commander has done us a favour by so isolating them. This said, we must weight our right flank – the moment we see the enemy splitting to form up and fast-march towards the Spire, we need to contest that move, with as much ferocity as we can manage. Accordingly, I would the Teblor form the centre of that intercept.’

‘The rest will need only a handful to hold us off the trenches,’ Spax muttered.

‘So we engage with but a handful,’ Brys retorted, ‘and peel off rank on rank as fast as we are able to.’

‘That will have to do,’ said Abrastal. ‘No offence, Prince, but I will place the Evertine Legion on the right of centre.’

‘None taken, Highness. You are correct in assessing your legion as our elites. Once we start that wheeling of reserves, the enemy might well advance pressure on your side, to break through and cut off our motion eastward.’

‘I would do the same,’ Abrastal replied. ‘We shall be ready for that.’

‘Very well.’ Brys looked round. ‘That’s it, then? So be it. All of you, in the tasks awaiting you, fare well.’

Krughava said, ‘Prince, I will ride with you to the ridge.’

Brys nodded.

As the group dispersed, Grub allowed his Ve’Gath to fall in behind Krughava’s. He looked up at the sky. The Jade Strangers blazed directly overhead, the point of each talon as bright as the sun itself. The sky was too crowded, and, in a flash, he suddenly knew that it would get much more crowded before this day was done.

‘What the fuck is this?’

‘Careful,’ muttered Stormy. ‘Your language is offending our Destriant.’

Growling under his breath, Gesler pulled his feet from the scale stirrups and clambered to stand balanced on the Ve’Gath’s back. ‘A Hood-damned army all right, but I see no camp, and they’re looking … rough.’

‘Gods below, Ges, sit back down before you fall and break your scrawny neck.’ Stormy turned to Kalyth. ‘Halt ’em all, lass, except for Sag’Churok – we’ll take the K’ell Hunter with us and check this out.’

The woman nodded.

As the vast K’Chain Che’Malle army ceased its advance, Gesler gestured and led Stormy and Sag’Churok forward at what passed for a canter.

The mysterious army stood motionless on a treed hill at the edge of an abandoned village. Squinting, Gesler looked for the usual flash of armour and weapons, but there was none of that. ‘Maybe not an army at all,’ he muttered as Stormy rode up alongside him. ‘Maybe refugees.’

‘Your eyes are getting bad, Ges.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Old man, you’ve gone blind as Hood’s own arsehole. Those are T’lan Imass!’

Aw, shit. ‘Who invited those hoary bastards?’ He shot Stormy a glare. ‘Was it you, O Carrier of Flint Fucking Swords?’

‘I know nothing about ’em, Gesler, I swear it!’

‘Right. Playing friendly on ships and now look! You never could just stay out of other people’s business, Stormy. A soul stuck in the sky – oh! Let me fix that!’

‘This ain’t them, Gesler. Can’t be. Besides, that debt was paid up. Back in Malaz City – you was there! I gave that sword back!’

Off to one side, Sag’Churok suddenly clashed his massive swords, and both men looked over.

Gesler snorted. ‘Think he just told us to shut up, Stormy.’

They were fast closing on the hill with its grey, silent mass of undead warriors. That hill – that’s a cemetery. Well, where else would they be? Gesler saw one warrior setting off down the lumpy hillside, dragging its stone sword as a child would an oversized branch. ‘That one,’ he said. ‘Wants to talk to us.’

‘Better than rising up under our feet and cutting us to pieces.’

‘Aye, much better. What do you think, Stormy? We got ourselves unexpected allies?’

‘Pity the Assail if we have.’

Gesler spat. ‘This ain’t the day for pity. Sag’Churok! Don’t do anything stupid like attacking it, all right?’

They slowed to a walk thirty paces from the lone T’lan Imass. At fifteen the K’ell Hunter halted and planted the tips of his swords in the ground. Gesler and Stormy continued on, halting five paces from the undead warrior.

Gesler called out, ‘What clan?’

For a moment it seemed the T’lan Imass would ignore the question, but then, in a heavy, rasping voice, the warrior said, ‘Logros, Malazan. I am Onos T’oolan.’

‘Onos—’ Gesler began, then snapped his mouth shut.

Stormy muttered a curse. ‘Can’t be. The First Sword? How many cronies of that long-dead rat-faced Emperor are involved in this?’

More T’lan Imass were coming down from the hill, ragged and slow, like the grinding of stones, and Gesler sensed something wretched in this scene, something … appalling. What are they doing here?

Onos T’oolan spoke. ‘Logros’s banishment of me was without meaning, Malazan. I knelt before a mortal human on the Throne of Bones, and there is none other whom I shall serve. This is what Olar Ethil did not comprehend. Bound once more to the Ritual of Tellann, I am returned to the shadow of the Emperor.’

Gesler felt sick inside. He knew he was getting only a taste of what all this meant, but it was already breaking his heart. ‘He sent you, First Sword?’

‘I am invited to my own death, Malazan. The manner of it remains to be decided. If the One upon the Throne could see into my soul, he would know that I am broken.’

‘Broken, you say?’ Stormy interrupted. ‘Now that’s an interesting fact, Onos T’oolan.’

The ancient warrior tilted his head. ‘I do not understand your meaning.’

Stormy pointed north. ‘See that spire of rock, First Sword? Right up top of that, there’s something else – something just as broken as you are. The Forkrul Assail are guarding it – but we mean to take it from them. You say Kellanved ordered you here – so we got to know, First Sword, are you here to fight? And if you are, will it be against us or at our side?’

‘You are Malazans.’

‘The army behind us ain’t.’

Onos T’oolan was silent for a time, and then he said, ‘The K’Chain Che’Malle hunted Imass, from time to time.’

‘Just like you hunted bhederin, or elk, or whatever. What of it?’

‘When we were mortal, we had cause to fear them.’

‘And elk will run when it sees you. But then, you’re not mortal any more, are you?’

‘I am here, Malazans, seeking a war. And yet only now do I realize that I have walked in shadow, all this time, since I first rose from the dust outside the city of Pale. I thought I was abandoned. And each time I sought a new path, that shadow followed me. That shadow found me, as it must. I am the First Sword of the T’lan Imass, and from this there is no escape.’

Gesler cleared his throat, blinked to work the water from his eyes. ‘First Sword, am I understanding you? Are you placing yourselves under our command – just because we happen to have come from the Malazan Empire? Before you answer, you’ve got to understand – Kellanved is long dead, and that empire has since outlawed us. We’re not here because of any damned throne, and we’re not at the beckoning of anyone who’s sitting in it either.’

‘Tell me, then, human, why are you here?’

Gesler looked up, studied the hundreds of T’lan Imass crowding the hillside, spilling out into the streets and avenues of the village. Lifeless faces were turned to him, and their regard was a crushing weight. Gods below. ‘It sounds … stupid, you know,’ he said, now eyeing Stormy, ‘when you just out and say it.’

‘Go on,’ growled Stormy, his face reddening as emotions rose within the huge man – Gesler could see it, and he was experiencing the same thing. The air itself seemed to swirl with feelings of appalling force. ‘Go on, Gesler, and if it makes us fools … well, we can live with that, can’t we?’

Sighing, he faced Onos T’oolan. ‘Why are we here? The truth is, we’re not even sure. But … we think we’re here to right an old wrong. Because it’s the thing to do, that’s all.’

Silence, stretching.

Gesler turned back to Stormy. ‘I knew it’d sound stupid.’

Onos T’oolan spoke. ‘What do you seek on that spire, Gesler of the Malazans?’

‘The heart of the Crippled God.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Stormy replied, ‘we want to free him.’

‘He is chained.’

‘We know.’

Onos T’oolan said nothing for a moment, and then: ‘You would defy the will of the gods?’

‘Fast as spit,’ Stormy said.

‘Why do you wish to free the Fallen One?’

When Stormy hesitated, Gesler shifted in the scaled saddle and said, ‘Hood take us. We want to send him home.’

Home. The word very nearly drove Onos T’oolan to his knees. Something was roaring in his skull. He had believed it to be the sound of his own rage – but now he could sense a multitude of voices in that cacophony. More than the unfettered thoughts of the T’lan Imass following him; more than the still distant conflagration that was the Otataral Dragon and the Eleint; no, what deafened him here was the unceasing echoes of terrible pain – this land, all the life that had once thrived here, only to falter and suffer and finally vanish. And there, upon that tower of rock, that cracked spire that was the core of a restless volcano – where the earth’s blood coursed so close to the surface, in serpentine tracks round its fissured, hollowed base – another broken piece of a broken, shattered god, a being that had been writhing in torment for thousands of years. No different from the T’lan Imass. No different from us.

The shadow of a throne – is that not a cold, frightening place? And yet, Kellanved … do you truly offer succour? Dare you cast a shadow to shield us? To protect us? To humble us in the name of humanity?

I once called you our children. Our inheritors. Forgive my irony. For all the venal among your kind … I had thought – I had thought … no matter.

In his mind, he reached among his followers, found the one he sought. She was close – almost behind him. ‘Bonecaster Bitterspring, of the Second Ritual, do you hear me?’

‘I do, First Sword.’

‘You are named a seer. Can you see what awaits us?’

‘I have no true gift of prophecy, First Sword. My talent was in reading people. That and nothing more. I have been an impostor for so long I know no other way of being.’

‘Bitterspring, we are all impostors. What awaits us?’

‘What has always awaited us,’ she replied. ‘Blood and tears.’

In truth, he’d had no reason to expect anything else. Onos T’oolan drew his flint sword round, dragging a jagged furrow through dirt and stones. He lifted his gaze to the Malazans. ‘Even the power of Tellann cannot penetrate the wards raised by the Forkrul Assail. We cannot, therefore, rise in the midst of the enemy in their trenches. This will have to be a direct assault.’

‘We know that,’ the one named Gesler said.

‘We shall fight for you,’ Onos T’oolan said, and then he was silent, confused at seeing the effect of his words on these two men. ‘Have I distressed you?’

Gesler shook his head. ‘No, you greatly relieve us, First Sword. It is not that. It’s just …’ and he shook his head. ‘Now it’s my turn to ask. Why?’

‘If by our sacrifice – yours and mine,’ said Onos T’oolan, ‘the pain of one life can be ended; if, by our deaths, this one can be guided home … we will judge this a worthy cause.’

‘This Crippled God – he is a stranger to us all.’

‘It is enough that in the place he calls home, he is no stranger.’

Why should these words force tears from these two hardened soldiers? I do not understand. Onos T’oolan opened his mind to his followers. ‘You have heard. You have shared. This is the path your First Sword chooses – but I will not compel you, and so I ask, will you fight at my side this day?’

Bitterspring replied. ‘First Sword, I am chosen to speak for all. We have seen the sun rise. It may be that we shall not see it set. Thus, we have us this one day, to find the measure of our worth. It is, perhaps, less time than many might possess; but so too is it more than many others are privileged to know. One day, to see who and what we are. One day, to find meaning in our existence.

‘First Sword, we welcome the opportunity you have given us. Today, we shall be your kin. Today, we shall be your sisters and brothers.’

To this, Onos T’oolan could find no words. He floundered for what seemed a long, long time. And then, from the depths of his being, there arose a strange feeling, a sense of … of recognition. ‘Then you shall be my kin on this day. And among my kin, am I not, at last, home?’ He had spoken these words out loud, and turning, he saw surprise on the faces of the two Malazans. Onos T’oolan stepped forward. ‘Malazans, make it known to your K’Chain Che’Malle. Each in our time, we two peoples have warred against the Forkrul Assail. On this day, for the very first time, we shall do so as allies.’

Fifteen paces back the K’ell Hunter straightened then, and lifted high both swords, and Onos T’oolan felt its reptilian eyes fixed solely upon him. And he raised his own weapon.

One more gift, then, on this final day. I see you, K’Chain Che’Malle, and I call you brother.

Gesler wiped at his eyes – he could not fathom the rawness of his emotions. ‘First Sword,’ he called out in a roughened voice, ‘how many of your warriors are here?’

Onos T’oolan hesitated, and then said, ‘I do not know.’

Another T’lan Imass, who had been standing behind Onos T’oolan, then spoke, ‘Mortals, we are eight thousand six hundred and eighty-four.’

‘Hood’s black breath!’ Stormy swore. ‘Gesler – T’lan Imass in the centre? With Ve’Gath to either side, and K’ell screening our flanks?’

‘Aye,’ Gesler nodded. ‘First Sword, do you know the Jagged Teeth—’

‘Gesler,’ Onos T’oolan cut in, ‘like you, I am a veteran of the Seven Cities campaigns.’

‘Guess you are, aren’t you?’ Gesler grinned. ‘Stormy, suck some oil and get our lizards back up and moving. I don’t see any point in wasting any time on this.’

‘Fine – but what about you?’

‘Me and Sag’Churok – we’re riding ahead. I want to see the lay of the land, especially at the base of the Spire. You catch us up, right?’

Stormy nodded. ‘Good enough. How come that winged snake’s not around again?’

‘How should I know? Get going – I’ll see you on whatever high ground I find. Make sure we draw up in formation – I don’t plan on posing for the bastards.’

Kalyth stood close to Matron Gunth Mach. The Destriant had crossed her arms and knew the gesture to be protective, though it did little good – not in the face of what was coming. Wars were not part of the Elan heritage – skirmishes, yes, and feuds, and raids. But not wars. But already she had been in the midst of one, and now here she was, about to join another.

The frail woman stumbling from the camp so long ago now would have quailed at the thought, would have wept, helpless with fear.

It was the flavours of the K’Chain Che’Malle that now made her resilient, resolute—

‘You are wrong in that, Destriant.’

She turned in surprise, studied the huge reptilian head hovering at her side, close enough to caress. ‘It is your courage,’ Kalyth insisted. ‘It has to be. I have none of my own.’

‘You are mistaken. It is your courage that gives us strength, Destriant. It is your humanness that guides us into the waiting darkness of battle.’

Kalyth shook her head. ‘But I don’t know why we’re here – I don’t know why we’re going to fight this battle. We should have led you away – somewhere far from everyone else. Somewhere you don’t have to fight, and die. A place to live. In peace.’

‘There is no such place, Destriant. Even in isolation we were assailed – by our own doubts, by all the flavours of grief and despair. You and the Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil, you have led us back into the living world – we have come from a place of death, but now we shall take our place among the peoples of this world. It is right that we do so.’

‘But so many of you will die today!’

‘We must fight to earn our right to all we would claim for ourselves. This is the struggle of all life. There are those who would deny us this right – they feel it belongs to them alone. Today, we shall assert otherwise. Be free this day, Destriant. You have done what was needed – you have guided us here. The Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil shall lead us into battle – and by the wind’s scent, we shall be joined by T’lan Imass, in whom the hope for redemption is no stranger.’

Thinking about Stormy and Gesler, Kalyth shivered. ‘Protect them, I beg you.’

‘They shall lead. It is their purpose. This too is freedom.’

Motion in the corner of her eye drew Kalyth’s attention – Sinn, slipping down from the back of her Ve’Gath, racing forward a few steps in the manner of any carefree child. And then she whirled, like a dancer, and faced Kalyth.

‘The worm is burning – can’t you taste it? Burning!’

Kalyth shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Sinn.’

But the girl was smiling. ‘You can’t leave fire behind. Once you’ve found it, you carry it with you – it’s in the swords in your hands. It’s in the armour you wear, and the food you eat, and the warmth of the night and the way to see through the dark. And it never sits still – it’s always moving. It moved away from the Imass when they turned from it. But now they’ll see that the fire they once knew didn’t leave them – it just spread out. But maybe they won’t understand anyway – they’re not even alive, after all. You forget so much when you stop living.’ She waved her arms in her excitement. ‘That’s what was wrong with the lizard camps! No fires!’ She jabbed a finger at the Matron, hissed, ‘You need reminding about fire.’

The words were bitter as ice, and Kalyth found her arms wrapping yet tighter about her chest. And from beside her the flavour of Gunth Mach’s oil suddenly soured – and the Destriant knew it for what it was.

She is afraid. The Matron is afraid.

Sister Reverence stared to the south. At last, the enemy shows its face. Still too far to make out anything more than the solid, dark mass of advancing legions. Those numbers are paltry. They need fifty or sixty thousand to even hope to break the defences. And from the looks of it, these are cavalry – imagine the forage they must have carried with them!

She glanced to the left, but the storm in the bay was unchanged, the cauldron ferocious yet striking her as strangely … impotent. The one hiding there can come no closer. Akhrast Korvalain is too powerful, drinking deep of the Fallen One’s heart. It is too late for all of them – we have grown too strong. We have achieved what we sought.

A Watered was on the stairs below, using both feet and hands to make his way up, his gasps sounding torn and raw. Sister Reverence awaited him with impatience. Even with our blessed blood – their humanness makes them so weak!

‘Beloved Sister!’

‘I am here,’ she replied.

‘Our scouts have returned! The army to the south!’

‘I see it, yes.’

‘They are giant lizards! Thousands of giant lizards!’

Sister Reverence staggered back a step. Then, in a surge of suddenly febrile power, she quested out towards that army – her mind reaching, reaching, there! A presence … a little further, reaching … touch— She cried out. ‘A Matron! But there are no matrons left! The Nah’ruk promised! The K’Chain Che’Malle are destroyed!’ She realized that she was shouting out loud, and looked down into the wide eyes of the man kneeling at the edge of the stairs. ‘Return to the defences – have the onagers loaded. The Che’Malle will waste no time – they never do. Go!’

Alone once more, Reverence closed her eyes, sought to slow the savage twin beats of her hearts that now seemed to clash in discordant panic. Brother Diligence, hear my cry. We are deceived! The foe you face is but a feint – ignore them. I summon you and as much of the army as you can relinquish – we face K’Chain Che’Malle! Releasing her power, she waited, breath held, for her brother’s reply.

And received … nothing.

With hooded eyes, Setoc crouched atop a berm, facing upslope, and watched the descent of Brother Diligence. ‘This is not your place,’ she whispered. ‘Can you feel that yet? The Wolves have claimed this den – this den you so kindly made for us. And here we will wait, until the chosen time.’

She pivoted and scanned the brothers and sisters. She could smell their distress, rising up rank and sour from the maze of trenches, from these dusty holes carved down through stone and dead soil. Many were looking out, across the width of the valley, to where the Bolkando and Letherii armies were even now beginning the descent. She saw how the soldiers reacted in dismay upon seeing no enemy element positioning itself at the centre. Well, not all dismay – she saw quickly hidden expressions of relief, and the scent of that was a looser, thinner emanation.

When the wolf becomes you, you hear and taste and smell so much more, making vision seem like a lesser power, a weakling subject to blindness in the face of truths. No, it is better with the ghosts gathered within me now. So much better.

Down came Brother Diligence, and there was Tanakalian, climbing into view, turning first to study the approaching Forkrul Assail, and then facing Setoc. He made his way closer – but not so close that should she leap, her fangs would find his throat. She noted that, and was not surprised.

‘Destriant Setoc. We are about to be challenged.’

She bared her teeth.

His face knotted in a scowl. ‘Listen to me! It is of no use if you can do little more than lift hackles and growl! He will use Akhrast Korvalain – do you understand me?’

‘And what is it about that to cause fear, Shield Anvil?’

‘The Assail know nothing of the K’Chain Che’Malle – do you see? I have kept that from them.’

‘Why?’

‘It does us no good if the Assail win on this day, does it?’

She cocked her head. ‘It doesn’t?’

‘We remain balanced on the knife’s edge – or have you forgotten? By what we do, by what we say or do not say, it all falls to us. Here. Now.’

‘Shield Anvil’ – she paused to yawn – ‘Shield Anvil, why did you banish the Mortal Sword?’

‘She broke our holy vow, Destriant. I have already told you this.’

‘By swearing fealty to this Adjunct woman.’

‘Yes.’

‘And these Letherii and Bolkando – they are her allies? This Adjunct’s allies?’ She could see the growing frustration in the man, and was unmoved.

‘I told you this!’

‘Do you fear Brother Diligence? I see that you do. Should he … compel us. But, Shield Anvil, I want to know, which do you fear the most? The Adjunct or the Brother? Think of it as a contest if that helps. Which one is it?’

Tanakalian looked back up the slope, to where Diligence was coming ever nearer to their earthen fort, and then back again. ‘The Adjunct is dead.’

‘You do not know that, and besides, that doesn’t matter – it’s not relevant to the question I asked.’

A sneer curled his lips. ‘If it is a question of immediacy, then it must be Brother Diligence.’ His tone dripped venom, and she understood that as well – all the reasons, all the emotions raging back and forth in this man.

Setoc nodded, and then straightened from her crouch. She arched her back, stretched out her limbs. ‘Immediacy, it’s such a lie. One is close, the other is far away. So … fear more the one who is close. But, you see, there are two sides to immediacy. The one you’re seeing is the one now, but there is another one, the one you only find at the end of things.’

Tanakalian’s eyes narrowed on her, and she could see that he was startled, that he was thinking, and thinking hard now.

‘So,’ Setoc continued, ‘let’s forget the now for the moment, and go to the end of things. At the end of things, Shield Anvil, whom will you fear the most? Yon Brother Diligence, or the Adjunct?’ Hearing voices from the trenches – filled with surprise and something like excitement – she smiled and added, ‘Or our Mortal Sword, who even now rides for us?’

Suddenly white, Tanakalian climbed the nearest berm, faced the valley called Blessed Gift. For a dozen heartbeats, he made no move. And then he looked back down at Setoc. ‘Where will you stand in this, Destriant?’

‘I stand with the Wolves.’

Triumph flashed in his eyes.

‘But,’ she continued, ‘that is only half the question, isn’t it?’

He frowned.

‘You must then ask me, where stand the Wolves?’

He half snarled – and all the beasts beneath now awaken! – and said, ‘I know well their position, Destriant.’

‘Well,’ Setoc corrected, ‘you thought you did.’ She leapt down then, crossed the back edge of the fort to come opposite the narrow stepped track down which the Forkrul Assail was descending. Lifting her gaze, she held out her arms and shouted, ‘Brother! Come no closer! You are not welcome here!’

Diligence was still fifty or more steps away, but he halted in obvious surprise.

She felt him awakening the sorcery in his voice.

And in the moment that he released it, Setoc opened her own throat to the howl of ten thousand ghost wolves.

The sound was a detonation, rising up to slam Diligence down on to his back on the earthen steps. In the numbed silence that followed, Setoc shouted again, ‘You are not welcome! Go back to your slaves, Brother!’

There was no sign that the Forkrul Assail had heard. He was lying sprawled on the track, unmoving. Shriven were rushing towards him from both sides and from above. In moments they had closed, and then were lifting him up, carrying him back up the steps.

Satisfied, Setoc turned round.

The entire Perish army was facing her, every soldier. Among those closest to her, she saw blood at their ears, and trickling down from nostrils. She saw faces that looked bruised, and eyes shot with red. When Setoc spread out her arms again, they visibly flinched back. ‘No foreign magic can compel us,’ she said, and then she pointed. ‘The Mortal Sword approaches. We shall welcome her. And in the making of this day, we shall know our fates.’

‘Destriant!’ someone shouted from one of the trenches. ‘Who do we choose? Who do we follow?’

Tanakalian wheeled round at that, but there was no way to find the speaker amidst the press.

‘I am Destriant of the Wolves,’ Setoc replied. ‘I am not a Grey Helm, not a sister to any of you. I am not one of your pack, and in this matter, who is to rule the pack is not for me to say.’

‘Who do we fight? Destriant! Who do we fight?’

Setoc dropped her gaze to Tanakalian, just briefly, and then she answered, ‘Sometimes even wolves know the value of not fighting at all.’

And there, she had given him what he thought he would need, for the challenge to come. Because Setoc could smell that Mortal Sword, and that woman – that woman was a thing of war.

Inside, the ghost wolves huddled close, giving her their immeasurable warmth. The echoes of their howl whispered back and forth – even they had been surprised at its power. But I wasn’t. This is my den and we shall defend it.

Ears ringing at that holy cry, Krughava slowed her mount to a slow canter. Before her, lining the top of the front berm, stood her brothers and sisters – those she had known and loved for years. It was still too far for her to make out their expressions, to see if her arrival was welcome or cause for fury. But even the latter would not dissuade her. She was coming to fight for her people, and for all of Tanakalian’s gleeful mocking of her belief in heroism – and indeed, in heroism lay her one and only true faith – she knew that the next few moments would test her as no battle had ever done.

If I am to be a hero, if I have such capacity within me, let it come now.

They said nothing when she reined in at the foot of the mound. Dismounting, Krughava looped the reins about the saddle’s horn, pulled the horse round until it faced the valley once more, and with a hard slap on his rump sent it on its way. Was the gesture lost on the witnesses? No, it most assuredly was not.

Drawing off her helm, Mortal Sword Krughava swung round and looked up at her estranged brothers and sisters. She raised her voice. ‘I would speak to Shield Anvil Tanakalian.’

An old veteran replied in a toneless voice, ‘He awaits you within. Come forward in peace, Krughava.’

They have not chosen a new Mortal Sword … but neither will they give me my old title. So then, it all remains to be decided. So be it.

A knotted rope slithered down the steep ramp side. She took hold of it, and began climbing.

Precious Thimble drew closer to Faint’s side. They remained on the valley’s ridge, watching the ranks of Letherii marching down into the basin. Far to their right the Evertine Legion and its auxiliaries were doing the same. All that marching, for this. This and only this. I’ll never understand soldiers.

‘Faint?’

‘What is it, Precious? You’re going to tell me that you can use all this power, to carve us out a gate back home?’ She glanced over, studied the pale, round face. ‘No, I thought not.’

‘What can you feel?’

Faint shrugged. ‘My skin is crawling, and I’m no mage.’

‘Exactly! You have no idea how this is feeling! Even Amby Bole is a mass of nerves, though he won’t talk to me any more. I think he’s become unhinged—’

‘He never was hinged in the first place,’ Faint cut in. ‘So, what do you want from me?’

‘That boy.’

‘What boy?’

‘The one half swallowed up by that giant lizard – who did you think I was talking about?’

Faint twisted kinks from her back, wincing. ‘Fine. What about him? I’ll grant you he’s cute enough, but—’

‘You think all this sorcery that’s making us sick is coming from the Assail? You’re wrong.’

‘What?’ Faint stared at Precious. ‘Him?’

‘It’s only making us sick because he doesn’t know what to do with it.’

‘He’s Malazan, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t think he’s anything.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

But the witch’s eyes were wide, staring at seemingly nothing. ‘Can an idea find flesh? Bone? Does it have a face – is that even possible? Can people build a saviour, with handfuls of clay and withered sticks? If their need for a voice is so terrible, so … demanding – can a people build their own god, Faint? Tell me – have you ever heard such a thing? Has anyone ever even thought it?’

Faint reached out, pulled Precious Thimble round to face her. ‘What in Hood’s name are you talking about? What do you see in that boy?’

Precious Thimble’s face twisted. ‘I don’t know!’ she cried, pulling herself away.

Faint turned, scanned the mass of troops – where was he, then? That strange boy? But the dust was rising in walls, slipping across like curtains in the hesitant wind tracking the length of the valley. She looked to the prince’s command position – off to her left – but saw only mounted messengers, signallers and the prince’s staff. Her eyes narrowed on Atri-Ceda Aranict. ‘Precious – come with me.’

She set out.

The ghost of Sweetest Sufferance was suddenly walking at her side. ‘You should listen to the witch, love.’

Faint glared at the ethereal form, and then shot a look back over one shoulder – to see Precious trailing half a dozen paces behind, walking like a drunk. ‘Sweetest,’ Faint whispered, ‘how can I listen to her? She’s talking nonsense!’

‘I’m just saying, her ideas are intriguing. Maybe she’s on the right track – I doubt that boy’s even got a belly button. Have you looked? He’s probably old enough for a roll in the grasses, a little schooling from Mistress Faint – what do you think? Can I watch? Just to see if he’s got one, of course.’

Breath hissed from between Faint’s teeth. ‘Gods below. I can’t even see the runt. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, this whole valley is about to erupt in a bloodbath – and you want me to tickle his damned sack?’

‘Never mind the whole belly thing, then. It was just a thought. I’m sure he’s got one. Everyone does. Precious is panicking, that’s all. When the Forkrul Assail unleash Akhrast Korvalain, when they awaken that deadly voice, well, who’s here to fight against that? Yon Atri-Ceda and Precious herself, and that’s it. Is it any wonder she’s gibbering?’

‘Stop talking, Sweetest.’ Faint was almost upon the Atri-Ceda – the woman was standing on the very edge of the descent into the valley, dragging on a rustleaf stick as if it held the blood of immortality and eternal youth. And for all Faint knew, maybe it did.

‘Atri-Ceda.’

Aranict turned, and almost immediately her eyes shifted past Faint, fixing on Precious Thimble. ‘Greetings, witch. Be so good as to awaken a circle round us – and I would ask that you add your talents to my efforts in the defence to come.’ She pulled hard on the stick. ‘Failing that, we fall that much sooner.’

Precious Thimble made a whimpering sound.

Aranict’s expression darkened. ‘Courage, child. Where is your boyfriend? We will need him here – he possesses a natural disinclination to sorcerous attacks.’

Licking dust-dry lips, Faint cleared her throat. ‘Atri-Ceda, your words do not elicit confidence over the outcome of this battle.’

Lighting another stick, Aranict waved one hand, as if distracted. Sending a blast of smoke into the air she said, ‘I would advise that you run, but then there is nowhere to run to.’ She pointed with a hand visibly trembling. ‘See the prince – down there, on the horse behind the last ranks? That is the man I love, and he is about to die. Precious – listen to me. Defend this position with all that is within you, because all my power will be down there, with him. Once the Pure finds me, he will make every effort to shred me alive.’

Faint took a step back, appalled by the heart-rending rawness of the woman standing before her, so much exposed, so much ripped open for all to see. And yet … and yet … if I could find a love like that. If I could find such a love. ‘Aranict,’ she now said in a soft voice – and something in the tone drew the Atri-Ceda round. ‘If I may, I will stand with you.’

She saw Aranict’s eyes widen, and then flit away – as if she could no longer bear to see what was there in Faint’s own face. The Atri-Ceda stared north. ‘He’s not yet touched on his power. But it’s only a matter of time.’

‘He may not have to,’ Faint said, following Aranict’s gaze. ‘I don’t know much about battles, but I can’t see us winning this one.’

‘We’re not here to win,’ Aranict replied. ‘We’re just here to take a long time to die.’

Precious Thimble moved past Faint then, mumbling chaining words under her breath. And there, three paces to the right, stood Amby Bole, his face a stone mask, his hands clenched into scarred fists.

And the ghost of Sweetest Sufferance spoke. ‘Faint, I hear an echo of … of something.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Faint muttered in reply. Nothing but the sound of all that we are about to lose. What is that sound like? When you hear it, you will know.

Brys Beddict rode hard along the back of the reserve line. He wanted his soldiers to hear the hoofs of his horse behind them, wanted them to know he was there. So that they would understand that wherever they hesitated, he would ride to them; when they needed the strength of a commander’s will, he would find them. Riding parallel to the ranks, he scanned the formations. Companies held tight in their rectangles, with broad avenues between them. Their discipline remained strong, resolute. There would be nothing subtle in the assault to come, and they had not yet wavered.

Horns sounded from the front ranks, to mark the last fifty paces from the enemy’s forward earthworks. That forlorn cry sang through Brys and he almost faltered. Is she alive? Do we give our lives to a cause already lost? Is my last gesture to be an empty one? Oh, beloved brother – I could do with some encouraging words right now.

Better yet, make me laugh. What more fitting way to meet that moment when you fall to your knees than with sweet, unchained laughter? The kind that lifts you into the air, high above the grim violence of the land and all its sordid cruelty?

He was riding inward along the line, now, the ranks on his left, and in moments he would come into the clearing opposite the Perish-held centre, and before him, across the gap, he would see the Evertine Legion closing with the Kolansii lines. Queen Abrastal, such a noble ally you have become. If my brother could but know of this – if your husband could witness this … some futures hold such promise as to convince you they can be nothing more than dreams, delusions built on wishful thoughts.

You walk the steps of your life, and always that dream beckons, that dream waits. You don’t know if it can ever be made real. You don’t know that, even should you somehow stumble upon it, you won’t find it less than it was, less than it could have been – if only you could have kept that distance, kept it just outside arm’s reach. For ever shining. For ever unsullied by the all-too-real flaws of your own making.

Aranict. How could you have given me such a thing? How could you have let me take it close, feel it here in my arms, so warm, so solid?

When those dreams in that unreachable future suddenly rise up around you, how can you not be blinded to their truths? All at once, it is here. All at once, you are living in its very midst. Why then must you seek to pull away?

He rode on, waiting for the roar of clashing weapons, waiting for the awakening of the power of the Forkrul Assail – and I must answer it, in the only way I know how. And when I am done, I know, there will be nothing left of me. For so long, he had not understood what he was meant to do, but now, with energies crackling the air, it had all come clear.

Aranict, my love, you now hold the best in me. I pray that, for you, it is enough.

He bolted into the gap, sawed on the reins of his mount, and swung round to face the massive earthen fort where waited the Perish Grey Helms. But he could see nothing of what was happening behind the banked walls of earth.

In the centre of the maze of trenches and berms there was a broad marshalling area of packed earth cut with narrow slits to gather the blood of the wounded who would be brought here during the battle. Cutters waited standing close to stretchers, their faces smeared with ash to keep sweat from dripping into open wounds. Their sawing and cutting tools were laid out on skins beside leather buckets of steaming water. In all the trenches that Krughava could see into, her blessed soldiers stood with their eyes fixed on her as she made her way towards the centre, where waited Shield Anvil Tanakalian and, a dozen paces behind him, a young woman whom Krughava had never seen before.

There was something strange about her eyes, but the Mortal Sword could not yet determine what gave them such a disquieting regard. She was barely into womanhood, dressed in ragged deerskins, her hair long and ropy with filth, and the smile curving her lips looked faintly ironic.

Krughava ascended a ridged ramp and stepped out on to the hard ground. She set her helm down, and drew off her gauntlets.

Tanakalian spoke, ‘It is our hope, Krughava, that you have come seeking to return to the fold. That you will fight with us on this day. That you will lead us in battle.’

She drew herself up, settling one hand on the pommel of her sword. ‘Yes, I would lead the Grey Helms in battle, Shield Anvil Tanakalian. But not against the Letherii or Bolkando. Rather, I would our soldiers quit these trenches.’ She lifted her gaze, studied the avenues leading back up the slope, and scowled. ‘Do you not see what they have done? The Assail have made the Grey Helms a forlorn hope.’

Tanakalian sighed, tilting his head as he regarded her. ‘There is another way of seeing our position here, Krughava. Simply put, Brother Diligence does not trust us – and you would prove to him that the Perish are as treacherous as he suspected.’

‘Treachery? Now, that is a curious thing, Shield Anvil. I am not surprised the Assail does not trust you, given your precedents.’

The Shield Anvil’s face flushed. ‘The betrayal was yours, not mine – but have we not already been through all of this? The Grey Helms heard your arguments. They heard mine. They voted.’

Krughava looked round. Hard expressions, unyielding, on all sides. ‘On this day, brothers and sisters, our allies will seek to break the tyranny of the Forkrul Assail. But that is not the only reason for this war – indeed, it is the least of them. Hear me, all of you! Long ago, a foreign god was brought down to this earth. He was torn to pieces, but they would not let him die – no, instead they chained him, as one would bind a wild beast. As one might chain a wolf. And so bound, so caged, that god has known nothing but unending pain and anguish. The gods feed upon him! The wretched among us mortals sip his blood in prayer! And these Forkrul Assail, they hold his heart in their cold, cruel hands!

‘My brothers and sisters! On this day we shall seek to shatter those chains. We shall seek to free the Fallen God! But more than that, we shall endeavour to return him to his realm!’ She pointed upslope. ‘And yet, where do you stand? Why, you stand at the side of torturers, and all the words of justice they so eagerly whisper in your ears – they are nothing but lies!’

The young woman came forward then, and Krughava saw now what gave her gaze such strangeness. Wolf eyes. One silver, one amber. Blessed Throne – she is our Destriant! The Wolves of Winter look out from those eyes! Where had she come from?

The Destriant spoke in the Letherii trader tongue, ‘Mortal Sword, we are stirred by your words. But then, what do we know of mercy? We who have never felt its gentle touch? We who are hunted and ever hunted down? Shall I tell you of the memories rushing through me now? Will you hear my words?’

Krughava felt the blood draining from her, the heat of her passion stealing away. Beneath her heavy armour, she was suddenly cold. This woman is my foe. Tanakalian is as nothing compared with her. ‘Destriant, I will hear your words.’

The young woman looked round. ‘In your mind, see a herd – so many! Great, strong beasts – and they see us, they see us running beside them, or standing off in the distance. They see our shaggy heads sink low. Yet to all their nervous attention we are indifferent. Our eyes study the beasts. We seek scents on the wind. And when at last we drive that herd into flight, whom do we single out? Which of these great, terrible animals do we choose?’

Tanakalian answered with unfeigned excitement. ‘Destriant Setoc, the wolves ever choose the weakest among the herd. The old one, the wounded one.’

Krughava stared at Setoc. ‘The Wolves would feed on this day, Destriant? Upon the heart of the Crippled God?’

Setoc gestured, a loose wave of one hand. ‘Tell your allies – ignore us in this battle. We’ll not leave this nest. And when this day is done, we shall see who remains standing. It does not matter which of you has won – for you will be bleeding, your head will be hanging. You will be on one knee.’

‘And then shall the Grey Helms strike!’ cried out Tanakalian. ‘Can you not see the truth of this, Krughava? Are you so blind as to still hold to your foolish conceit?’

Krughava was silent. After a long moment, wherein the only sounds came from the advancing armies on the plain, she approached the Shield Anvil, halting only when she stood directly before him. ‘Tankalian,’ she said in a low rasp, ‘we are not wolves. Do you understand? When we act, we are privileged, or cursed, to know the consequences – the Wolves of Winter are not. They have no sense, no sense at all, of the future. There can be no worship of the Wild, Shield Anvil, without the knowledge of right and wrong.’

Tanakalian shook his head, avid pleasure gleaming in his eyes. ‘You have lost this, Krughava. You cannot win – it is not just me any more, is it? Not even just the Perish. Now, you face a Destriant, and through her, our very gods.’

‘That child is mad, Tanakalian.’

‘I do not fear her, Krughava.’

That struck her as an odd thing to say. Deeply shaken, she lifted her gaze, studied Setoc. ‘Destriant! Shall this be the only game the Wolves play?’

‘This game they know well.’

Krughava pushed past Tanakalian, pushed him out to the side – no longer important, no longer relevant. ‘Yes, they do, don’t they? The glory of the hunt, yes? I will speak to the wolf gods now, and they would do well to hear me!’

Shouts from the Perish Grey Helms, offended, indignant, shocked, but Setoc simply shrugged.

Krughava drew a deep breath – the ground was trembling beneath her now, and in moments the forces beyond this fort would collide. ‘You wolves think yourselves masters of the hunt – but have you not seen? We humans are better at it. We’re so good at it that we have been hunting down and killing you for half a million years. But we’re not content with just the weak among you, or the wounded. We kill every damned one of you. It may be the only game you know, but hear my words. You’re not good enough at it!’ She advanced on Setoc now, and saw the Destriant flinch back. I have found my moment. I see the comprehension in her eyes – the Wolves of Winter have heard me. They finally understand. ‘Let me show you another way! Let me be your Mortal Sword once again!’

But it was not the wolf gods who understood. It was only Setoc, and in the moment before the wolf gods poured through her, she spun round in her mind. NO! Heed her words! Can you not see the truth – you cannot hunt here! But then they were upon her, tearing her apart in their frenzy to reach through, to close jaws on the hated human.

No! I loved you! I wept for you!

She screamed, and it was the last sound Setoc ever made.

Krughava’s eyes widened upon seeing the woman’s face transform into something unhuman. The flesh of her arms burst as the bones seemed to twist their way free, black tendons writhing like serpents. Her body stretched, the shoulders hunching. The eyes flared. Shrieking, she launched herself at the Mortal Sword.

Fangs – welters of boiling blood and thick saliva – a sudden burgeoning of mass, black-furred, looming huge before her – and then a figure slipped past Krughava – Tanakalian, forgotten Tanakalian, his knife flashing, the blade plunging deep into Setoc’s chest.

A deafening howl thundered, staggering Krughava back.

Blood sprayed from Setoc’s eyes – she leapt away from the knife, suddenly flailing, groping blind. Another howl sounded, battering the air. Dark blood spilling down from her mouth and nose, the woman fell on to her back on the earthen steps, and then curled up like a child.

Krughava stumbled forward. ‘Tanakalian! What have you done?’

He had been thrown to the ground by that terrible death cry, but now he clambered back to his feet, the knife still in his hand. The face he turned to Krughava horrified her. ‘This was supposed to be my day! Not yours! Not hers! I am the hero! I am!’

‘Tanak—’

‘This is my day! Mine!’ He rushed her.

She threw up an arm, but the gore-smeared blade slipped beneath it, punched hard, stabbing through her neck from one side to the other.

Krughava fell back, struggling to stay on her feet, and then pitching round to land hard on one knee. The side of her face where the hilt had struck throbbed – she could feel that. One hand reached up, collided with the leather-bound grip. The knife was still stuck through her throat, and her lungs were filling with blood. She opened her mouth, but could draw no breath.

Tanakalian was shrieking. ‘They were coming through! I couldn’t allow that! The Assail! The Assail! He would have taken them! He would have killed them!’

She fought back to her feet, dragged free her sword.

Seeing her, he backed away. ‘I saved our gods!’

You fool – you killed one of them! Did you not hear it die? The world was growing black on all sides. Her chest was heavy, as if someone had poured molten lead down into her lungs. Blessed Wolves! I did not intend this! Foul murder! This day – so sordid, so … human. Rearing upright, blood pouring down her chin, Krughava advanced.

Tanakalian stared at her, frozen in place. ‘We needed her out of the way! Don’t you see? Don’t you—’

Her first swing smashed into his right side, shattering ribs, slicing through the lung before jamming halfway through his sternum. The blow lifted him from the ground, flung him three paces to the right.

Astonishingly, he landed on his feet, scattering the cutters – blood and unidentifiable pieces of meat were spilling from the enormous cut in his chest.

Krughava closed again. Enough for one more. Enough— Her second swing took off the top half of his head, the blade slicing across just beneath his eyes. The broken bowl spun over the slick back of her blade, then off to one side, loosing the brain it held and with it both eyes, swinging on their stalks. What remained of Tanakalian then pitched forward, landing on his chin.

She sank down on to her knees. All breath was gone. The world roared in her skull.

Someone was at her side, fumbling with the knife still thrust through her neck. She feebly pushed the hands away, and then fell forward. Her face settled against the hard clay – and there, a gouged furrow, no wider than a knuckle, running out from under her eyes. She watched it fill with blood.

I wanted … I wanted a better … a better death … But then, don’t we all?

Two thunderous howls erupted in quick succession from the Perish position, their ferocity plunging Brys Beddict’s horse into a blind panic. He was almost thrown from the lunging, terrified animal, but then he managed to set his heels in the stirrups, drawing tight the reins.

The horse bucked, and then, unexpectedly, it ran straight towards the fort’s high bank.

He looked to the top edge of the high banked wall – but he could see no Perish soldiers watching him, no one preparing for his arrival – he saw no one at all.

Brys eased the reins – there was no fighting this bolting beast, not yet. He rose in the saddle as the animal tackled the slope. The ascent was steep, uneven, and the straining effort burned out the horse’s fear as it lunged upward.

Reaching the top of the berm, Brys checked his mount’s advance, pulling on the reins hard enough to make the animal rear once more. His heels took his own weight as he shifted to take the movement, his eyes already studying the array of faces, turned now towards him.

Where was Krughava? Where were all the officers?

He saw the nearest Grey Helms – almost directly below in the first trench – reaching for their pikes. Swearing, Brys wheeled his horse round while it still stood high on its hind legs, sent it stumbling back down the slope. Stones and clouds of dirt followed the frantic descent. Gods, they could have ended this for me right then!

Wasn’t anyone watching? No, they had all been facing the other way. I caught them completely by surprise – what was happening in that camp?

He suspected that he would never know. He was riding across level ground again, his horse’s hoofs kicking through the dusty plough tracks – and ahead and to his right, his Letherii soldiers had reached the first of the earthworks. Behind the companies, crews swarmed to position the heavy onagers, driving wedges beneath the front runners to lift the arc of fire.

The enemy had begun releasing their own salvos of heavy bolts from raised fortlets flanking the trenches. Those deadly quarrels tore deep gashes into the advancing ranks.

His soldiers had begun dying. Because I asked them to. Dying, in the name of a failed wish. I have brought them to this.

But … why? Why do they follow? They are no more fools than I am. They know – my title means nothing. It is an illusion. No, worse, a delusion. Nobility is not something you can wear, like a damned cloak of jewels. You can’t buy it. You can’t even be born into it. The nobility we talk about is nothing but a mockery of all that it used to mean.

By no measure am I noble.

Why do you follow?

Gods, why do I presume to lead? Into this?

Brys Beddict drew his sword, but the taste of ashes filled his mouth. So many conceits, gathering here, crowding this moment and all the moments to come. Now then, shake yourself awake, Brys. The time has come … to find us a name.

He twisted his horse round, headed for the nearest avenue between companies, and rode to meet the enemy.

High Cutter Syndecan was still kneeling beside the body of Krughava, staring down into her pale, lifeless visage. In the clearing behind him all the officers and veterans had gathered, and the arguments were raging fierce on all sides. Horror, shock and confusion – the Perish was moments from tearing itself apart.

Syndecan was the eldest among them all. A veteran of many campaigns, a soldier in the long, hopeless battle that was staunching wounds, breathing life into dying lungs. And, once more, he could only sit, silent, looking down at yet another of his failures.

She came among us. A brave, brave woman. We all knew: her pride was ever her enemy. But see here, she came to us – imagine how doing that must have stung that pride. And yet, even over this powerful flaw within her, she finally triumphed.

What could be more heroic than that?

When at last he straightened – though in truth it was no more than thirty heartbeats since Krughava’s fall – all the voices fell away. He was the veteran. He was the one they would now turn to, desperate for guidance. Oh, all you fools. What to do? What to do now?

He cleared his throat. ‘I do not know what has happened here. I do not know if the Shield Anvil slew a young woman, or a god. Nor can I judge his reasons for doing so – this, this is beyond all of us.’

A young soldier called out, ‘Brother Syndecan! Do we fight this day?’

He’d been thinking about that, from the moment of Krughava’s fall, and he recalled looking across to the hacked corpse of Tanakalian, and thinking, you are only what we deserved. ‘Brothers, sisters, on this day, yes, we must fight!’

Silence answered him.

He had expected as much. They would not follow blindly – not any more. Not after this.

‘Brothers, sisters! There has been murder in our fold – we were witness to it! And in witnessing, we are made part of this crime. We must be cleansed. Today, we must fight to regain our honour!’

‘But who is the damned enemy?’

And here, the old veteran found himself at an impasse. Wolves help me, I don’t know. And I’m not the one to decide. Veteran, am I? Yes, but the only wise veterans are the ones who have left war and killing behind them. No, I’m just the biggest fool among you all. Oh, fine then! Time to fall back on useless superstition. Isn’t that what old soldiers turn to when all else fails? ‘Brothers, sisters! We must seek a sign! We must look to the world – here and on this day! We must—’

And then his eyes widened.

Faces turned. Eyes stared –

– as the Prince of Lether lunged into view atop the high berm at the fort’s facing wall. Surging up and on to the narrow, ragged edge – and how the horse found purchase there was a mystery. That beast then reared, hoofs scything the air, with the prince glaring down at them all. And at that moment, from either side of the valley’s length, came the sound of battle’s clash.

Gods take me! Think I just pissed my breeches.

Abrastal sat astride her charger – the beast felt thin beneath her, but was still quivering in anticipation. Bastard loves this – the stench of blood, the screams – wants at them. Gods, war is a fever! She glanced back at Spax and his mass of warriors. ‘Hold them, Warchief! Wait for it!’

The Gilk Barghast glared up at her. ‘But how long? Your damned soldiers are dying on that front – at least let us charge and take out one of the fortlets. Those onagers are carving you bloody!’

She knew that – she could see the terrible casualties those perfectly emplaced weapons were delivering as her legion struggled to overrun the first line of defences. ‘I said wait, Spax! I will need you and the Teblor to move fast when that Assail finds out—’

‘But what if it’s all gone wrong at the Spire? Firehair! We can collapse this flank – just let us loose, damn you!’

But something had caught her eye – she wheeled her mount round, stared towards the centre. ‘Jheckan’s fat cock! The Perish are pouring out of their trenches! Spax!’

‘I see them! Do you see Krughava?’

Abrastal shook her head. ‘They’re too far away – listen, form a line to hold our inside flank, Warchief. If I was commanding that position and saw it uncontested, I’d do precisely what they’re doing right now – out and into our unprotected sides.’

‘They’ll see us’ – Spax was now at her side, a heavy axe in his hand, a spear in the other, his face half hidden by his ornate shell helm – ‘and wheel round to bite the Letherii flank – Brys has no reserves to guard against them.’

‘If they do that,’ Abrastal said in a snarl, ‘you know what to do, Spax.’

‘Climb up their hairy asses, yes. But—’

‘Just ready your warriors,’ she cut in, and then jabbed her spurs into her mount’s sides. ‘I’m going for a closer look!’

‘Not too close!’

She pushed her horse into a canter, the beast’s armour cladding a weaponsmith’s clamour around her. When four bodyguards rode to join her she waved them back. She hated the fools. Worse than hens. But the one messenger who drew close she gestured forward.

Beyond the Perish, the Letherii army had locked jaws with the first line of defenders, but they too were being savaged by the Kolansii onagers. She saw that the prince had deployed his own artillery, and the rate of fire from these heavy weapons was superior to the enemy’s. At least three positions were concentrating fire on the nearest fortlet, and the raised redoubt was studded with heavy quarrels. Foot archers and skirmishers had advanced under the cover of that counterfire and were now assaulting the position.

The prince knew his business. But would it matter? Already the losses were appalling – and she knew her own Evertine soldiers were suffering the same behind her.

And now, these Perish … a part of her wanted to sink her teeth into the throat of the Grey Helms. For all that betrayal and treachery thrived in the court games of the Bolkando kingdom, out here it was a far deadlier indulgence. Maybe this is teaching me a lesson. About backstabbing, lying and cheating to get your way.

No, try as I might, I can’t swing it across. The palace is my world and I’ll run it the way I like.

Hoofs thundering, she was fast closing on the Perish – the soldiers were smoothly forming up now that they’d cleared the fort, and she saw them wheeling to face her. ‘You want us first, do you? Spax will be so pleased!’

But that wasn’t tactical – no, clearly they should have swung to face the Letherii. And as she drew yet closer, the front ranks before her made no effort to draw weapons. Can it be? Has Krughava won them over? Where is she? Where is Tanakalian? Errant’s nudge, who’s commanding this army?

Abrastal waved up the messenger. ‘Stay close, until we’re within earshot, and then halt yourself. I will ride on. Listen well to this parley, soldier – the lives of thousands may well count on it, should I fail to win clear.’

The young woman, selected for her riding ability, was pale beneath the rim of her helm, but she nodded.

‘Your eyes are better than mine – do you see a commander anywhere?’

‘Highness, there is one – with the grey face. He has been gesturing – sending out orders. There,’ and she pointed.

‘I see him. What’s with the face paint?’

‘He’s a cutter, Highness. A field medic.’

Whatever. ‘No matter. Looks as if he’s the one wanting to talk – I don’t like this. What has happened to Krughava?’

They slowed to a canter, and at the appropriate distance the messenger halted, whilst the queen trotted forward. She studied the cutter. An old man, at least in so far as these Grey Helms went. His face was well worn with tracks of sorrow and loss, and she saw nothing in that face to suggest that anything had changed in his outlook. Her unease deepened.

The cutter raised a hand in greeting. ‘Highness, the Grey Helms welcome you. I am Syndecan, elected commander following the tragic deaths of the Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil.’

Abrastal felt her jaws clench. The words had struck like a blow to her chest. Leave it, woman. Now is not the time. ‘You are arrayed. State your intentions, Syndecan – as you can see, we’ve got us a fight here and I really cannot waste any more time while you decide which way the fucking wind’s blowing.’

The man recoiled as if slapped, and then he drew a deep breath and slowly straightened. ‘The Perish Grey Helms humbly place themselves under the command of you and Prince Brys.’ He made a faint gesture to the troops behind him. ‘We face you because we could not determine the whereabouts of the prince. Highness, the Pure Forkrul Assail was injured in a clash with our Destriant. It is safe to assume, however, that he will recover. And when that happens … we anticipate an awakening of dire sorcery.’

‘Can you defend against it?’

The old man shook his head. ‘I fear not, Highness. We have lost our place as the weapon of the wolf gods. You see us as we are – simple soldiers seeking to regain our honour as men and women. That and nothing more.’

‘As soon as that Pure is made aware of the attack on the Spire, he will disengage as many soldiers as he feels he can spare.’

‘We understand this, Highness.’

‘Are your soldiers rested, Syndecan? Can you fast-trot down this valley, and find an undefended ascent?’ She made her voice louder, addressing the soldiers waiting behind the cutter. ‘Grey Helms! Can you stand in the path of the Kolansii who will soon drive east to the Spire?’

In answer the soldiers shipped their shields on to their backs, began tightening straps.

Abrastal grunted. Who needs words?

Syndecan spoke. ‘Do you require that we delay the enemy, or stop them in their tracks?’

‘There are not enough of you to stop them, Commander, and you know it. If I can, I will spare you my Barghast, and the Teblor – but they may be arriving late to the fight.’

‘We shall hold until they arrive, Highness.’

Abrastal hesitated, and then called, ‘What I’ve seen of you thus far, Perish, has been sticks up the ass and plenty of proper marching and not much else. Well, now’s your chance to show the world what you can do in a real fight.’

They seemed to weather this, either in humility or in shame. She had expected a wave of anger, but saw not a single spark. Her gaze fell once more to the cutter. ‘Syndecan, you’ll need to work hard at inspiring this lot – they’re broken.’

‘Yes, Highness, we are. But on this day, I believe that this is no weakness. We shall answer the world.’

She studied him for a moment longer, and then collected her reins. ‘I trust you’ll forgive my Barghast if they face you while you pass.’

The man simply nodded.

‘Fare you well, then. If justice truly exists, perhaps your Mortal Sword will stand with you, if only in spirit. Seek to match her measure, all of you, and perhaps you will indeed find your honour once more.’

Dragging her mount round, she set off.

The messenger fell in alongside her. Abrastal glanced over. ‘You’ve the lighter burden here. Ride ahead and inform Warchief Spax that the Perish march to take position in the expected path of the Kolansii relief force. They will pass south of our position at a fast-trot – but he is to face his warriors on them the entire time. Repeat my words back to me.’

The messenger did so, without error.

‘Ride then. Go!’

Abrastal watched the younger woman swiftly pulling away. Was I ever that young? It’s the curse of nobility that we must be made to grow up all too fast. But then, look at you – tits barely budding and you’re in the middle of a damned war.

And I can’t even remember your name.

But should we both survive this, I’m sending you to learn embroidery, and a year or two of flirting with artists and musicians and other ne’er-do-wells.

Growling under her breath, the queen of Bolkando shook her head. Rose in her saddle to glare at the forward lines of her beloved legion.

They’d yet to even take the first entrenchments – and that slope was a mass of dead and dying soldiers, getting deeper with every moment that passed. Errant’s tug – they’ve got us by the balls here. We need to push harder – no let-up on this pressure. Time for the Saphii, then – assuming they’ve gotten all yellow-eyed on that brave-spit they guzzle before battle. They should be well primed.

But were they all doing little more than going through the motions? Fourteenth Daughter – can you hear me? … Thought not. I could use your eyes right now, just to see where things stand over there. You should be in the damned bay by now. You should be in a good position to witness … everything.

Once more she shook her head – too many things in her damned skull!

Her horse was tiring and she slowed her pace a fraction – she might need one more charge out of this beast. The queen takes the sword and shows her face beneath the mask. But the world does not tremble as it should, for the mask only comes off in the face of death. Husband, dear me, your wife’s strayed too far this time.

She drew her sword as she closed – the Saphii commander was standing to the right of the royal entourage, his eyes upon her as were the eyes of virtually everyone else. She pointed her sword directly at him, saw him suddenly straighten as if in delight, raising his spear in one hand, and then he was moving, his tall dark figure speeding across the ground, back to his troops.

And she saw them now, too, leaping and dancing in a frenzy of excitement. Oh, Kolansii, you have no idea what is about to hit you.

Captain Feveren, Ninth Cohort of the Evertine Legion, slid back down the slope on a greasy mass of bodies, swearing all the way down to the base, where he was thrown up against the shins of the soldiers struggling to do what he’d just tried. He’d lost sight of his own troops – those that remained alive – but such details barely mattered now. The only cohesion left was the one that defined the living from the dead.

This was slaughter. Twice they had momentarily overrun the first trench, only to be thrown back by indiscriminate fire from ranks of onagers, the huge quarrels tearing through multiple bodies, blood and gore exploding in torrents, men and women flung about like rag dolls. Shields shattered with impacts, breaking the shoulders behind them, driving soldiers down to their knees. The bank of the first berm was a ceaseless mudslide of all that could spill out from a human body, streaming over pale limbs, over staring, sightless faces, ruptured armour and tangled embraces.

Cursing, he struggled to find his feet again. He could feel another push coming from the ranks pressing against him, and wanted to be in a position to ride that tide upward. They were going to take that damned trench, no matter—

But the Evertine infantry were being jostled, the solid lines broken apart – and Feveren swore upon seeing tall Saphii pushing through, their eyes bright yellow with that infernal drug they took before battle, the froth thick on their lips.

‘Clear paths!’ the captain bellowed. ‘Clear paths!’

But the command was not needed – nothing would stop the Saphii spear-wielders, not this close to the enemy.

Lighter-armoured, lithe and fleet of foot, the warriors seemed to clamber like spiders up the slope of the berm. In one hand they held their spears, and in the other a pick of some sort – its business end a splay of talon-like hooks that they swung down into dead and dying flesh alike, pulling themselves yet higher.

In moments the first line of Saphii had reached the top, and over and out of sight.

The screams from the first trench intensified.

‘Follow!’ bellowed Feveren. ‘Follow!’

And up they went.

Somehow, they’d lifted him to his feet. But his mind remained lost in a deafening roar. Brother Diligence raised his head, struggled to find his balance. Officers surrounded him, healers crowded close, and, from a great distance, the sounds of battle took hold of the air above the valley, shaking it without pause.

He sought to make sense of the cacophony in his head. He heard screams, horrified screams, rising in waves of panic and dread, but even that seemed far away. Far away, yes. That voice – so far away. Abruptly he shoved his helpers from his side, and then staggered as at last he could make out the words, the sources of those desperate screams.

Sister Reverence!

Her answer came in a savage torrent. ‘Brother Diligence! Your battle is feint! We are attacked! K’Chain Che’Malle! T’lan Imass! We cannot hold – gods, the slaughter!’

He silenced her hard as a slap. You must hold, Sister! We are coming!

Looking around, he saw the panic in the eyes of the Watered – they had felt her, had heard her frantic cries. ‘Attend!’ he bellowed. ‘Maintain the defences of the two lowest tiers – the rest are to withdraw to the high road – they must march east to the Spire with all haste! Weapons and armour and one skin of water and nothing more! You have one bell to get twenty-five thousand soldiers on the road!’

‘Blessed Pure, the Perish have betrayed us!’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Leave them. I shall awaken Akhrast Korvalain – I shall obliterate the enemies before us! Wait! I want the forces on our left to counter-attack – lock on to the enemy flank – I want those Bolkando and Barghast driven from the field! Now, clear me a path down to the second tier!’

The world seemed to be trembling beneath his feet. As he made his way down, choosing the right flank, he quickly scanned the battle before him. The damned Letherii fought as if blind to defeat – and they would be defeated, of that there was no doubt. Even without his voice, they could not hope to overrun his defences.

But I want them on their knees, empty-handed, heads bowed. And my soldiers shall rise from the trenches and walk among them, their weapons swinging. Not one Letherii shall leave this place – not one!

And when I have driven them down, I shall turn to the other flank – it is stronger, I can see that, the White Faces remain in reserve – but none there can hope to stop me. They will be held in place by the counter-attack. I will have them all!

Almost directly below, he saw a tight mass of Letherii, a standard waving above them, and there, to his amazement, two K’Chain Che’Malle. Ve’Gath soldiers, one being ridden by a scale-armoured figure, the other revealing an empty saddle. They were flanking a lone Letherii on a horse, a man struggling to form the tip of a wedge pushing its way up the first berm.

The K’Chain Che’Malle we shall have to cut down the hard way – and Sister Reverence faces an army of these creatures! We were complacent. We were fools to think them without cunning – are they not humans, after all?

I see you, Commander. I will take you first.

The first to kneel. The first to submit to execution.

He continued his rapid descent of the earthworks, feeling his warren awakening within him.

Below, Letherii sorcery crackled in a grey wave, swept up and over an onager redoubt. Bodies erupted in crimson mists. Furious, Diligence reached out, found a handful of squad mages. With a single word he crushed their skulls.

Reaching a ramp, he made his way across, and took position atop the second tier. Across a distance less than a bowshot, the Letherii commander had attained the top of the berm, his Ve’Gath clearing a path with vicious, sweeping strokes of their halberds that sent bodies spinning through the air.

‘I see you!’ roared Diligence.

Brys Beddict felt his horse crumpling under him, and as he flung his feet clear of the stirrups and twisted to evade the falling beast he saw an enormous quarrel driven deep into its chest. Landing in a crouch, he readied his blood-smeared sword.

The trench below was a mass of Kolansii infantry, pikes thrust upward and awaiting their descent. On either side of the prince, the Ve’Gath were fending off flanking counter-attacks, and their ferocity forced the breach yet wider.

The moment he straightened, three shouted words struck him like a fist, snapping his head back, and all at once he was under siege.

The Forkrul Assail had found him. At last. You saw. You saw and wanted me first. Oh, friend, you are most welcome to me.

He rose under the barrage, lifted his head, and met the eyes of the Pure.

‘I see you! Kneel! YIELD TO MY WILL!’

‘You see me? Tell me, Assail, whom do you see?’

‘I will command you – I will take all that is within you—’

Brys Beddict, King’s Champion and prince of Lether, spread open his arms, and smiled. ‘Then have me.’

And from his soul, from a deep, unlit world of silts and crushed bones, there came a stirring, a sudden billowing of dark clouds, and from this maelstrom … names. A torrent, a conflagration. ‘Saeden Thar, Lord Protector of Semii, Haravathan of the River People, Y’thyn Dra the Mountain of Eyes, Woman of Sky above the Erestitidan, Blessed Haylar Twin-Horns of the Elananas, Horastal Neh Eru SunBearer and Giver of Crops in the Valley of the Sanathal, Itkovas Lord of Terror among the K’ollass K’Chain Che’Malle of Ethilas Nest …’ And the names rose unending, flowing through Brys Beddict’s mind, one after another. ‘Tra Thelor of the Twin Rivers, Sower of Spring among the Grallan. Adast Face of the Moon among the Korsone …’

All the forgotten gods, and as each name whispered out, sweeping into the torrid current of the Forkrul Assail’s warren – his terrible power of the voice, of words and all their magic – Brys felt part of himself tearing away, snatched loose, drowned in the swirling flow.

There was no stopping this. The Pure had found him in the manner that Brys had desired – as he rode to the forefront of his army, as he fought between two K’Chain Che’Malle, as he delivered unopposable slaughter. Find me, he had prayed. Find me – I am waiting for you. Find me!

Once begun, once the warren was a torrent between the Assail and the prince, there was no stopping it. Power fed power, and its fuel was justice. Let them be known. All the forgotten gods. All their forgotten people. All the ages past, all the mysteries lost. This unending stream of rise and fall, dream and despair, love and surrender.

They deserve utterance, one more time. One last time.

Take them, take me. You with your power in words, me with my power in names. Without me, your words are nothing.

Come, let us devour each other.

He could see the Pure now with a sudden clarity, a tall, ancient male, one arm outthrust, one finger pointing across at Brys, but the Assail was motionless, frozen in place – no – Brys’s eyes narrowed. He was crumbling. His face was a stretched mask, thin over the bizarre skeletal structure underneath. His eyes wept red, his mouth was open, pulling taut as the jaw angled down – as if the names were pouring down the Pure’s throat, as if he was drowning in their deluge.

Brys’s own soul was shredding apart. The world – this valley, this battle – all fell away. He could feel the pressure of the sea now, could feel his legs planted in shin-deep mud, and the current rushed past him, scouring the flesh from the bones of his soul, and still he had more to give.

Clouds of silt billowed and seethed around him – he was losing his vision – something was blinding his soul, something new, unexpected.

No matter. I am almost done with him – no, the names do not cease, they can never cease, and once my voice is gone there will be another. Some day. To guard what would otherwise be for ever lost. For you, Forkrul Assail, I have held back on one final name – the one to gather up your own life and carry it into the darkness.

This is the name of your god, Forkrul Assail. You thought it a name forgotten.

But I remember. I remember them all.

Blinded, deafened by some unknown roar, feeling the last of his soul ripping free, Brys Beddict smiled and spoke then the last name. The name of the slain god of the Forkrul Assail.

He heard the Pure’s shriek as the power of the name reached out, clutched him tight. For this one god, alone among them all, did not come bereft of its people. This god flowed into the soul of its own child.

It does not do, to abandon one’s own gods, for when they return, so unexpected, they are most vengeful.

The current pulled him from the silts, drove him forward into a darkness so complete, so absolute, that he knew it to be the Abyss itself.

I have saved my people, my dear soldiers – let them fight on. Let them take breaths, in owning and in release, in all the measures of living. I have done as a prince should do – Tehol, be proud of me. Aranict, do not curse me.

The sorrow of the ages closed around him. This was one river from which there could be no escape. Do not grieve. We all must come to this place.

My friends, it is time to leave—

Impossibly, he felt hands close from behind, hard as iron over his shoulders. And a harsh voice hissed in his ear. ‘Not so fast.’

Faint stood close to Aranict. The Atri-Ceda was standing, head bowed, her arms out-thrust – but her hands and forearms had vanished inside a billowing, grey-brown cloud, and water was streaming down from her elbows. The air around her was rank, thick with the decay of tidal flats.

Faint could see the veins standing out on Aranict’s taut neck, could see the muscles of her shoulders straining. And the Atri-Ceda was slowly being pulled forward – whatever was inside that swirling cloud was seeking to drag her into its maw.

Off to one side, Precious Thimble was on her knees, shrieking without surcease.

They had seen Brys Beddict, there atop the first earthen embankment – they had seen the standing stones rise from the ground around him, pushing upward through dirt and rocks, almost black with slime and filth. They had seen the prince’s armour and clothing disintegrating, and then on the man’s pallid skin dark swarms – tattoos, runes – emerging only to be torn free, spinning wild around him, and then rushing across, hammering into the Forkrul Assail.

And then, as if within a whirlwind, Brys Beddict vanished inside swirling gloom that was so thick as to be impenetrable. It spread out, devouring the huge menhirs.

Aranict now began howling – she was being pulled forward – and Faint suddenly understood. She has him. She has hold of the prince! Gods below—

Faint staggered towards the Atri-Ceda – but something resisted with devastating pressure, bitter cold, and she was flung back, gasping, spitting out blood. On her hands and knees, she lifted her head and looked across.

Most of Aranict’s arms had disappeared inside the cloud. And now Faint could make out words in the Atri-Ceda’s cries.

‘Mael! Damn you! Help me!’

Faint crawled over to Precious Thimble. ‘Stop that screaming, witch! Look at me! No, here, look at me!’

But the eyes that fixed on Faint belonged to a mad woman. ‘I can’t help her! Can’t you see that? She’s gone too far – too deep – how is she even alive? It’s impossible!’ Precious Thimble pulled away, scrabbling like a crab. ‘He’s lost! He’s for ever lost!’

Faint stared at the witch, as the words slowly sank deep. But that’s not fair. Not a love like that – no! You can’t take it away – don’t you dare kill it! ‘Precious! What can I do? To help? Tell me!’

‘Nothing!’

Go to Hood then.

She spun round, drawing a dagger. Mael’s an Elder God – but Aranict must understand this. He cannot answer this prayer, not the way it is now. I won’t stand here to see this love die. I won’t. The blade cut a glistening slash along her left arm, and then, fumbling to take the knife in her left hand, she carved deep diagonally across her right forearm. Forcing herself forward, she reached for Aranict.

Mael – take my blood in offering. Just fucking take it!

The pressure sought to rebuff her, but she pushed harder – and then she was through, floundering, unable to breathe, the cold crushing her – she saw her blood billowing out as if under water, saw it spin on currents – so much of it – she almost lost sight of Aranict.

Desperate, feeling her bones cracking, Faint pushed closer, reached out and took the Atri-Ceda into an embrace.

Mael … don’t you dare … don’t you dare tell me this is not enough.

Precious Thimble had stared, disbelieving, as Faint struggled to reach Aranict. Her blood was a thick billowing cloud streaming out from her, curling round to whirl into the dark cloud. There seemed to be no end to it.

Someone had taken hold of the witch – strong arms closing round her, lifting her from the ground. Twisting now, she looked up.

Amby Bole’s face was almost unrecognizable. ‘This is bad magic,’ he said.

‘Save Faint! Save her!’

But the man shook his head. ‘No one can live in there.’

‘Save her, Amby! For my love – save her!’

His frown deepened, his eyelids suddenly fluttering, and he met her eyes. ‘What?’

‘You want me? I’m yours, damn you – just save Faint!’

Bole threw her down, visage darkening. ‘All the fun ended with you! I don’t want you, witch! I don’t ever want to see you again!’

Precious stared up at him, and then she snarled. ‘I will chase you, Amby! I’ll hunt you down, no matter where you go! Year after year, I will follow you, I swear it! There’s nowhere you can run to – you understand me? Nowhere!’

‘I hate you!’

‘The only place you could hope to escape me – is there!’ and she pointed at that billowing cloud of blood now obscuring Faint and Aranict.

Amby made an animal cry, spun and ran heavy-footed – straight into the crimson cloud.

Precious Thimble fell back. Gods below but that man is stupid!

‘Hold on, my love,’ whispered a voice close to Faint’s ear. ‘Some laws even an Elder God cannot easily defy. But he’s trying.’

Faint felt the life leaving her. She was lying against the legs of Aranict – she could feel them cold as bars of ice. Were her eyes open? All she could see was the redness of her own blood. ‘Sweetest, is that you?’

‘Always knew you had a romantic streak. What a thing to do!’

‘I’m dying.’

‘Looks like it. Regretting your moment of madness?’

Faint shook her head – or tried to. ‘Only if it fails.’

‘Well, how often do we regret successes?’

‘Is it enough, Sweetie? It’s all I have.’

‘You’re in water, fool, of course it looks like a lot – and if you stay in here any longer you’ll bleed out for sure. Now, wish I could help you – wish I could help both of you, but I’m just a ghost. Well, not even that. Could be I’m just a voice in your head, Faint, born out of some bizarre misguided guilt.’

‘Oh, thanks for that.’

A foot slammed into the side of her head, half stunning her, and she struggled feebly as hands groped across her body, briefly closing on one of her tits before moving on – and then back again for a second squeeze.

Abruptly someone was lifting her from the muddy silts, throwing her over one bony shoulder. She felt one hand clutch and then leave her thigh, felt the fingers brush her knee as the arm reached out.

A deep grunt seemed to thrum through Faint, and she felt the stranger’s feet slip suddenly, as if pulled by some inexorable pressure – and then the heels planted firm, and – impossibly – she felt him heave back against the current. One step, and then another. Another …

Amby Bole reappeared from the crimson cloud, Faint hanging limp over one shoulder. His other arm was stretched back behind him, and Precious saw him strain, saw him leaning hard, and then out from the cloud emerged Aranict, held by the back of her collar, and after her – the naked form of Brys Beddict.

The cloud erupted, burst apart in a welter of icy water.

The four figures fell to the ground, Faint rolling out almost to the witch’s knees. Precious Thimble stared down, saw the blood still pumping from the woman’s slashed arms. She closed trembling hands on both wrists, healing spells tumbling out on her breath.

Soldiers were rushing up. Shouts filled the air.

Precious Thimble’s hands tightened on the wounds, but now there were only scars beneath her palms, and she could feel Faint’s pulse. But … gods, it’s there – I can feel it. It’s … faint. A sudden giggle escaped her – but that was just relief. She’d always hated puns. Proper women did. She scowled down at the scars. Hold on, where did I get that power? Looking up, she saw Amby Bole lying motionless on the muddy ground. Beyond him soldiers crowded round Aranict, who knelt with her prince, cradling his head on her lap.

And then Precious Thimble caught a glimpse of motion from one of Brys’s hands, out from under the cloak someone had thrown over him.

I can’t believe it.

Faint stirred, groaned, eyes opening, stared unseeing for a moment, and then focused on the witch. She slowly frowned. ‘I’m not dead?’

‘No. I’ve just healed you. The Atri-Ceda made it out, too. So did the prince. Your blood bought passage – though how that watery piss you call blood ever passed muster in the eyes of an Elder God, I’ll never know.’

‘What – but how? Who saved us? Who dragged us free?’

Sudden coughing from where Amby Bole lay sprawled.

Precious Thimble shook her head. ‘The only one who could, Faint, some idiot from Blackdog Swamp.’

The dozen menhirs erupting from the earthworks around Prince Brys Beddict had ruptured the embankment for sixty paces, driving fighting soldiers from their feet – bodies tumbling into the trenches even as enormous mounds of earth and stones poured down, burying scores alive.

The Ve’Gath beneath Grub elected to escape the chaos by leaping forward, across the entire trench, and landed close to where the Forkrul Assail stood. The K’Chain Che’Malle had shattered its halberd some time earlier, and now wielded a double-bladed axe in one hand and a falchion in the other.

The Forkrul Assail stood with his face stretched as if in agony, tilted back, the eyes shut and the mouth stretched wide open. When the Ve’Gath advanced, he gave no sign of awareness. Two swift thumping strides and the falchion swung down, taking the motionless Pure between his right shoulder and neck. The blade tore down through the chest, ripped free in a spray of bone shards.

The other Ve’Gath had followed its kin and now came in from the left. An instant after the first Ve’Gath’s attack, its heavy single-bladed axe slammed into the side of the Assail’s head in an explosion of skull fragments and gore.

The Forkrul Assail collapsed in red ruin.

Even as Grub struggled to wheel the beast round, two heavy quarrels hissed across – between him and the Ve’Gath’s head – and punched into the side of the other Ve’Gath. The impact staggered the giant reptile, and then it fell over, hind legs scything the air.

‘Back! Back across!’

The K’Chain Che’Malle burst into motion, sprinting down the length of the berm – fifteen, twenty paces, and then wheeling to plunge down amidst crowds of Kolansii in the first trench. Weapons hammered down, slashed and chopped a carnage-strewn path through to the other side.

Pike blades glanced across the armour encasing Grub’s legs and girdling his hips – and then they were clawing up the other side, winning free atop what remained of the first bank.

Grub looked round for the prince – for any officer – but the chaos reigned on all sides.

Had Brys fallen? There was no way of knowing.

But Grub now saw Letherii soldiers lifting their heads, saw them tracking his thumping trek across the front of the warring forces – watching the Ve’Gath clear attackers from its path with devastating sweeps of its bladed weapons.

They’re looking to me.

But I know nothing.

Fool! Nothing but a life of war! Look well – decide what must be done! Twisting in the saddle, he scanned the climbing slope to his left, squinted at the succession of fortified tiers – and saw soldiers streaming from the highest positions.

But between them and the Letherii … four trenches. No, this is impossible. We’ve lost a third of the army against this first trench alone!

Grub faced the Letherii ranks once more. ‘Withdraw!’ he shouted. ‘By the prince’s command, withdraw!’

And he saw, all along the front, the Letherii soldiers disengaging, shields up as they backed away, others dragging wounded comrades with them.

Another quarrel hissed past – too close. Cursing, Grub kicked at the sides of the Ve’Gath. ‘Down from the ridge – along the front – put those weapons away and find us some shields! Better yet, pick up some of the wounded – as many as you can carry!’

The beast skidded down the slope, righted itself and, staying low beneath the cover of the first berm, began picking its way through heaps of bodies.

Grub stared down at the terrible carnage. I remember on the wall and that man and all the ones who fell around him – he fought and fought, until they overcame him, brought him down, and then there was a cross and he was nailed to it and the crows spun and screamed and fell from the sky.

I remember the old man on his horse, reaching down to collect me up – and the way he wheeled outside the gate, to stare back – as if he could see all the way we’d come – the bloody road where I was born, where I came alive.

I remember that world. I remember no other.

All of the brave soldiers, I am yours. I was always yours.

The Kolansii counter-attack from troops stationed in the next two trenches met the advance of Saphii and Evertine legionnaires in an avalanche of iron fury. Rolling down with the slope, along the wide descent tracks or up and over the berms, they slammed into the Bolkando forces like a storm of studded fists. For all the wild fury of the Saphii, they were not sufficiently armoured against heavy infantry, and the Evertine soldiers were unable to close a solid shieldwall with the Saphii in their midst.

The first lines were overwhelmed, driven underfoot, and the entire Bolkando front reeled back, yielding once more the second berm and then the first trench, and, finally, the first bank of earthworks. With the enemy gaining momentum, the legion was pushed back still further.

Almost none of the Saphii remained by this time, and as the Kolansii rolled out on to level ground they rushed across, only to collide with the legionnaires. They met a solid shieldwall. The impact sent bodies and weapons into the air and the crush made both sides recoil, before closing once more in savage fighting.

Queen Abrastal, still mounted, her sword and forearm painted with blood, forced her charger away from the inside edge of the Evertine line – the animal’s muzzle was gushing blood from a frenzied bite against a visored face and its hind flanks were slashed through the cladding, spattering blood with every muscle surge. But she could feel the pounding of its heart and she knew that her horse had never felt more alive than at this moment – it was impossible for her not to grin at the terrible joy in the beast she rode. Impossible to not find herself sharing it.

Still, they’d arrived upon the crux – and looking to the west, she saw the Letherii forces withdrawing from the assault, though their onager salvos continued unabated.

The Pure had done as she had expected – seeking to break her hold here, forcing the Letherii away from any hope of marching to the Spire by blocking the valley – but only if they could succeed in turning the Evertine Legion.

She rode hard round to the back of her legion.

Still held in reserve, the Barghast ranks were readying weapons, and Abrastal caught sight of Warchief Spax, standing atop a small hill of bundled supplies and straining to see over the Evertine ranks to the front of the battle. She saw him turn to her upon hearing her horse’s drumming hoofbeats.

She reined in before him.

‘I’ve never swum in a sea of blood before, Firehair. How was it?’

The queen glanced down to see herself lathered in gore. She shook her sword clear. ‘How fast were those Perish moving?’ she asked.

‘A good clip – almost as quickly as a band of White Faces on the raid. If they have anything left after tackling the valley side, they should be almost in position – but Highness, you’ve seen how many are headed their way.’ He shook his head.

‘Can they even slow them down?’

The Warchief shrugged. ‘Depends on the lay of the land, I suppose. If it’s a broad front they need to hold … no, they’ll barely slow ’em.’

Abrastal cursed under her breath as she swung her mount round. Thought furiously for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Very well. Warchief, take your warriors and the Teblor and move with all haste to support the Perish – whatever you can manage, understood?’

‘You send us to our deaths, Highness.’

‘Aye.’ She bared her teeth at him. ‘I show you my coin. You show me your love.’

‘I wasn’t complaining, just saying.’

‘We will screen you here.’

‘Highness, you can’t hold against this counter-attack – we can see that.’

‘We will screen you for as long as is needed,’ Abrastal said firmly. ‘Now get going, Warchief.’

‘If we do not meet again, Firehair, I should tell you’ – and Spax leapt down from the mound of supplies – ‘I went and knocked up your daughter.’

‘Gods below!’

‘You’ll have years of doting on that little runt – you’ll know it for mine ’cause it’s got my eyes.’

‘Just get going for Errant’s sake!’

Laughing, Spax raised his axe and waved it in a circle over his head.

As one, the White Faces lunged into motion – eastward.

Impressed in spite of herself, Abrastal watched in silence for a moment.

Spax was following her gaze. ‘Aye, we live for this, Firehair. We’ll give a good account of ourselves, I promise you.’ He looked up at her. ‘Sing songs about us, and remember to tell your court poets, that’s Gilk with one k.’

She frowned down at him. ‘How else would it be, you fool?’

‘Fare you well, my queen,’ Spax said, bowing even as he turned away.

When he’d trotted a dozen paces Abrastal called out, ‘Spax!’

The Warchief glanced back.

‘Boy or girl, I’ll make sure it’s named after you – but that’s the only favour you’ll get!’

Smiling, the Barghast waved his weapon, and then was on his way again.

She watched the Teblor falling in alongside the mass of White Faces, and then she swung round to study her legion.

Sure enough, they were being driven back – these Kolansii heavies were anything but soft. Abrastal adjusted her grip on the sword in her hand, collected the reins once more. Let us make them remember us.

She was about to kick her horse forward when a rider thundered up on her left. ‘Highness!’

Abrastal stared. A damned Letherii! ‘That was a long ride – what news?’

The messenger – a Bluerose Lancer – saluted. ‘Felicitations from the prince, Highness—’

‘Felicitations? Gods take me – sorry, go on.’

‘Highness, the Pure Forkrul Assail is dead. Only mixed-blood Assail remain in command. The prince hereby informs you that he has disengaged his forces from the Kolansii positions. And that he has established dug-in defences along the onager line on the valley floor and will commit a third of his remaining forces there—’

‘Excuse me, a third?’

The Letherii nodded. ‘Prince begs to inform you, Highness, that he is on his way to your position.’

Abrastal looked round, and then cursed. ‘Take a moment to rest your horse, sir, and then ride with all haste back to Prince Brys. Inform him he’d better hurry.’

But the messenger wasn’t interested in resting, and he wheeled his weary horse round and set out at the gallop.

Damn but those lancers know how to ride. And damn me, young man – if we both survive this, I’m going to give you a ride you’ll never forget.

Abrastal sighed, and then shook herself. With a low growl, she kicked her horse forward. ‘My standard to the front! Get on with you – follow your damned queen!’

Someone had found clothing and armour for the prince. With Aranict close by his side, he stood on the high ground and watched his troops swarming to entrench all along the line of onagers. Lines of soldiers were moving the wounded back on stretchers, while still others retrieved serviceable weapons from the field. And overseeing it all, a young man riding a K’Chain Che’Malle.

Brys was still struggling to regain himself – he did not know how Aranict had managed to save him, or how she even survived her descent into that lifeless warren. While still only half conscious he had heard fragments of conversation, and it seemed that the three foreigners, Faint, Precious Thimble and Amby Bole, had all had a hand in his resurrection. And then he’d caught the name Mael.

Old man, we owe you so much. Why are we Beddicts so important to you? But … it wasn’t me you did this for, was it? It was for Tehol. Your chosen mortal, the one you would have wanted as your own son.

Rest assured, I’m not complaining.

Someone brought him a helm and he took it with a grateful nod. Tugged it on and fastened the clasp.

An officer crowded close. ‘Sir, we have found you a horse – it would do the troops good to see you again as soon as possible.’

Brys shook his head. ‘Our Malazan guest has things well in hand, Lieutenant.’

‘He has issued orders in the prince’s name, sir!’

‘A clever thing to do, under the circumstances. He may be young, but he does command a presence on the back of that lizard. From this moment forward, he is to be considered my second – make this clear to all the other officers.’

‘Yes sir.’

Brys glanced over to see that a horse had been brought forward.

Aranict spoke, ‘Still, beloved, it would be good for them to see you.’

‘I am tempted to place Grub in command of our relieving force,’ he replied. When she stepped closer he held up a hand. ‘I am not recovered – I feel as likely to fall off that horse as stay on it. Oh, I’ll mount up, and as long as the beast isn’t moving under me, why, I should cut a strikingly inspiring figure.’ He shot a look up at the imperial standard and winced. ‘So long as no one looks too carefully.’ He reached out and took hold of her hand. ‘Aranict … I am glad you fought for me.’

‘It was Mael,’ she said. ‘And Faint’s blood. And then, if not for Amby Bole, we still would have failed.’

‘Will you think less of me if I choose to remain here, commanding these defences?’

‘Brys, if I had to, I’d have tied you down to keep you here. Close to me. We’re not saving you just to see you fall to some errant arrow – no, you stay back, issue orders and leave the rest to everyone else.’

He smiled. ‘You have begun to show a stubborn side, Atri-Ceda.’

‘Idiot.’ She lit a stick of rustleaf. ‘The only thing just begun is you noticing it – but that’s what makes the first flush of love so dangerous, and once it fades and you start seeing clearly again, why, it’s too late.’

Still smiling, he took the reins and set a foot in the stirrup, pulling himself up to slump in the saddle with a low groan.

From all sides voices rose upon seeing him. Grimacing, Brys straightened, and then raised one gauntleted hand. The roar redoubled in its intensity.

He saw Grub riding up the slope towards him. The boy didn’t look much like a boy any longer. He was splashed with drying blood, and from somewhere he’d found a Bluerose lance, and its iron point had swum in blood not long past.

‘Prince Brys – I didn’t know you— I mean—’

‘There is little time to waste,’ Brys cut in. ‘I am placing you in command of the relief force. They’re almost assembled – in fact’ – he squinted eastward – ‘they can shake themselves out on the march – the Bolkando are losing ground. Lead them, Commander, and be quick about it.’

Grub saluted. ‘Sir, when we close, I may ride ahead.’

‘Would any of us expect otherwise?’ Brys asked. ‘Just don’t get yourself killed.’

Nodding, the Malazan youth kicked at the flanks of the Ve’Gath, and the huge beast wheeled round and set off.

Faint studied the defenders opposite, watching as they regrouped, drawing reinforcements down from the higher earthworks. ‘They’re going to break cover,’ she muttered. ‘They’re going to charge us.’

Precious Thimble glanced over. ‘What? Why would they do that?’

‘Because most of us are headed east, down the valley – they can’t let us chase after their own relieving force. They need to wipe out both the Letherii and the Bolkando.’

The witch’s gaze was darting back and forth along the hasty defences thrown up by the Letherii. ‘We’re badly outnumbered.’

‘Haven’t you been paying attention? Assaulting costs dear – we’re about to turn the tables on them, and they’re not going to like it.’

‘It’s only the mixed-bloods who’re keeping them fighting at all,’ Precious said under her breath.

‘What? What did you say?’

‘It’s the mixed-bloods, feeding off this cursed warren – using it to bend the Kolansii to their will. I doubt they’d fight this hard without it.’

‘Now you say all this!’ Faint looked about, saw the prince sitting on a horse twenty paces away, his back to them as he observed the departing companies. Stepping forward, Faint stumbled slightly, recovered. But her head was spinning. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘Blood loss,’ snapped Precious Thimble.

Hissing in frustration, Faint made her way – slowly – towards Brys Beddict. Find the damned mixed-bloods. Aim a few onagers at them. Tear them to pieces. And this battle is done. ‘Prince Brys!’

The man turned his head.

Faint hobbled forward. ‘A word with you, Highness …’

Ascending a valley side at the run and in full armour left the Perish staggering once they’d reached the top. Heart hammering in the cage of his chest, Syndecan pulled clear of the others and then halted, studying the lay of the land.

Shit. It’s all shit.

Forty paces away was a raised road, running parallel with the valley, its steep side facing them banked with water-worn stones. In between was a strip of furrowed field, left fallow for two years or more. Off to the right, a hundred paces along, rose a cluster of buildings – farmstead facing on to the field, public stables and inn facing the road.

Syndecan continued on, bleakly eyeing the sharp slope of the roadside. Reaching it, he sheathed his sword and scrambled his way to the top.

Beyond the road the unplanted fields stretched on for at least a third of a league, broken up by walled hedgerows forming a chaotic patchwork. ‘Now that’s better,’ he grunted. No army would be happy crossing that – the walls alone would slow them up, since they were as high as a man was tall. The Perish could break up into half-cohorts and contest one after another, and by the time the Kolansii won through the battle at the Spire would be long over.

Still leaves the road and this side, though. Narrow enough, but where do I weight my defence? Road or field? And what about this infernal stony bank? Can’t defend it worth a damn. That said, trying to breach along it would be a nightmare – until they won through. So I throw a cohort five steps back of the line, waiting for them. We bottle them up, don’t let them spill out to the sides. It’ll work. It’ll have to.

Hands on his hips, he turned round, looked down on his Grey Helms. Winded, most of them bent over, or on one knee, gulping air like beached carp. He pointed at the buildings. ‘Wounded go there. Cutters on your way – set up fast as you can. Rest of you, drink down the last of your water if you haven’t already. Chew on some food while you’re at it. We’re going to hold on the road and this side of it – mostly. I want two cohorts on the other side in case they send anyone that way. If they do, make them pay, brothers and sisters. Now, march to twenty paces from the buildings and form up there.’

Not a single groan as the Perish picked themselves up again and set off along the rippled, weed-knotted field.

Swinging round, Syndecan looked up the road.

Was that a glitter of pike points?

He glared back at his Grey Helms. ‘Step lively! Enemy sighted on the road!’ Wolves preserve us this day.

High Watered Festian gestured, watched as the columns plunged down off the road on the inland side, breaking up as they entered the hedgerow fields. He saw crews rushing ahead with picks to ensure that the passage gates through the walls were serviceable.

Seven hundred paces up the road he could see the cursed Perish – but they had fully discounted the enclosed fields.

Festian intended to lock fiercely with the Grey Helms, pushing forward with the weight of fifteen thousand Kolansii heavy infantry, and then send eight thousand through the enclosures, to take the road behind them. They would first crush the defenders on the road itself, and then drive the rest south across the field, to the very edge of the valley – where the only retreat was a deadly tumble down the steep valley side.

He intended to make quick work of this.

In the distance to the east, he could make out the top third of the Spire. Everything below that, on the ridged ascent of the isthmus, was obscured in clouds of dust or smoke. The sight chilled him.

And now Brother Diligence is dead. Slain by some foul trap of sorcery. It all falls to you, Sister Reverence. But we shall prevail. Justice is a sword without equal. I pray to you, Sister, hold on. We are coming.

Gillimada slowed her pace to match that of the Warchief, and he glared up at the huge woman as he struggled for breath.

‘I sent a scout up to the road – there are soldiers on it.’

Spax nodded but could manage little more. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d led a raid, and while his warriors were thumping along in his wake with all the infernal ease of youth, his own legs were cramping, there was a stitch in his side, and sweat was stinging the vicious bite Abrastal’s daughter had delivered to his penis the night before. That she’d been trying to tear it off with her own teeth was only because of her frustration and anger at getting pregnant – nothing to do with him, really – and it was just his bad luck that his champion was the nearest thing at hand on which to vent all her anger and whatnot.

‘We could attack,’ suggested the Teblor in her stentorian voice. ‘A surprise!’

‘Can – can we overtake ’em?’

‘Teblor can – but not you. They are using the road. There is a road up there. My scout saw it and there were soldiers on it. Running.’

‘Did your scout – did your scout see – the Perish?’

‘No. Kolansii soldiers! On the road. Running!’

Oh, my cursed gods of the Barghast, am I wallowing in the muck with you? Feels like it! With some brainless backwoods harridan for company too! ‘Felled any trees lately, woman?’

‘What? No trees anywhere! I’d hit my head if there were trees. I’m glad there are no trees!’ And she bellowed a laugh, only to then shake her head. ‘Your language – it is so clumsy!’ She drew a sudden deep breath and out from her came a smooth flow of sounds Spax had not imagined possible from this Teblor.

‘What was that?’ he demanded when she’d finished.

‘I make up poem songs in my own language. I am famous for it, hah hah!’

‘Care to translate what you just said?’

‘No. Useless. You have one word for one thought. We have many thoughts for one word! You all speak too slow and we have to slow down too and we get bored talking to you humans!’

Gasping, Spax shook his head. ‘Right now – no more words from me – at all!’

‘I should carry you?’

Oh, and watch me try and live that down – in front of all my warriors? They’d die laughing, never mind enemy pikes and swords! ‘Don’t even touch me!’ he growled.

‘Hah hah hah!’

The Kolansii wasted little time, pouring down from the road to form up opposite the Perish on the field, and then, once the shields were locked and swords drawn, they advanced, matching step by step the troops remaining on the road.

Syndecan stood one row back from the front line. Much as he wanted to be with his fellow cutters amongst the buildings, he was now commanding and his place was here, with his brothers and sisters.

They were still winded, their legs sagging under them – he knew the signs of muscle exhaustion and there was no time to fully recover. This is going to be unpleasant.

The Kolansii closed to within six paces and then charged.

Gillimada dropped back again. ‘There is fighting!’

‘For Hood’s sake, Teblor – we may be slow but we’re not deaf!’

‘Should we join them from here?’

‘Not unless you want to fight on the damned slope! No, we’ll move past the whole mess and come up behind the Perish, and then move forward.’

‘But I want to kill the mixed-blood!’

‘Maybe you’ll get a chance at that—’

‘No! I want to kill him right away! It’s important!’

‘Fine! You can lead a counter-attack once we’re up there, all right?’

Gillimada smiled broadly, her teeth even and white as snow. ‘And we will cut down every tree we see!’

He glared at her back as she loped ahead. His heart felt ready to burst and he wondered if it might, the moment he stepped up to fight – a sudden clenching in his chest, or whatever happened when the thing seized up. He was certain that it’d hurt. Probably a lot.

Glancing upslope to his left, he saw rising dust, and there – the flash of spears or perhaps pikes, or even swords. Ahead, the Teblor raised a shout – and Spax squinted to see bodies sliding down the slope, limbs flailing, weapons skirling away.

‘Go past! Go past!’

His warriors were pressing up behind him. Spax snarled. ‘Go round me then, damn you all! I’ll catch up!’ They poured past on either side in a clatter of armour and drawn weapons.

My beloved fools, all of you.

Forty more heaving paces, another ten, five, and then, looking up, he saw his Barghast scrambling in the wake of the Teblor, up the valley side, many of them using their hands where they could. And above them the Perish falling back, spinning away from blows, tumbling and skidding down into the midst of the climbing warriors.

Gods curse us all!

‘Climb! Get up there!’

He saw the Teblor reach the summit, saw them plunge forward and out of sight, weapons swinging. And then, behind them, the first of the Gilk, armour grey with dust, their white faces running with stained sweat.

Spax reached the base, clambered upward. His legs were half numb under him. Blisters roared with pain on his ankles, his heels. He coughed out dust, was almost knocked over by a descending corpse – a Perish, most of his face cut away – and struggled yet higher.

Is there no end to this damned hillside?

And then a hand reached down, took hold of his wrist, and Spax was dragged on to level ground.

They were in the midst of farm buildings, and the Kolansii were on all sides, sweeping down from the road, driving the buckling clumps of Perish back towards the valley edge.

His first sight of this told him that the Grey Helms had been flanked, and though they fought on, with a ferocity worthy of their gods, they were dying by the score. His Gilk had slammed into this press, but even as they did so more Kolansii surged forward, fully encircling the defenders – with the valley side the only possible retreat.

Dark fury raged in Spax as he staggered forward, readying his weapons. We failed, Firehair. May all the swamp gods rot in Hood’s own bog! We should have set out earlier – we should have marched with the Perish!

The Teblor had formed a solid square and were pushing through the enemy, but even they were not enough.

On the road, Spax could see massive elements of the Kolansii army simply driving forward, eastward, ignoring the vicious last stand on their right.

We didn’t even slow them down.

‘Withdraw! Barghast! Perish! Teblor! Withdraw – down the hillside! Back down the hillside!’

Seeing warrior and soldier stumbling back, seeing them twist and pour down from the summit, the Warchief’s heart felt cold, buried in ashes. Gesler, ’ware your flank. We couldn’t hold them. We just couldn’t.

The press of retreating warriors, bloodied and desperate, gathered him up and they all slid ragged paths back down the slope. He was pulled along unresisting. All this way – for this? We could have done more. But he knew that any stand would have been doomed – there were just too many Kolansii, and they fought with demonic valour.

He had lost both his weapons on the descent, and his soul howled at the appropriateness of that. Tilting his head back, he stared up at the sun.

It was barely noon.

In the depths of night rain was pouring down in Darujhistan. Karsa Orlong had walked into the city, and now he stood, water streaming from him, waiting. Opposite him was the temple, and the vow that he had made so long ago now, in the savage intensity of youth, was a heat in his flesh, so fierce that he thought he could see steam rising from his limbs.

Almost time.

He’d seen no one else in the street since dusk, and during the day, while he had stood in place, the people of this city had swept past, unwilling to fix eyes upon him for very long. A troop of city guards had lingered for a time, nervous, half circling his position where he had stood, his huge stone sword resting point down, his hands wrapped about its leather-bound grip. Then they had simply moved on.

He would have been irritated at having to kill them, and no doubt there would have been alarms, and yet more guards, and more killing. But, rather than being heaped with the dead, the cobbled width of the street before him remained unobstructed.

Eyes half closed, he experienced again the echo of the life he had watched seething back and forth in the day now gone. He wondered at all those lives, the way few would meet the gazes of their fellows, as if crowds demanded wilful anonymity, when the truth was they were all in it together – all these people, facing much the same struggles, the same fears. And yet, it seemed, each one was determined to survive them alone, or with but a few kin and friends offering paltry allegiance. Perhaps they each believed themselves unique, like a knot-stone in the centre of the world’s mill wheel, but the truth was there were very few who could truly make claim to such a pivotal existence.

After all, there was only one Karsa Orlong. Standing here across from a modest temple with stained walls and faded friezes, standing here with the fate of the world in his hands.

He had known a time in chains. He had lived in that wretched house, his hands closed into fists against the slavery in which so many insisted he reside – meek, uncomplaining, accepting of his fate. He thought back to the citizens he’d seen here. So many had been dragging chains. So many had walked bowed and twisted by their weight. So many had with their own hands hammered tight the shackles, believing that this was how it was supposed to be. Sweating at another person’s behest, the muscles and will given away and now owned by someone claiming to be their better in all things. Year after year, a lifetime of enslavement.

This was the conversation of the civilized, and it repulsed Karsa Orlong to the very core of his being.

Who was the slavemaster? Nothing but a host of cruel ideas. Nothing but a deceitful argument. A sleight of hand deception between things of value, where one wins and the other always loses. He had heard bartering, had witnessed bargains made, and it all had the illusion of fairness, and it all played out as if it was a ritual deemed necessary, made iron like a natural law.

But where was the joy in that ceaseless struggle? Where was the proper indolence of the predator, and just how many fangs needed pulling to make this precious civilization?

Of course, not everyone suffered the same emasculation, and this was where all the lies finally gathered. The hungriest maws, fangs dripping, hid in the cool upper rooms of the estates, in the fountained gardens of the rich – and these ones, oh, they indulged all the indolence they desired. While the crowds of their lessers looked on, wide-eyed and ever eager for details.

A broken and suffering god in chains had haunted him. It had flung weapons in his path. It had whispered all manner of enticements. It had, in all its desperate pain, rushed down a thousand tracks, only to find not a moment of blessed relief.

Karsa now understood that god. The times that he had been chained, he had felt that terrible panic, that animal frenzy to escape. No mortal, human or Toblakai, should ever feel such feelings. Nor, he knew now, should a god.

‘He cannot know compassion, from whom compassion has been taken. He cannot know love, with love denied him. But he will know pain, when pain is all that is given him.’

Compassion. Love. It was not civilization that birthed these gentle gifts – though its followers might claim otherwise. Nor was civilization the sweetest garden for such things to blossom in – though those trapped within it might imagine it so. No, as far as he could see, civilization was a madman’s mechanism that, for all its good intentions, ended up ensnaring the gentle gifts, stifling them, leaving them to wander mazes only to die alone and in the dark.

A mechanism, a cagework, and in its chaos the slaves bred like flies – until the world itself groaned under the assault of their appetites.

‘You have made many vows, Karsa Orlong.’

A civilization was the means by which too many people could live together despite their mutual hatred. And those moments where love and community burgeoned forth, the cynics descended like vultures eager to feed, and the skies soured, and the moment died away.

‘Upon my heart, Karsa Orlong. Do you hear me? Upon my heart!’

Blinking, Karsa looked down to see a crippled man drawn up against his feet. The rain streamed around him, gushed and swirled, and the face that had twisted up to look at him seemed to be shedding from blinded eyes the tears of the world.

‘Is it time then?’ Karsa demanded.

‘Will you kill it all?’

The Toblakai showed his teeth. ‘If I can.’

‘It will simply grow up again, like a weed from the ashes. For all that we are made to kneel, Karsa Orlong, we yearn to fly.’

‘Yes, rare and noble and precious as pigeons. I’ve seen the statues of old heroes in the square, old man. I’ve seen their crowns of bird-shit.’

‘I – I was an artist once. These hands – so deformed now, so bent and frozen – can you understand? All this talent, but no way to release it, no way to give it shape. But perhaps we are all like that, and only the lucky few are able to find talent’s path unbarred.’

‘I doubt it,’ Karsa replied.

Thunder rumbled from beyond the lake.

The crippled man coughed. ‘I am drowning. I have enjoyed our conversation on the merits of the civilized, Karsa Orlong, but now I must surrender. I must die. Sick. Fevered. The needs burn too hot. I have given you the words you shall use. Upon my heart. Upon my heart.’

Karsa stared at the wretched shape at his feet. He set his sword to lean against the wall behind him, and then crouched down.

The crippled man’s face lifted, the sightless eyes white as polished coins. ‘What are you doing?’

Karsa reached down, gathered the skeletal figure into his arms, and then settled back. ‘I stepped over corpses on the way here,’ the Toblakai said. ‘People no one cared about, dying alone. In my barbaric village this would never happen, but here in this city, this civilized jewel, it happens all the time.’

The ravaged face was turned upward, the last of the raindrops dripping away as he huddled beneath the cover Karsa provided. The mouth worked, but no sounds came forth.

‘What is your name?’ Karsa asked.

‘Munug.’

‘Munug. This night – before I must rise and walk into the temple – I am a village. And you are here, in my arms. You will not die uncared for.’

‘You – you would do this for me? A stranger?’

‘In my village no one is a stranger – and this is what civilization has turned its back on. One day, Munug, I will make a world of villages, and the age of cities will be over. And slavery will be dead, and there shall be no chains – tell your god. Tonight, I am his knight.’

Munug’s shivering was fading. The old man smiled. ‘He knows.’

It wasn’t too much, to take a frail figure into one’s arms for those last moments of life. Better than a cot, or even a bed in a room filled with loved ones. Better, too, than an empty street in the cold rain. To die in someone’s arms – could there be anything more forgiving?

Every savage barbarian in the world knew the truth of this.

Behind their massive shields the Ve’Gath soldiers of the K’Chain Che’Malle advanced into a hailstorm of arrows and heavy quarrels. Impacts staggered some of them, quarrels shattering against the shields. Others reeled, heads, necks and chests sprouting shafts, and as they fell their kin moved up to take their places, and the reptilian assault drew ever closer to the trenches and redoubts.

In the centre of the advance, the T’lan Imass weathered a similar deluge of missile fire, but they held no shields, and where the oversized quarrels struck the bodies shattered, bones exploding into shards and splinters. Those that could then picked themselves back up and continued on. But many were too broken to rise again, lying amid the wreckage of their own bones.

The withering fusillade lashed into the attacking forces again and again. Scores of Ve’Gath went down, legs kicking, tails whipping or striking the ground. Deep gaps opened in the T’lan Imass lines. Yet there were no screams, no terrible cries of agony or horror.

Sister Reverence stood high above the battle, winds both hot and bitter cold whipping about her, and watched as the enemy forces pushed ever closer to her soldiers waiting in their trenches and raised redoubts. The sorcery of Akhrast Korvalain streaming from her, she held fast her Kolansii heavy infantry, leaving no room for fear, and she could feel them bristling as she fed them her hunger. Do not yield. Slay them all! Do not yield! They would hold – they had to – and then High Watered Festian would arrive, to strike at the K’Chain flank, driving deep a mortal wound against these hated enemies of old.

She swore under her breath upon seeing masses of K’ell Hunters break out along the high rock-studded sides, rushing the fortified onager positions – and she watched as the crews frantically swung the heavy weapons round. They managed a single salvo, the scores of quarrels tearing into the ranks of Hunters, before the rest reached the base of the hill and swarmed upward, their terrible swords lifting high.

As the helpless crews were slaughtered, their machines smashed into splinters, Sister Reverence dismissed the scene from her mind. She had seen ten or more K’ell Hunters go down, and if each fortlet could match or better that toll, then she was satisfied. She would rely on attrition – there was no other choice.

Now that the battle was under way, her panic had subsided, though the murder of Brother Diligence still sent trembling waves of shock through her. She remained uncertain as to the manner of his death, and that still disturbed her; if she gave her dread free rein, she knew her fear would return. Humans were duplicitous and brazen – they should have known better than to underestimate their treacherous, deceitful natures. His power had been turned back upon him. Somehow. He had drowned in a deluge of words, and she could not comprehend how that was even possible.

But in this battle below she could see but two humans. Riding Ve’Gath, by the Abyss. Do they command? No, that cannot be. The K’Chain Che’Malle would never yield to human rule. They are ever commanded by their Matron and none other. It has always been so and so it remains.

A formidable Matron, however, to have spawned so many Ve’Gath. She stays hidden. She evades my questing. That alone speaks of impressive power.

But when this is done, when her army is destroyed, I will find her. I will eviscerate her. This day is the last gasp of the K’Chain Che’Malle. There are no other Matrons left – I am certain of it. They must have discovered the alliance I made with the Nah’ruk, and so they have come here, seeking vengeance.

Am I a child with a hand to be slapped?

Of the four ancient races, who was always the most feared, if not the Forkrul Assail?

She knew there were other Pures, on distant continents. And, once Akhrast Korvalain’s power was made unassailable in this place, she would quest to find them. She would invite them to share in this power, and the cleansing could begin in earnest. We shall unleash such justice as to—

A frigid blast of air swept up around her and Sister Reverence turned from the battle below. Facing into that icy wind, she made her way across the platform to the side looking out over the sea.

What she saw stunned her.

Kolanse Bay was filling with ice. Mountains, glowing emerald and sapphire, were rising up from the depths, and as she stared she saw the churning water bleach white, saw every wave freeze solid. The Perish ships, which had been broken and smashed and swallowed by the sea, had now reappeared, the wreckage sealed in ice – and there were more ships, ones long buried in the silts of the sea bottom, heaving to the surface. Directly below, the sheltered Kolansii galleys and triremes, now locked in ice, began to shatter, hulls collapsing. The sound of that destruction, rising up to where she stood, was a chorus of detonations, as of trees battered down by winds.

The entire bay was now solid ice, the surface a crazed landscape of jagged translucent crags, welling fissures, and flat sweeps of dirty snow. Mists poured from it in roiling clouds.

And, with the voice of grinding mountains, it had begun lifting higher, tilting, the nearest end reaching upwards. The mole and breakwaters of the harbour directly below were suddenly obliterated, torn and crushed to rubble – and as the ice shifted, reaching the base of the Spire, Sister Reverence felt the stone tremble beneath her feet.

This cannot be!

Omtose Phellack – what Jaghut dares this? No! They are gone! Extinct – there is not one Jaghut left with this kind of power – we would have found the threat, we would have destroyed it!

Sister Reverence staggered back from the precipice as she felt the Spire sway under her. Hearts pounding, hips aching, she stumbled across the platform. Reaching her previous position, she glared down at the battle.

In time to see the Ve’Gath soldiers pouring up the embankment.

Rise! Kolansii – my blessed children – rise to meet them!

Fists clenched, she flung her humans into the K’Chain Che’Malle.

Buffeted to one side by a collapsing Ve’Gath, Gesler struggled for balance as his mount stumbled. He could see that the front line had plunged into the trench – and from higher up the tiers, hundreds of Kolansii were rushing down to support their besieged comrades.

He saw Stormy, dragging his axe upward, a cloven helm jammed on the blade. The man’s face was red as his beard, a berserk rage upon him. His Ve’Gath stood atop the berm, its own weapons hammering down at the Kolansii swarming up to assail it.

Fool’s going to get himself killed. He’ll do it, too, just to spite me!

He commanded his Ve’Gath forward. Amidst the swirling flavours in his mind, he spoke to his K’Chain Che’Malle. ‘Take this trench! Push! All of you – push!’

Off to his right he saw the T’lan Imass chopping their way through the defenders, overrunning the redoubts. Once they were able to close in hand-to-hand fighting, their battle turned into slaughter. Gesler saw Onos T’oolan – enemy weapons rebounding from him – wade forward, flint sword swinging. He seemed to be walking through a mist of blood.

Bastards are showing us up. Of course, we’re all flesh and blood, and they’re not. Nothing’s more irritating than an unfair advantage on the field. At least they’re on our side – gods, why am I even complaining?

‘Push!’

The Ve’Gath advance stalled in the trench. The sheer mass of armoured bodies had blocked the huge reptilian warriors – their weapons tore through the Kolansii, but more of the enemy kept arriving. Ascending the berm, Gesler could see that the next tier of earthworks had been abandoned, all the forces pouring down to slam into the K’Chain Che’Malle. Yet beyond those entrenchments, the remaining infantry stayed in their positions. He could see high redoubts on enfilading angles, onagers loaded and waiting.

This is going to take all day.

Worse yet. We might even lose.

The T’lan Imass had taken the trench at the centre and were now seeking to broaden the breach. A salvo of heavy bolts slashed through their ranks.

‘K’ell Hunters – Sag’Churok – we need you at the centre – we need those onagers destroyed! The T’lan Imass can break this wide open. Flow in behind them – Ve’Gath rear ranks, form up on the centre and advance into the breach!’

An arrow skidded off his left shoulder. Swearing, he kicked his Ve’Gath forward, down into the trench to join Stormy.

The slaughter was appalling, close and packed with heaving bodies, slashing and stabbing weapons. His Ve’Gath landed on corpses – already the trench was at but half its normal depth – and the smeared limbs and torsos slipped beneath his mount’s weight until its claws dug in for purchase.

A half dozen shield-locked Kolansii held the top of the ramp directly opposite, short-handled spiked axes at the ready – they were attacking the Ve’Gath low, chopping at legs and thrusting at underbellies. This is how the Malazans did it. Why couldn’t these Kolansii be stupid?

Howling, he drove his Ve’Gath forward.

‘We kill and we kill still more, and yet they do not break. Destriant, these soldiers are under a geas. The pure-blood Forkrul Assail commands their souls.’

Kalyth slowly nodded. She could see that well enough – no army could withstand this kind of ceaseless slaughter. She knew that thousands of Kolansii had fallen. The battle for the first trenches had consumed almost half the morning, and now, as the sun blazed directly overhead – in the very midst of the Jade Strangers – the K’Chain Che’Malle and T’lan Imass had advanced no further than crushing the last defenders of the third entrenchment.

Only halfway through the defences.

Beside her the Matron Gunth Mach spoke in a mélange of flavours. ‘My Ve’Gath are beginning to tire, Destriant. A thousand have fallen and will not rise again. And now Gu’Rull informs me that more Kolansii are on the way – upon the inland high road to the west.’

Kalyth hugged herself. What to do, what to say? ‘Then the Letherii and Bolkando have failed.’

‘No. They pursue, but they are much reduced and exhausted – they will not arrive in time to assist us. Destriant, it is difficult to reach the Shield Anvil and the Mortal Sword. They are in battle frenzy – again and again they call upon a name I do not know, but each time it is voiced, something trembles in the air. A flavour pungent and bestial.

‘Destriant, we must withdraw an element of our forces to meet this threat from the west. You must reach through to our human commanders – you must break their fury and speak with a voice of reason. Ride the minds of the Ve’Gath – they will guide you to them.’

Kalyth drew a deep breath, and then closed her eyes.

The tattoos on Gesler’s forearms were burning, as if splashed with acid, but he barely noticed as he leaned over the shoulders of his reeling Ve’Gath. He had never been so tired, so … demoralized. The enemy would not break. The enemy fought with a rage to match his and Stormy’s, and though they died and died, still more came.

An axe spike had plunged deep into his mount’s gut and the animal was dying beneath him, yet somehow it remained on its feet, somehow it continued advancing, weapons bashing foes aside.

They had drawn closer to the centre – to where the T’lan Imass still pushed forward, their tireless arms rising and descending. Never before had Gesler been so close to the ancient undead warriors in the midst of battle, witness to this devastating … implacability.

And the Emperor had almost twenty thousand of them at his command. He could have conquered the world. He could have delivered such slaughter as to break every kingdom, every empire in his path.

But he barely used them at all.

Kellanved – is it possible? Did even you quail at the carnage these creatures promised? Did you see for yourself how victory could destroy you, destroy the entire Malazan Empire?

Gods below, I think you did.

You took command of the T’lan Imass – to keep them off the field of battle, to keep them out of human wars.

And now I see why.

He still held his heavy sword, but had no strength left to even so much as lift it.

The battle lust was fading – something was assaulting it, tearing it down, away from his eyes, and all at once the redness of his vision fragmented, vanished.

And he heard Kalyth’s voice. ‘Gesler. There is another Kolansii army on the high inland road. They are fast-marching – we must guard our flank.’

‘Guard our flank? With what?’ He angled his mount round, lurched as it staggered. ‘Ah, shit, my Ve’Gath’s finished.’ He pulled his boots from the scale stirrups, slid down from the beast’s slathered back. Landing, his knees buckled and he fell to one side. Fighting to regain his breath, he stared up at the strange – and strangely crowded – sky. ‘All right. Listen, Kalyth. Draw the K’ell back and send them over there, all of them. Tell Sag’Churok – I’m sending him the T’lan Imass.’ He forced himself to his feet. ‘Did you hear all that?’ He flinched as his Ve’Gath fell over, legs flailing, half its guts hanging out in thick ropes. He saw the life empty from its eyes.

‘Yes. Gu’Rull says you must hurry. There is little time.’

‘That damned rhizan’s finally come back, has it?’

‘Gu’Rull says there is a storm coming, Gesler. He says you called it.’

‘Like Hood I have!’ He looked around, but Stormy was nowhere to be seen. A storm? What’s she going on about? Whatever it is, it’s probably that red-bearded bastard’s fault.

Cursing, the Mortal Sword set off to find Onos T’oolan. His forearms, he saw with faint alarm, were sweating beads of blood.

Onos T’oolan cut diagonally in a downward chop, through the torso of the Kolansii opposite him, dragging his blade free as he stepped over the crumpling body. An axe head slammed into his ribs on his left side, bounced off, and he turned and slashed through his attacker’s neck, watched the head roll off the shoulders. Two more strides and he was atop the fourth berm, his warriors coming up alongside him.

Looking down into the trench, he stared at a mass of upturned faces – all twisted with inhuman hatred – and weapons lifted as he prepared to descend into the press.

‘First Sword!’

Onos T’oolan paused, stepped back and turned round.

The Malazan named Gesler was stumbling towards him.

‘Gesler,’ said Onos T’oolan, ‘there are but two more tiers left – and the number of enemy in those positions is sorely diminished. We shall prevail. Draw your Ve’Gath into our wake—’

‘First Sword – we are about to be flanked to the west. I have sent what remains of my K’ell Hunters there, but they are not enough.’

Onos T’oolan lowered his sword. ‘I understand.’

‘We will push on here without you,’ Gesler said. ‘You’ve split the defences in two, and when all is said and done, the Ve’Gath can out-climb and out-run humans – we will fight to the foot of the stairs. We will assault the Spire.’

‘Akhrast Korvalain is wounded now, Mortal Sword. Tellann is awake – Olar Ethil is near. It seems that this shall be a day of ancient powers. Malazan, beware the voice of the Pure who awaits you atop the Spire.’

The man revealed red-stained teeth. ‘Once I get up there, she won’t have time to get a single damned word out.’

‘I wish you success, Mortal Sword. Tell the K’Chain Che’Malle, we are honoured to have fought at their side this day.’

Onos T’oolan reached out to his followers, and as one they fell to dust.

Sister Reverence could hear the grinding ascent of the ice against the Spire off to her left, while before her she saw the K’Chain Che’Malle carve their way ever closer to the base of the stairs. The T’lan Imass had vanished, but she knew where they were going – and High Watered Festian will have to face them. He will have to find a way to encircle them, to win past and strike the K’Chain Che’Malle.

Then she looked skyward, where enormous dark clouds were building almost directly overhead, forming huge, towering columns bruised blue and green. She saw flashes of lightning flaring from their depths – and the blinding light was slow to fade. Two remained, burning luridly, and instead of diminishing, it seemed that those actinic glares were growing stronger, deepening in hue.

All at once, she realized what she was seeing.

There is a god among us. A god has been summoned!

The eyes blazed with demonic fire, and the clouds, ever massing, found form, a shape so vast, so overwhelming, that Sister Reverence cried out.

The argent gleam of tusks, the clouds curling into swirls of dark fur. Towering, seething, building into a thing of muscle and terrible rage, the eyes baleful as twin desert suns. Dominating the entire sky above the Spire, Fener, the Boar of Summer, manifested.

This is no sending. He is here. The god Fener is here!

With dawn paling the grey sky overhead and water running in streams along the gutters, Karsa Orlong looked down at the peaceful face of the old man cradled in his lap. He slipped a hand under that head and lifted it slightly, and then moved away, settling it once more on the hard cobbles of the street.

It was time.

He rose, taking hold of his sword. Fixing his eyes on the temple opposite, he walked towards the barred door.

The city was awakening. Early risers out on the street paused upon seeing him crossing their path. And those who could see his face backed away.

He reached for the heavy brass latch, grasped hold of it, and tore it away from the wooden door. Then he kicked, shattering the door’s planks like kindling, the sound of the impact like thunder, its echoes tumbling down the passageway within. Voices shouted.

Karsa entered the temple of Fener.

Down a once-opulent corridor, past the flanking braziers – two priests appearing with the intent of blocking his passage, but when they saw him they shrank from his path.

Into the altar chamber. Thick smoke sweetly redolent with incense, a heat rising from the very stones underfoot, and to either side the paint of the murals was crackling, bubbling, and then it began to blacken, curling away from the walls, devouring the images.

Priests were wailing in terror and grief, but the Toblakai ignored them all. His eyes were on the altar, a block of rough-hewn stone on which rested a jewel-studded boar tusk.

Closing on the altar, Karsa raised his stone sword.

‘Upon his heart.’

When the blade descended, it smashed through the tusk and then continued on, cracking the altar stone with the sound of thunder, shattering the block in half.

Onos T’oolan could hear weeping, but this was the sound of something unseen, something long hidden in the souls of the T’lan Imass. He had never expected it to awaken, had never expected to feel it again. In his mind he saw a child, clothed in mortal flesh, lifting a face to the heavens, and that face was his own – so long ago now. There had been dreams, but even as they faded the child boy wept with shuddering convulsions.

Things die. Dreams fall to dust. Innocence bleeds out to soak the ground. Love settles in cold ashes. We had so much. But we surrendered it all. It was … unforgivable.

He rose again, on a broad, level stretch of land where a village had once stood. It had been made mostly of wood and that wood had been taken away to build engines of war. Now only the foundation stones remained. The raised road that ran into it sloped until it was level with the cobbled street at the village’s edge.

His kin rose around him and they moved out to present a broad front facing on to that road, there to await the army they could now see to the west. The sound of thousands of marching boots on cobbles was a solid roar underfoot.

We shall fight here. Because the fighting and the killing goes on for ever. And the child will shed his tears until the end of time. I remember so many loves, so many things lost. I remember being broken. Again and again. There need be no end to it – there is no law to say that one cannot break one more time.

When he raised his weapon, his kin followed suit. Seven thousand four hundred and fifty-nine T’lan Imass. Another battle, the same war. The war we never lost, yet never knew how to win.

The concussion that clove through the heaving clouds behind them staggered the T’lan Imass, a thunder so loud it shivered through their bones. Wheeling round, Onos T’oolan stared up to see a stone sword – an Imass sword – descending as if held in the hand of the Jade Strangers, impossibly huge, slicing down through a vague bestial shape – that then staggered.

Twin embers of crimson – eyes – suddenly blossomed as if filling with blood.

A roar sounded, filling the air with such fury and pain that it pounded the entire army of T’lan Imass back a step, and then another.

The death cry of a god.

And the heavens erupted.

Onos T’oolan watched the waves of blood descending, falling earthward. He watched the crimson sheets rolling across the land, watched them roll ever closer – and then with yet another roar, the rain slammed down upon the T’lan Imass, driving them to their knees.

Head bowed beneath the deluge, Onos T’oolan gasped. One breath. Another. And his eyes, fixed now upon the hands on his knees, slowly widened.

As the withered skin softened, thickened. As muscles expanded.

Another terrible gasp of breath, deep into aching lungs.

From his kin, sudden cries. Of shock. Of wonder.

We are remade. By the blood of a slain god, we are reborn.

Then he lifted his gaze, to look upon the Kolansii ranks, fast closing on their position.

This … this was ill-timed.

The blood of a slain god rained from the sky. In torrents, cascading down from the ruptured, now shapeless clouds. The air filled with the terrible roar of those thick drops, falling heavy as molten lead. The armies fighting near the highest level of the isthmus were staggered by the downpour. The vast shelf of ice, ever rising towards the pinnacle of the Spire, now streamed crimson in growing torrents.

Bowed beneath the onslaught, Sister Reverence staggered towards the altar stone. Through the carmine haze she could see the Crippled God’s heart – no longer a withered, knotted thing of stone – now pulsing, now surging with life.

But the sorcerous chains still held it bound to the altar.

This – this changes nothing. My soldiers shall hold. I still have their souls in my hands. I have the chains of their fallen comrades, their slain souls – all feeding my power. At the foot of the stairs, they shall make a human wall. And I will take this unexpected power and make of it a gift. I will feed this blood into the soul of Akhrast Korvalain.

She drew up against the altar stone, slowly straightened, and held her face to the sky, to feel that hot blood streaming down. And then, laughing, she opened her mouth.

Make me young again. Banish this bent body. Make all that is outside as beautiful as that which was ever inside. Make me whole and make me perfect. The blood of a god! See me drink deep!

It was as if the heavens had been struck a mortal wound. Kalyth cried out, in shock, in dread horror, as the deluge descended upon the land – to all sides, devouring every vista, as if swallowing up the entire world. The blood – on her face, on her hands – felt like fire, but did not burn. She saw the heavy drops pounding into the lifeless earth, saw the soil blacken, watched as streams of thick mud slumped down the hillsides.

She could barely draw breath. ‘Gunth Mach! What – what will come of this?’

‘Destriant, I cannot give answer. Immortal rituals unravel. Ancient power melts … dissolves. But what do these things mean? What is resolved? No one can say. A god has died, Destriant, and that death tastes bitter and it fills me with sorrow.’

Kalyth saw how the K’Chain Che’Malle, momentarily stunned, now resumed their assault upon the highest defences of the Kolansii. She saw the defenders rise to meet the Ve’Gath.

A god dies. And the fighting simply goes on, and we add to the rain with blood of our own. I am seeing the history of the world – here, before me. I am seeing it all, age upon age. All so … useless.

There was low laughter behind her, cutting through the dull roar, and Kalyth turned.

Sinn had stripped naked, and now she was painted in blood. ‘The Pure has made a shining fist,’ she said. ‘To block the ascent. The lizards cannot break it – their oils are fouled with exhaustion.’ Her eyes lifted to Kalyth. ‘Tell them to disengage. Order them to retreat.’

She walked past.

The Imass reeled back. The Kolansii heavy infantry pushed forward, over Imass corpses. With shields and armour they weathered blows from stone weapons. With iron sword, axe and spear, they tore apart unprotected flesh, and on all sides the rain of blood – cooled now, lifeless – hammered down.

Driven past the remains of the village, the Imass forces contracted, unable to hold the enemy back. Pincers swept out to either side, seeking to encircle the increasingly crowded, disorganized warriors. Onos Toolan sought to hold the centre in the front line – he alone remembered what it was to defend his own body – now so vulnerable, so frail. His kin had … forgotten. They attacked unmindful of protecting themselves, and so they died.

Reborn, only to live but moments. The anguish of this threatened to tear the First Sword apart. But he was only one man, as mortal as his brothers and sisters now, and it was only a matter of time before—

He saw the Kolansii line opposite him flinch back suddenly, saw them hesitate, and Onos Toolan did not understand.

Low, deep laughter sounded from somewhere on his right, and even as he turned, a voice spoke.

‘Imass, we greet you.’

Now, pushing through to stand in the foremost line – Jaghut.

Armoured, helmed, bristling with weapons, all of it dripping blood.

The Jaghut beside Onos Toolan then said in a loud voice, ‘Suvalas! Are you as beautiful as I remembered?’

A female shouted in answer, ‘You only remember what I told you, Haut! And it was all lies!’

Amid Jaghut laughter, the one named Haut tilted his head to regard Onos Toolan. ‘To draw breath was unexpected. We thought to fight with you – two lifeless but eternally stubborn peoples. A day of slaughter, hah!’

The Jaghut beyond Haut then said, ‘And slaughter it shall be! Alas, the wrong way round! And there are but fourteen of us. Aimanan – you are good with numbers! Does fourteen dead Jaghut constitute a slaughter?’

‘With five thousand Imass, I would think so, Gedoran!’

‘Then our disappointment is averted and I am once more at ease!’

The Jaghut drew weapons. Beside Onos Toolan, Haut said, ‘Join us, First Sword. If we must die, must it be on the back step? I think not.’ His eyes flashed from the shadows of his helm. ‘First Sword – do you see? Forkrul Assail, K’Chain Che’Malle, Imass and now Jaghut! What a fell party this is!’

Gedoran grunted and said, ‘All we now need are a few Thel Akai, Haut, and we can swap old lies all night long!’

And then, with bull roars, the Jaghut charged the Kolansii.

Onos Toolan leapt forward to join them, and behind him, the Imass followed.

Gillimada, who had been chosen to lead because she was the most beautiful, looked back on the way they’d come. She could barely make out the Barghast. ‘They are slow!’

‘If only you were taller, Gilli,’ bellowed her brother, Gand, ‘you could look the other way and see the fighting!’

Scowling, Gillimada faced forward again. ‘I was about to – impatient runt, Gand! Everyone, enough resting – we shall run some more. Do you all see?’

‘Of course we do,’ shouted one of her brother’s mouthy friends, ‘we’re all taller than you, Gilli!’

‘But who’s the most beautiful? Exactly!’

‘Gilli – there are Jaghut with those Imass!’

Gillimada squinted, but the truth of it was, she was the shortest one here. ‘Are they killing each other?’

‘No!’

‘Good! All the old stories are lies!’

‘Surely just that one, Gilli—’

‘No! If one is a lie then all of them are! I have spoken! Is everyone rested? Good! Let us join the fight, just like in the old story about the war against Death itself!’

‘But it’s a lie, Gilli – you just said so!’

‘Well, maybe I was the one doing the lying, did you think of that? Now, no more wasting of breath, let us run and fight!’

‘Gilli – I think it’s raining blood over there!’

‘I don’t care – you all have to do what I say, because I’m still the most beautiful, aren’t I?’

With the remaining K’ell Hunters – cut and slashed, many with the snapped stubs of arrow shafts protruding from their bodies – Sag’Churok advanced at a cantering pace. Before them, he could see the Imass – granted the bitter gift of mortality – locked in fierce battle against overwhelming numbers of Kolansii heavy infantry. Among them, near the front, there were armoured Jaghut.

To see these two ancient foes now standing side by side sent strange flavours surging through the K’ell Hunter, scouring away his exhaustion. He felt the scents flowing out now to embrace his kin, felt a reawakening of their strength.

What is this, that so stirs my heart?

It is … glory.

We rush to our deaths. We rush to fight beside ancient foes. We rush like the past itself, into the face of the present. And what is at stake? Why, nothing but the future itself.

Beloved kin, if this day must rain blood, let us add to it. If this day must know death, let us take its throat in our jaws. We are alive, and there is no greater power in all the world!

Brothers! Raise your swords!

Reaching level ground, the K’Chain Che’Malle K’ell Hunters stretched out their bodies, swords lifting high, and charged.

Two hundred and seventy-eight Teblor smashed into the flank of the Kolansii forces near the line of engagement. Suddenly singing ancient songs – mostly about unexpected trysts and unwelcome births – they thundered into the press, weapons swinging. Kolansii bodies spun through the air. Entire ranks were driven to the ground, trampled underfoot.

Wild terrible laughter rose from the Jaghut upon seeing their arrival. Each of the fourteen led knots of Imass, and the Jaghut themselves were islands amidst slaughter – none could stand before them.

Yet they were but fourteen, and the Imass fighting close to them continued to fall, no matter how savagely they fought.

The K’ell Hunters struck the inside envelopment, driving the enemy back in a maelstrom of savagery. They swarmed out across the pasture and over the paddocks to swing round and plunge into the Kolansii flank, almost opposite the Teblor.

And in answer to all of this, High Watered Festian ordered his reserves into the battle. Four legions, almost eight thousand heavy infantry, heaved forward to close on the enemy.

Bitterspring, crippled by a sword thrust through her left thigh, lay among the heaps of fallen kin. There had been a charge – it had swept over her, but now she saw how it had stalled, and was once more yielding ground, step by step.

There were no memories to match this moment – this time, so short, so sweet, when she had tasted breath once again, when she had felt the softness of her skin, had known the feel of tears in her own eyes – how that blurred her vision, a thing she had forgotten. If this was how living had been, if this was the reality of mortality … she could not imagine that anyone, no matter how despairing, would ever willingly surrender it. And yet … and yet …

The blood still raining down – thinner now, cooler on her skin – offered no further gifts. She could feel her own blood, much warmer, pooling under her thigh, and around her hip, and the life so fresh, so new, was slowly draining away.

Was this better than an inexorable advance into the enemy forces? Better than killing hundreds and then thousands when they could do little to defend themselves against her and her immortal kind? Was this not, in fact, a redressing of the balance?

She would not grieve. No matter how short-lived this gift.

I have known it again. And so few are that fortunate. So few.

The Ship of Death lay trapped on its side, embraced in ice. Captain Shurq Elalle picked herself up, brushing the snow from her clothes. Beside her, Skorgen Kaban the Pretty was still on his knees, gathering up a handful of icy snow and then sucking on it.

‘Bad for your teeth, Pretty,’ Shurq Elalle said.

When the man grinned up at her she sighed.

‘Apologies. Forgot you had so few left.’

Princess Felash came round from the other side of the ship’s prow, trailed by her handmaid. ‘I have found him,’ she announced through a gust of smoke. ‘He is indeed walking this chilly road, and it is safe to surmise, from careful gauging of the direction of his tracks, that he intends to walk all the way to that spire. Into that most unnatural rain.’

Shurq Elalle squinted across what had been – only a short time ago – a bay. The awakening of Omtose Phellack had been like a fist to the side of the head, and only the captain had remained conscious through the unleashing of power that followed. She alone had witnessed the freezing of the seas, even as she struggled to ensure that none of her crew or guests slid over the side as the ship ran aground and started tilting hard to port.

And, alone among them all, she had seen Hood setting out, on foot.

A short time later, a storm had broken over the spire, releasing a torrential downpour of rain that seemed to glisten red as blood as it fell over the headland.

Shurq Elalle regarded Felash. ‘Princess … any sense of the fate of your mother?’

‘Too much confusion, alas, in the ether. It seems,’ she added, pausing to draw on her pipe and turning to face inland, ‘that we too shall have to trek across this wretched ice field – and hope that it does not begin breaking up too soon, now that Omtose Phellack sleeps once more.’

Skorgen scowled. ‘Excuse me … sleeps? Cap’n, she saying it’s going to melt?’

‘Pretty,’ said Shurq Elalle, ‘it is already. Very well then, shall we make haste?’

But the princess lifted a plump hand. ‘At first, I considered following in Hood’s footsteps, but that appears to entail a steep and no doubt treacherous ascent. Therefore, might I suggest an alternative? That we strike due west from here?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Shurq Elalle. ‘Shall we spend half a day discussing this?’

Felash frowned. ‘And what, precisely, did I say to invite such sarcasm? Hmm, Captain?’

‘My apologies, Highness. This has been a rather fraught journey.’

‘It is hardly done, my dear, and we can scarcely afford the luxury of complaining now, can we?’

Shurq Elalle turned to Skorgen. ‘Get everything ready. There truly is no time to waste.’

The first mate turned away and then glanced back at Shurq. ‘If that’s the case, then why in Mael’s name is she—’

‘That will be enough, Pretty.’

‘Aye, Cap’n. Sorry, Cap’n. On my way, aye.’

Queen Abrastal, I will deliver your daughter into your keeping. With every blessing I can muster. Take her, I beg you. Before I close my hands round that soft delicious neck and squeeze until her brains spurt from every hole in her head. And then her handmaid will have to chop me into tiny pieces, and Skorgen will do something stupid and get his head sliced in half and won’t that be a scar worth bragging about?

She could just make out Hood’s trail towards the spire, and caught herself looking at it longingly. Don’t be a fool, woman. Some destinies are better just hearing about, over ales in a tavern.

Go well on your way, Hood. And the next face you see, well, why not just bite it off?

He had passed through the Gates of Death, and this rain – in its brief moments of magic – could do nothing for ghosts. No kiss of rebirth, and no blinding veil to spare from me what I now see.

Toc sat on his lifeless horse, and from a hillside long vanished – worn down to nothing but a gentle mound by centuries of ploughing – he watched, in horror, the murder of his most cherished dreams.

It was not supposed to happen this way. We could smell the blood, yes – we knew it was coming.

But Onos Toolan – none of this was your war. None of this battle belonged to you.

He could see his old friend – there at the centre of less than a thousand Imass. The fourteen Jaghut had been separated from kin, and now fought in isolation, and archers had come forward and those Jaghut warriors were studded with arrows, yet still they fought on.

The K’ell Hunters had been driven back, pushed away from the Imass, and Toc could see the Toblakai – barely fifty of them left – forced back to the very edge of the slope. There were Barghast on that far side now, but they were few and had arrived staggering, half dead with exhaustion.

Toc found that he was holding his scimitar in his hand. But my power is gone. I gave the last of it away. What holds me here, if not some curse that I be made to witness my failure? Onos Toolan, friend. Brother. I will not await you at the Gates – my shame is too great. He drew up his reins. I will not see you die. I am sorry. I am a coward – but I will not see you die. It was time to leave. He swung his mount round.

And stopped.

On the high ridge before him was an army, mounted on lifeless war-horses.

Bridgeburners.

Seeing Whiskeyjack at the centre, Toc kicked his mount into a canter, and the beast tackled the hillside, hoofs carving the broken ground.

‘Will you just watch this?’ he cried as his horse scrabbled up on to the ridge. He drove his charger towards Whiskeyjack, reined in at the last moment.

The old soldier’s empty eyes were seemingly fixed on the scene below, as if he had not heard Toc’s words.

‘I beg you!’ pleaded Toc, frantic – the anguish and frustration moments from tearing him apart. ‘I know – I am not a Bridgeburner – I know that! But as a fellow Malazan, please! Whiskeyjack – don’t let him die!’

The lifeless face swung round. The empty eyes regarded him.

Toc could feel himself collapsing inside. He opened his mouth, to speak one more time, to plead with all he had left—

Whiskeyjack spoke, in a tone of faint surprise. ‘Toc Younger. Did you truly imagine that we would say no?’

And he raised one gauntleted hand, the two soldiers of his own squad drawing up around him – Mallet on his left, Trotts on his right.

When he threw that hand forward, the massed army of Bridgeburners surged on to the hillside, lunged like an avalanche – sweeping past Toc, driving his own horse round, shoving it forward.

And one last time, the Bridgeburners advanced to do battle.

The thunderous concussion of the god’s death had driven Torrent’s horse down to the ground, throwing the young warrior from the saddle. As he lay stunned, he heard the thumping of the animal’s hoofs as it scrambled back upright and then fled northward, away from the maelstrom.

And then the rain slammed down, and out over the rising ice beyond the headland he could hear shattering detonations as the ice fields buckled. Whirling storms of snow and sleet lifted from the cliffside, spun crimson twisters – and the ground beneath him shifted, slumped seaward.

All madness! The world is not like this. Torrent struggled to his feet, looked across to where the children huddled together in terror. He staggered towards them. ‘Listen to me! Run inland – do you hear me? Inland and away from here!’

Frozen blood slashed down from the sky. Behind him, the wind brought close the sound of laughter from Olar Ethil. Glancing back, he saw that she was facing the Spire.

Absi suddenly wailed.

Storii cried, ‘Don’t leave us, Torrent! You promised!’

‘I will catch you up!’

‘Torrent!’

‘Just run!’

Taking up Absi in her thin arms, Stavi plucked at her sister’s filthy tunic. And then they were on their way, vanishing in moments as the red sleet intensified, flinging curtains down that rolled deeper inland, one after another.

Turning to the east, Torrent stared in astonishment. The entire edge of the headland now sloped steeply towards the bay – but ice was rising beyond that edge, now level with the top of the cliff. Off to his right, the Spire was engulfed in the downpour.

Hearing the witch’s laughter again, he looked across to where Olar Ethil stood.

But the ancient hag was no more – a young woman stood in the deluge. ‘Reborn!’ she shrieked. ‘My kin – all reborn! I shall lead them – we shall rise again!’ She spun to face Torrent, blood like paint on her bold features, and then her head darted like a bird’s. ‘Where are they? Where are the children! My gifts to him – and I will give him more! More children! We shall rule together – the Bonecaster and the First Sword – where are they?’

Torrent stared at her, and then, slipping treacherously on the icy ground, he collected up his bow and quiver. ‘They slid,’ he said. ‘They panicked – went down the slope. Down on to the ice – I couldn’t reach them—’

‘You fool!’

When she ran towards the ice field, Torrent followed.

The frozen blood lacerated his face as the wind howled up from the bay. One forearm held up to shield his eyes, he stumbled after Olar Ethil.

You will give him more? Is that what all this was about? You love him? You took his life and made him a thing of skin and bones – you stole his children away – maybe even killed his wife, their mother. You did all this – thinking you could win his heart?

But he had seen her – enough of her, anyway. Reborn, made young, she was not displeasing to the eye, solid, full-breasted and wide-hipped, her hair – before the blood soaked it – so blonde it was almost white, her eyes the colour of a winter sky. No longer undead. So too, then, Onos Toolan? Now reborn? She took everything away from him, and would now replace it with herself – with the world she would make.

Toc Anaster, did you know this? Did you understand her reasons for all that she has done?

Does it matter?

He reached the ice – she was still ahead, fleet as a hare as she danced her way down the broken, jagged slope. He thought he could hear her, crying out for the children.

Fissures were opening up as the field’s own weight began to crush the ice, and the descent was growing ever steeper – off to his right he could see one part of it still climbing as if would reach to the very summit of the Spire itself. Was there a speck there, halfway up that ramp of ice? Someone ascending? He could not be sure.

His feet went out from under him and he slid, rebounding from spars of rock-hard ice. In a blur he was past Olar Ethil, hearing her shout of surprise. His head struck something, spinning him round, and then his feet jammed against a hard edge that suddenly gave way. He was thrown forward, the upper half of his body pitching hard, as what felt like jaws closed on the lower half – snapping shut on his hips and legs.

He heard and felt both thigh bones snap.

Torrent screamed. Trapped in a fissure, the edges now rising above his hips as he sank deeper. He could feel blood streaming down, could feel it freezing.

He had lost grip on his bow and the hide quiver – they lay just beyond his reach.

Olar Ethil was suddenly there, standing almost above him. ‘I heard bones break – is it true? Is it true, pup?’ She reached down and took a handful of hair, twisting his torn face around. ‘Is it? Are you useless to me now?’

‘No, listen – I thought I heard them – the children. Absi – I thought I heard him crying.’

‘Where? Point – you can still do that. Where?’

‘Pull me out, witch, and I’ll show you.’

‘Can you walk?’

‘Of course I can, woman – I’m simply jammed in this crack. Pull me out – we can find them! But quickly – this entire field is shattering!’

She cackled. ‘Omtose Phellack in all its glory – yet who dares face it? A Bonecaster, that is who! I will destroy it. Even now, I am destroying it – that fool thinks he will take that wretched heart? I will defy him! He deserves no less – he is Jaghut!’

‘Pull me free, witch.’

She reached down.

Her strength was immense, and he could feel frozen blood splitting, could feel massive sections of skin and flesh torn away as she lifted and dragged him out from the fissure.

‘Liar! You lied!’

Torrent lay on his back. The red sleet was diminishing now – he could see the Jade Strangers and the sun itself. From below his hips he could feel nothing. Frozen. Bloodless. I haven’t got long.

‘Where are they?’

He forced himself on to one elbow, pointed off to the right and slightly downslope. ‘There, behind that rise – stand atop it, witch, and you may see them.’

‘That is all I need from you – now you can die, pup. Did I not say you would?’

‘You did, Olar Ethil.’

Laughing, she set off for the rise of hard-packed snow and ice. Twenty-five, maybe thirty paces away.

Torrent twisted round, dragged himself closer to his bow. ‘I promised,’ he whispered. Half-numb fingers closed about the bow’s shaft. He scrabbled one-handed for the quiver, drew out a stone-tipped arrow. Rolling on to his back, he lay gasping for a moment. It was getting hard – hard to do anything.

Ice squealed and then cracked and he slid half a pace – back towards that fissure, but now it was wider – now it could take all of him.

Torrent forced the nock’s slitted mouth round the gut-string.

She was almost there, tackling the ragged side of the rise.

He used his elbows and shoulders to push himself up against a heap of rubbled ice. Brought the bow round and drew the arrow back. This is impossible. I’m lying all wrong. She’s too far away! Wretched panic gripped him. He struggled to calm his breath, deafened by the pounding of his own heart.

Olar Ethil scrambled on to the rise, straightened and stared downslope.

He saw her fists clench, half-heard her howl of fury.

Squinting, his muscles starting to tremble, he stared at her shoulders – waiting, waiting – and when he saw them pivot, he released.

I will make him pay for the lies! Olar Ethil, eldest among all the Bonecasters and now reborn, spun round towards Torrent—

The arrow caught her in the left eye.

The stone tip tore through the eyeball, punched through the back of the socket, where the bone was thin as skin, and the spinning chipped-stone point drilled a gory tunnel through her brain, before shattering against the inside of the back of her skull.

He saw her head snap back, saw the shaft protruding from her face, and by the way her body fell – collapsing like a sack of bones – he knew that she was dead – killed instantly. Gasping, he sagged back. Did you see that, Toc? Did you see that shot?

Ah, gods. It’s done, brother.

It’s done. I am Torrent, last warrior of the Awl.

When he slid towards the fissure, he was helpless to resist.

Torrent. Last warrior of the …

Stormy bellowed in agony as Gesler dragged him away. The red-haired Falari had been stabbed through his right thigh. But the blood was slow, gushing only when the muscles moved, telling Gesler that the fool wouldn’t bleed out before he got him away.

The Ve’Gath were all drawing back – and back …

Because she’s coming. Because she’s finally joining this fight.

Gods help us all.

Pulling Stormy on to the blood-soaked embankment of the third trench, he looked back upslope.

She was walking alone towards the massed Kolansii. Little more than a child, stick-thin, looking undernourished. Pathetic.

When Gesler saw her raise her hands, he flinched.

With a terrible roar a wall of fire engulfed the highest trench. Scalding winds erupted in savage gusts, rolling back down the slope – Gesler saw the corpses nearest the girl crisp black, limbs suddenly pulling, curling inward in the heat’s bitter womb.

And then Sinn began walking, and, as she did so, she marched the wall of fire ahead of her.

Kalyth stumbled to her knees beside Gesler. ‘You must call her back! She can’t just burn them all alive!’

Gesler sagged back. ‘It’s too late, Kalyth. There’s no stopping her now.’

Kalyth screamed – a raw, breaking sound, her hands up at her face – but even she could not tear her eyes from the scene.

The fire devoured the army crouched against the base of the Spire. Bodies simply exploded, blood boiling. Thousands of soldiers burst into flames, their flesh melting. Everything within the fire blackened, began crumbling away. And still the firestorm raged.

Gunth Mach was crouched down over Stormy, oil streaming from her clawed hands and sealing the wound on his leg, but he was already pushing those hands away. ‘Gesler – we got to reach those stairs—’

‘I know,’ he said. Through fire. Well, of course it has to be us.

‘She won’t stop,’ Stormy said, pushing himself to his feet, swaying like a drunk. ‘She’ll take it for herself – all that power.’

‘I know, Stormy! I know, damn you!’ Gesler forced himself to his feet. He squinted inland. ‘Gods below – what is that?’

‘A ghost army,’ Kalyth said. ‘The Matron says they simply came down from the sky.’

‘Send the Ve’Gath that way – all of them, Kalyth! Do you understand – you need to get them as far away from this as possible. If Sinn reaches the heart, that fire’s likely to consume the whole fucking land for leagues around!’

She pulled at him. ‘Then you can do nothing. Don’t you see – you can’t—’

Gesler took her face in his hands and kissed her hard on the lips. ‘Teach these lizards, Kalyth, only the best in us humans. Only the best.’ He turned to Stormy. ‘All right, let’s go. Forget any weapons – they’ll get too hot in our hands. We can tear off this armour on the way.’

‘Stop ordering me around!’

Side by side, the two old marines set out.

They climbed across greasy bodies, over ground that steamed, and through air hot as the breath of a smithy’s forge.

‘Can’t believe you, Ges,’ gasped Stormy. ‘You called on Fener!’

‘I wasn’t the only one, Stormy! I heard you—’

‘Not me – must’ve been someone else. You called him and someone fucking killed him! Gesler, you went and killed our god!’

‘Go to Hood,’ Gesler growled. ‘Who crossed his finger bones when he swore off that cult? Wasn’t that you? I think it was.’

‘You told me you did the same!’

‘Right, so let’s just forget it – we both killed Fener, all right?’

Five more strides and there could be no more words – every breath scalded, and the leathers they now wore as their only clothing had begun to blacken. Now it’s going to get bad.

But this is Telas. I can feel it – we’ve been through this before. He looked for Sinn, but could not see her anywhere. Walked out of the flames at Y’Ghatan. Walked into them here. It’s her world in there, it always was. But we knew that, didn’t we?

I swear I can hear her laughing.

The two men pushed forward.

Kalyth cried out when Gesler and Stormy vanished into the flames. She did not understand. She had looked on in disbelief as they had stepped over bodies reduced to black ash – she had seen their tunics catch fire.

‘Matron – what gift is this? What power do they possess?’

‘Destriant, this surpasses me. But it is now clear to me – as it is to all of us – that you chose most wisely. If we could, we would follow these two humans into the firestorm itself. If we could, we would follow them to the edge of the very Abyss. You ask what manner of men are these – Destriant, I was about to ask this very same question of you.’

She shook her head, shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know. Malazans.’

The flames drove him back. And this was a source of fury and anguish. He tried again and again, but his beloved master was beyond his reach. Howling, he raced back and forth along the third berm, the foul stench of his own burnt hair acrid in his nostrils.

And then he saw the pup – the one of tangled hair and piercing voice, the pup that never grew up – running towards the cold, towards the frozen sea.

Had the pup found a way round this burning air?

The Wickan cattledog with the scarred face tore off in pursuit.

There would be a way round – he would find his master again. To fight at his side. There was, for Bent, no other reason to exist.

The base around the Spire had been reduced to scorched bedrock – not a scrap of armour remained, nothing but molten streaks of iron tracking the slopes of the blackened stone.

Yet Gesler and Stormy walked through the conflagration. Their leathers had melted on to their bodies, hard and brittle as eggshells, and as the two marines pushed closer to the stairs the clothing’s remnants cracked, made crazed patterns like a snake’s shedding skin.

Gesler could see the stairs – but she wasn’t there. His gaze tracked upward. Shit. She was already a quarter of the way up. He punched at Stormy’s shoulder and pointed.

They reached the base, set foot on the baked, crumbling stone.

Stormy edged into Gesler’s path and began gesturing – the hand language of the marines. ‘Leave her to me – I’ll slow her up, hold her back, whatever. You go past. You go fast as you can – get to the top.’

‘Listen – this was almost too much, even for us. She’ll cook you down to bones—’

‘Never mind that. I’ll hold her back – just don’t fuck up up there, Ges! Throw the hag off the edge. Get that damned heart!’

Gesler’s legs ached with every step – he was too tired for this. A whole day of fighting. The strain of command. The seemingly endless slaughter. By the time he reached the top – assuming they even got past Sinn – he’d have nothing left. Weaponless, face to face with a damned Forkrul Assail.

Sinn had not looked back down, not once. She had no idea she was being pursued. Her steps were measured, relentless but slow, almost casual.

They had all climbed above the flames, which had at last begun dying below them.

The girl would hold it back now – saving it for the Forkrul Assail. Telas to wage war against the Assail’s warren. Old old shit, all of this. Can’t they all just go away? Back into their forgotten graves. It’s not right, us having to fight in wars we didn’t even start – wars that have been going on for so long they don’t mean a thing any more.

You took a foreign god’s wounded heart. I see the blood on your lips. It’s not right. It just isn’t.

Adjunct. I know you ain’t dead. Well, no, I don’t. But I refuse to believe you failed. I don’t think there’s a thing in this world that can stop you. We’ll do our part. You’ll know that much – you’ll know it.

Make this right. Make it all right.

Stormy was one step up from Gesler. He saw his friend reaching out, saw his hand close about Sinn’s ankle.

And then, visibly snarling, Stormy tore her from the stairs, swung her out into the air behind him, and let go.

Gesler saw her plummet – saw her mouth open wide in shock, and then that visage darkened.

Now you got her mad, Stormy.

But he was reaching now for Gesler, grasping his arm and lifting him past. ‘Go, Gesler! Climb your sorry arse off!’

A push that almost sent Gesler sprawling against the steps, but he recovered, and pulled himself upward, leaving Stormy in his wake.

Don’t look down – don’t look at him, Gesler. You know why – don’t— Instead he paused, twisted round, met his friend’s eyes.

Their gazes locked.

And then Stormy nodded, and flashed a half-mad smile.

Gesler made a rude gesture, and then, before his heart could shatter, he turned back to the stone steps and resumed his ascent.

Hood pulled himself over a splintered ridge of ice and looked up once more. Not far now. The ice road was groaning, cracks spreading like lightning. He had felt the assault of Olar Ethil – her hatred of Omtose Phellack unleashing power that raked through him sharp as talons – and then it had vanished, and he knew that she was dead. But the damage had been done. There was the very real chance that he would not make it, that this spar of ice would shatter beneath him, sending him down to his death.

Death. Now, that was an interesting notion. One that, perhaps, he should have been more familiar with than any other being, but the truth was, he knew nothing about it at all. The Jaghut went to war against death. So many met that notion with disbelief, or confusion. They could not understand. Who is the enemy? The enemy is surrender. Where is the battlefield? In the heart of despair. How is victory won? It lies within reach. All you need do is choose to recognize it. Failing that, you can always cheat. Which is what I did.

How did I defeat death?

By taking its throne.

And now the blood of a dying god had gifted him with mortal flesh – with a return to mortality. Unexpected. Possibly unwelcome. Potentially … fatal. But then, who has a choice in these matters?

Ah, yes, I did.

A rumble of laughter from deep in his chest followed the thought. He resumed his climb.

Ahead was a broad fissure cutting diagonally across his path. He would have to jump it. Dangerous and undignified. His moment of humour fell away.

He could sense the nearby unleashing of Telas – could see how the air around the Spire was grey with smoke, and the stench of burnt flesh swept over him on an errant gust of wind from inland. This is not by the hand of an Imass. This is something … new. Foul with madness.

This could defeat us all.

He reached the fissure, threw himself over its span. His chest struck the edge, the impact almost winding him, and he clawed handholds in the rotted ice beyond. And then waited for a moment, recovering, before dragging himself from the crevasse. As he cleared it a solid shape flashed past on his left, landed with a crunch, claws digging into the crusted snow – a dog.

A dog?

He stared at it as it scrabbled yet higher, running like a fiend from the Abyss.

From behind him, on the other side of the fissure, Hood heard furious barking, and looking back he saw another dog – or, rather, some shrunken, hair-snarled mockery of a dog, rushing up to the edge only to pull back.

Don’t even try—

And then, with a launching leap, the horrid creature was sailing through the air.

Not far enough—

Hood cursed as jaws clamped on his left foot, the teeth punching through the rotted leathers of his boot. Hissing in pain he swung his leg round, kicked to shake off the snarling creature. He caught a blurred glimpse of its horrid face – like a rat that had been slammed headfirst into a wall – as it shot past him, on the trail of the bigger animal.

He glared after it for a moment, and then the Jaghut picked himself up, and resumed climbing.

With a limp.

She had been hurt by the fall, Stormy saw, watching as she laboriously made her way back up the stairs. Her left arm was clearly broken, the shoulder dislocated, skin scraped off where she had struck the unyielding bedrock. Had they been a dozen steps higher, she would be dead now.

The marine swore under his breath, twisted round to glare up at Gesler. He’d reached some kind of rest platform, maybe twenty-five steps below the summit. What’s he doing? Taking a damned breather? There’s no time for that, you idiot! Go!

‘I will kill you!’

At the shriek Stormy looked back down. Ten steps between him and Sinn. Her face was lifted towards him, made demonic by hatred and rage.

A billowing gust of scorching heat rushed up to buffet him. He backed up the steps. Two, three, five.

She climbed closer.

The air ignited around Sinn, red and orange flames, white-hot where her body had been. Yet from that raging, incandescent core, he could still see her eyes – fixed on him.

Gods below, she is not even human! Was she ever human? What manner of creature is this?

The fire roared words. ‘I will kill you! No one touches me! I will burn you – I will burn all who touch me! I will burn you all! You will know what it is to hurt!

‘You said you wanted the fire inside me – you said you would kiss it – but you lied! You hurt me! You hurt me!

‘You wanted the fire in me? You shall have it!’

The flames exploded out from her, stormed up the steps and engulfed Stormy.

He howled. This was not Telas – this burned. This reached for him, took hold of him, bursting and cracking open his skin, tearing into his flesh, burrowing to clutch at his very bones. His screams vanished though his mouth remained open, his head thrown back in the stunning agony of the fire – his lungs were burned, useless. His eyes erupted and boiled away.

He felt her drawing closer – knew she was directly below him now. He could feel the stone steps against his back, could feel his body melting, pouring down as if molten.

Her hand closed on one ankle, crushed it to dust.

But he had been waiting for that touch. He had been holding on – to what he knew not – and with a silent sob that seemed to tear his soul in half Stormy threw himself forward. Closed what remained of his arms about her.

Her shriek filled his skull – and then they were falling.

Not like the first time – he’d drawn her almost half the way to the top – and he could feel her body inside that fire, or thought he could.

They plummeted.

Ges – take this – all I could—

He was dead before they struck, but enough of Stormy’s corpse remained to hammer Sinn against the bedrock, though it was not needed. The impact split her skull, sent burning meat, blood and flesh spraying out to sizzle on the superheated rock. Her spine broke in four places. Her ribs buckled and folded under her back, splintered ends driving up through her lungs and heart.

The raging fires then closed on her, consuming every last shred, before dying in flickering puddles on the bedrock.

Gesler could not keep the tears from his eyes as he climbed the last few steps – he would not look down, would not surrender to that, knowing it would break him. The fury of heat that had lifted up around him moments earlier was now gone. He’s done it. Somehow. He’s killed her.

But he didn’t make it. I feel it – a hole carved out of my soul. Beloved brother, you are gone.

I should have ordered you to stay behind.

Not that you ever listened to orders – that was always your problem, Stormy. That was – oh, gods take me!

He pulled himself on to the summit, rolled on to his back, stared up at the chaotic sky – smoke, the Jade Strangers, a day dying to darkness – and then, gasping, numbed, Gesler pushed himself on to his feet. Straightening, he looked across the flat expanse.

A female Forkrul Assail stood facing him. Young, almost incandescent with power. Behind her was a mass of bone chains heaped over something that pulsed with carmine light. The heart of the Crippled God.

‘Where is your sword?’ the Forkrul Assail demanded. ‘Or do you think you can best me with just your hands?’

My hands. ‘I broke a man’s nose once,’ Gesler said, advancing on her.

She sneered. ‘It is too late, human. Your god’s death assured that – it was your god, wasn’t it? By your own prayers you summoned it – to its execution. By your own prayers you lost your war, human. How does that feel? Should you not kneel before me?’

Her words had slowed him, then halted him still three paces from her. He could feel the last remnants of his strength draining away. There is no magic in her voice, none we would call so, anyway. No, the only power in her voice resides in the truth she speaks.

I killed Fener.

‘When this day began,’ continued the Forkrul Assail, ‘I was an old woman, frail and bent. You could have pushed me over with a nudge then – look at you, after all. A soldier. A veteran of many battles, many wars. I know this not by the scars you bear, but by the endless losses in your eyes.’

Losses. Yes. So many losses.

The woman gestured behind her. ‘There can be an end to the pain, soldier, if you so desire. I can grant you that … sip.’

‘I – I need a way out,’ said Gesler.

She nodded. ‘I understand, soldier. Shall I give it to you? That way out?’

‘Yes.’

She cocked her head, her forehead seeming to flinch inward momentarily, as if about to vertically fold in half. ‘I sense no duplicity in you – that is good. I am indeed become your salvation.’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Lead me from here, Pure.’

She raised one bony, long-fingered hand, reaching for his brow.

His fist was a blur. It smashed into her face. Bones snapped.

The Fokrul Assail reeled back, breath spraying from a crushed nose – and that fold dividing her face was deeply creased. Shaking her head, she straightened.

Gesler knew he was fast – but she was faster. She blocked his second punch and countered. The blow broke his left shoulder, threw him six paces back. He landed hard, skidded and then rolled on to his broken shoulder – the agony that ripped through him took with it all of his strength, his will. Stunned, helpless, he heard her advance.

A strange skittering sound, and then the sound of two bodies colliding.

He heard her stumble. Heard bestial snarling.

Gesler forced himself on to his side. Looked across.

Bent had struck the Forkrul Assail from one side, with enough force to drive her to one knee. The cattledog’s jaws had closed on the side of her face, its canines tearing through flesh and bone. One eye was already gone, a cheekbone pulled away – spat out and lying on the blood-stained stone.

He saw her reach round, even as she staggered upright, and one hand closed on Bent’s throat. She dragged the beast from the ruin of her face.

The cattledog, held out at the end of that long, muscled arm, struggled desperately in her choking grip.

No.

Somehow Gesler found his feet. And then he was rushing her.

Her lone eye locked with his glare and she smiled.

He saw her flexing her free arm – drawing it back to await him. He could block that blow – he could try to take her down – but Bent was dying. She was crushing his throat. No. In a flash, he saw a battlefield filled with corpses, saw Truth dragging a limp dog free of the bodies. He heard the lad’s shout of surprise – and then that look in his eyes. So hopeful. So … young.

No!

Ignoring her fist, even as it shot out for his head, Gesler sent his own blow – not into her face, but into the shoulder of the arm holding the dog.

The hardest punch he ever threw.

Crushing impacts, and then—

The soldier’s punch spun Reverence round, the stunning power behind it shattering her shoulder, even as her own blow connected with his forehead, splitting it, snapping his head back and breaking the vertebrae of his neck.

He was dead before he struck the ground.

But her right arm was useless, and she sagged to one knee as the dog pulled itself free of her numbed hand.

No matter. I will kill it next. A moment – to push past this pain – to clear my thoughts.

Bent kicked free, stumbled away. Air filled his lungs. Life flooded back into him. In his mind, a red mist, yearning need, and nothing else. Head lifting, the beast turned back to his master’s enemy.

But his master was lying so still, so emptied of all life.

The Wickan cattledog was not bred for its voice. It rarely barked, and never howled.

Yet the cry that now came from Bent could have awakened the wolf gods themselves.

And the white-skinned woman straightened then and laughed, slowly turning to face the beast.

Bent gathered his legs beneath him. The scarred nightmare of his muzzle peeled back, revealing misshapen, jagged fangs.

And then someone stepped past him.

Hood advanced on the Forkrul Assail even as she was turning towards the dog. When she saw him, she cried out, took a step back.

He closed.

Her left fist snapped out but he caught it one-handed, crushed both wrist bones.

She screamed.

The Jaghut then reversed his grip on that wrist and added his other hand. With a savage lunge he whirled her off her feet, slammed her body down on the stone.

Yelping, the dog backed away.

But Hood was not yet done with her. He swung her up again, spun and once more hammered her on to the stone. ‘I have had,’ the Jaghut roared, and into the air she went again, and down once more, ‘enough’ – with a sob the crushed, broken body was yanked from the ground again – ‘of—

‘your—

‘justice!’

As the stranger dropped the limp arm he still held, Bent crawled over to his master’s side. He lay down, settling his heavy head across the man’s chest.

The stranger looked at him, but said nothing.

Bent showed his teeth to make his claim clear. He is mine.

The heavy thud of wings made Hood turn round – to see a Shi’gal Assassin descend to the Great Altar. Half crouched yet still towering over the Jaghut, it regarded him with cold eyes.

Hood glanced over at the heart of the Crippled God.

The Pure’s ancestral chains were gone – destroyed with her own death. The heart was finally free, lying pulsing feebly in a pool of blood.

The smaller dog arrived, rushing over to worry at the torn face of the Forkrul Assail.

Grunting, Hood gestured towards the heart, and then turned away, to stare out over the lands to the west. Beyond the fields heaped with corpses, beyond the armies now gathered, virtually motionless with exhaustion. And now figures were climbing the stairs.

He heard the winged assassin lifting into the air and he knew that the creature now clutched that pathetic heart. The Shi’gal’s shadow slipped over the Jaghut, and then he could see it, rising yet higher, winging towards the setting sun. Then his gaze fell once more, looking down on the devastation below.

I once sat upon the Throne of Death. I once greeted all who must in the end surrender, with skeletal hands, with a face of skin and bone hidden in darkness. How many battlefields have I walked? Must I walk one more?

But this time, they are the ones who have left.

Guardians of the Gate, will you tell all these, who come to you now, that it all meant nothing? Or have you something to give them? Something more than I ever could?

Others had arrived. He heard the wailing of a woman in grief.

And was reminded that there was, in truth, no sadder sound in all the worlds.

Bitterspring, Lera Epar of the Imass, lay propped up against cold bodies. Her wound had been bandaged, the flow of blood staunched. Around her the survivors were moving about, many simply wandering, while others stood motionless, heads lowered, scanning the ground for familiar faces.

She saw her kin. She saw Thel Akai. She saw K’Chain Che’Malle and Jaghut.

And she watched Onos Toolan leaving them all, stumbling northward, on to the stretch of flat land edging the walled port city that had once been the capital of the Forkrul Assail empire.

None of the Imass called after him. None asked where he was going. He was the First Sword, but so too was he a man.

She tilted her head back, studied the procession up the scalded stone stairs of the Spire. Prince Brys Beddict, Aranict, Queen Abrastal, Spax of the Gilk Barghast, the priest-woman of the K’Chain Che’Malle. The eleven remaining Jaghut were also making their way in that direction.

It is done, then. It must be done.

There is peace now. It must be peace – what other name for this terrible silence?

More rain began to fall, as the day’s light slowly died, but this rain was pure and clear. She closed her eyes and let it rinse clean her face.

Onos Toolan walked past the city, out on to a barren headland of gorse and heather. The day’s light was fast fading, but he was indifferent to that, and the ground underfoot, which had been soaked in blood, was now slick with simple rain.

The sun spread gold across the western horizon.

And then, in the distance, he saw three figures, and Onos Toolan’s eyes narrowed. Like him, they seemed to be wandering. Like him, lost in the world. He drew closer.

The sword in his right hand, thick with gore but now showing its gleaming stone as the rain washed down its length, then fell to the ground, and he was running. His heart seemed to swell in his chest, seemed to grow too large for the bone cage holding it.

When they saw him, he heard childish cries, and now they were rushing towards him, the girl not carrying the boy winging ahead. All three were crying as they ran to meet him.

He fell to his knees to take them into his arms.

Words were tumbling from the twins. A saviour – an Awl warrior they had lost in the storm. A witch who had stolen them – their escape – and he had promised them he would find them, but he never did, and—

Lifting his gaze, still facing into the north, Onos Toolan then saw something else.

A vague shape that appeared to be sitting on the ground, curled over.

He rose, the girls reaching up to take his arms, the boy clinging to one shin. And then he moved forward, taking them all with him. When the boy complained, Storii picked him up in her arms. But Onos Toolan walked on, his steps coming faster and faster.

It was not possible. It was—

And then once more he was running.

She must have heard his approach, for she looked up and then over, and sat watching him rushing towards her.

He almost fell against her, his arms wrapping tight round her, lifting her with his embrace.

Hetan gasped. ‘Husband! I have missed you. I – I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what has happened …’

‘Nothing has happened,’ he whispered, as the children screamed behind them.

‘Onos – my toes …’

‘What?’

‘I have someone else’s toes, husband, I swear it—’

The children collided with them.

In the distance ahead, on a faint rise of land, Onos Toolan saw a figure seated on a horse. The darkness was taking the vision – dissolving it before his eyes.

And then he saw it raise one hand.

Straightening, Onos Toolan did the same. I see you, my brother.

I see you.

When at last the light left the rise of land, the vision faded from his eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BANASCHAR REMEMBERED HOW SHE HAD STOOD, THE SWORD IN ITS scabbard lying on the map table before her. A single oil lamp had bled weak light and weaker shadows in the confines of the tent. The air was close and damp and it settled on things like newborn skin. A short time earlier, she had spoken to Lostara Yil with her back to that weapon, and Banaschar did not know if Tavore had used those words before and the question of that gnawed at him in strange, mysterious ways.

If they had been words oft repeated by the Adjunct, then what tragic truths did that reveal about her? But if she’d not said them before – not ever – then why had he heard them as if they were echoes, rebounding from some place far away and long ago?

Lostara had been to see Hanavat, to share in the gift of the son that had been born. The captain’s eyes had been red from weeping and Banaschar understood the losses these women were now facing – the futures about to be torn away from them. He should not have been there. He should not have heard the Adjunct speak.

‘It is not enough to wish for a better world for the children. It is not enough to shield them with ease and comfort. Lostara Yil, if we do not sacrifice our own ease, our own comfort, to make the future’s world a better one, then we curse our own children. We leave them a misery they do not deserve; we leave them a host of lessons unearned.

‘I am no mother, but I need only look at Hanavat to find the strength I need.’

The words were seared into his memory. In the voice of a childless woman, they left him more shaken, more distraught than he perhaps would otherwise have been.

Was this what they were fighting for? Only one among a host of reasons, surely – and in truth he could not quite see how this path they’d chosen could serve such aspirations. He did not doubt the nobility of the Adjunct’s motivations, nor even the raw compassion so driving her to seek what was, in most eyes, virtually impossible. But there was something else here, something still hidden.

How many great compassions arose from a dark source? A private place of secret failings?

After she had sent Lostara away, Tavore had turned once more to the sword, and after a time Banaschar had stirred from his seat on the war-gear chest, risen and walked to her side.

‘I have stopped running, Adjunct.’

She was silent, her eyes fixed on the weapon in its battered, scratched scabbard.

‘I – I wish to thank you for that. Proof,’ he added with a sour smile, ‘of your gifts of achieving the impossible.’

‘Priest,’ she said, ‘the Chal’Managa – the Snake – that was a manifestation of D’rek, was it not?’

He found himself unable to meet her eyes, but managed a simple shrug. ‘I think so. For a time. Her children were lost. In her eyes, anyway. And that made her just as lost, I suppose. Together, they needed to find their way.’

‘Those details do not interest me,’ she said, tone hardening. ‘Banaschar, tell me. What does she want? Why is she so determined to be here? Will she seek to oppose me?’

‘Why would you think I have answers to those questions, Adjunct?’

‘Because she never left you either. She needed at least one of her worshippers to live on, and for some unknown reason she chose you.’

He wanted to sit down again. Anywhere. Maybe even on the floor. ‘Adjunct, it is said that a worm finding itself in a puddle of ale will get drunk and then drown. I’ve often thought about that, and I admit, I’ve come to suspect that any puddle will do, and getting drunk has nothing to do with it. The damned things drown anyway. And yet, oddly enough, without any puddles the worms don’t show up at all.’

‘We have left the new lake behind us, Priest. No one drowned, not even you.’

‘They’re just children now.’

‘I know.’

Banaschar sighed, nodded down at the sword. ‘She will protect it, Adjunct.’

He heard her breath catch, and then, ‘But … that might well kill her.’

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

‘Are you certain of this, Demidrek?’

‘Demi— Gods below, Adjunct – are you a student of theology as well? Tayschrenn was—’

‘As the last surviving priest of the Worm of Autumn, the honorific belongs to you, Banaschar.’

‘Fine, but where are the gold-stitched robes and the gaudy rings?’

An aide entered behind them, coughed and then said, ‘Adjunct, three horses are saddled and waiting outside.’

‘Thank you.’

Suddenly Banaschar was chilled, his hands cold and stiff as if he’d left them in buckets of ice-water. ‘Adjunct – we do not know if the heart will be freed. If you—’

‘They will succeed, Demidrek. Your own god clearly believes that—’

‘Wrong.’

She was startled to silence.

‘It’s simpler than that, Adjunct,’ Banaschar went on, the words tasting of ashes. ‘D’rek doesn’t care if the Crippled God is whole or not – if he’s little more than a gibbering fool, or a gutted body with a huge hole in his chest, it doesn’t matter. Whatever you have of him, she wants it gone.’

‘Then …’ Her eyes narrowed.

‘Correct. Listen to her last Demidrek, because he knows when his god has lost all faith.’

‘They won’t fail,’ Tavore whispered, eyes once more on the sword.

‘And if the Perish betray them? What then?’

But she was shaking her head. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘All our putative allies, Adjunct – are they strong enough? Wilful enough? Stubborn enough? When the bodies start falling, when the blood starts flowing – listen to me, Tavore – we have to weigh what we do – all that we do here – on the likelihood of their failing.’

‘I will not.’

‘Do you think I have no respect for Prince Brys Beddict – or Queen Abrastal? But Adjunct, they are striking where Akhrast Korvalain is at its strongest! Where the most powerful of the Forkrul Assail will be found – has it not once occurred to you that your allies won’t be enough?’

But she was shaking her head, and Banaschar felt a flash of fury – will you be nothing more than a child, hands over your ears because you don’t like hearing what I have to say?

‘You do not yet understand, Demidrek. Nor, it seems, does your god.’

‘So tell me then. Explain it to me! How in Hood’s name can you be so sure?’

‘The K’Chain—’

‘Adjunct – this is the last gasp of those damned lizards. It doesn’t matter who seems to be commanding them either – the Matron commands. The Matron must command. If she sees too many of her children dying, she will withdraw. She has to! For the very survival of her kind!’

‘They are led by Gesler and Stormy, Banaschar.’

‘Gods below! Just how much faith have you placed in the efforts of two demoted marines?’

She met his eyes unflinching. ‘All that I need to. Now, you have indulged your moment of doubt, I trust. It is time to leave.’

He studied her for a moment longer, and then felt the tension draining from him. Managed a lopsided smile. ‘I am Demidrek to the Worm of Autumn, Adjunct. Perhaps she hears you through me. Perhaps, in the end, we can teach D’rek a lesson in faith.’

‘Better,’ she snapped, picking up the sword.

They stepped outside.

The three horses were waiting, two saddles as yet unfilled. Slouched in the third one … Banaschar looked up, nodded in greeting. ‘Captain.’

‘Priest,’ Fiddler replied.

He and the Adjunct swiftly mounted up – the scrawny animals shifting beneath them – and then the three of them swung away. Rode out from the Malazan encampment on the grassy plain.

Riding northwest.

There had been few words on that journey. They rode through the night, alternating between canter and trot. The western horizon was lit on occasion with lurid lightning, the flashes stained red, but overhead the Jade Strangers commanded the night sky, bright enough to expunge the stars, and the rolling grasslands around them bore a hue of healthy green the day’s light would reveal as false. There had been no rain in this place for years, and the hoofs of their horses kicked up broken blades of grass like scythes.

When they came in sight of a lone rise that dominated all the others, the Adjunct angled her horse towards it. The lesser hills they crossed as they drew closer all bore signs of ancient camps – boulders left in ragged rings to mark where the sides of tipis had been anchored down. A thousand paces to the northwest the land dropped down into a broad, shallow valley, and its far slope was marked by long curving stretches of rocks and boulders, forming lines, blinds and runs for herd beasts now long gone, as vanished as the hunters who had preyed upon them.

Banaschar could feel the desolation of this place, like an itch under his skin, a crawling unease of mortality. It all passes. All our ways of doing things, seeing things, all these lost ways of living. And yet … could I step back into that age, could I stand unseen among these people, I would be no different – no different inside … gods, could I explain this, even to myself, I might someday make a claim to wisdom.

Our worlds are so small. They only feel endless because our minds can gather thousands of them all at once. But if we stop moving, if we hold to one place, if we draw breath and look around … each one is the same. Barring a few details. Lost ages are neither more nor less profound than the one we live in right now. We think it’s all some kind of forward momentum, endless leaving behind and reaching towards. But the truth is, wherever we find ourselves – with all its shiny gifts – we do little more than walk in circles.

The thought makes me want to weep.

They drew rein at the base of the hill. The sides were uneven, with projections of rust-stained bedrock pushing up through the thin skin of earth, the stone cracked and fissured by untold centuries of frost and heat. Closer to the summit was a crowded chaos of yellow-white dolomite boulders, their softer surfaces pecked and carved with otherworldly scenes and geometric patterns. Spikewood and some kind of prairie rose bushes, skeletal now and threatening with thorns, filled the spaces between the boulders.

The Adjunct dismounted, drawing off her leather gloves. ‘Captain.’

‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘It will do.’

When Fiddler slipped down from his horse, Banaschar followed suit.

The Adjunct in the lead, they ascended the hillside. Now closer to the rotted outcrops, Banaschar saw bleached fragments of human bone trapped in cracks and crevasses, or heaped on ledges and in niches. On the narrow, winding tracks between the up-thrust bedrock, his boots crunched on beads made from polished nuts, and the ground was littered with the withered remnants of woven baskets.

Reaching the summit, they saw that the dolomite boulders formed a rough ring, perhaps ten paces across, with the centre area more or less level. When the Adjunct walked between two boulders and stepped into the clearing, her lead boot skidded and she lurched back. Righting herself, she looked down, and then crouched to pick something up.

Banaschar reached her side.

She was holding a spear point made from chipped flint, almost dagger length, and the priest now saw that the entire stretch of level ground was carpeted in thousands of similar spear points.

‘Left here, all unbroken,’ muttered Banaschar, as Fiddler joined them. ‘Why, I wonder?’

The captain grunted. ‘Never could figure out holy sites. Still, those tools are beautifully made. Even an Imass would be impressed.’

‘Here is my guess,’ Banaschar said. ‘They discovered a technology that was too successful. Ended up killing every animal they saw, until none were left. Why? Because we are all equally stupid, just as shortsighted, twenty thousand years ago or tomorrow, makes no difference. And the seduction of slaughter is like a fever. When they finally realized what they’d done, when they all began starving, they blamed their tools. And yet,’ he glanced across at Fiddler, ‘even to this day, we think efficiency’s a good thing.’

Fiddler sighed. ‘I sometimes think we only invented war when we ran out of animals to kill.’

Dropping the spear point – it broke in half when it struck the layer of its kin – the Adjunct stepped forward. Stone snapped with every stride. When she was at the very centre, she turned to face them.

‘This is not a matter of sacredness,’ she said. ‘There is nothing worth worshipping in this place, except perhaps a past that can never again exist, and the name for that is nostalgia. I am not a believer in innocence, either.’

‘Then why here?’ Banaschar asked.

But it was Fiddler who answered, ‘Because it is defendable, Priest.’

‘Demidrek?’ Tavore asked, one hand now on the grip of her sword.

He looked round, stepped over to one of the dolomite boulders. Swirling patterns, grooves flowing like hair. Demonic, vaguely human figures, faces composed of staring eyes and open mouths filled with sharp teeth. He sighed, looked back at the Adjunct, and then nodded. ‘She can … I don’t know … wrap herself round the base of this hill, like a dragon-worm of legend, I suppose.’

‘To what end, Demidrek?’

‘Containment.’

‘For how long?’

Until she dies. He shrugged.

He saw her studying him for a moment longer, and then the Adjunct Tavore drew out her Otataral sword.

The rust-coloured blade seemed to blaze in Banaschar’s eyes, and he staggered back a step.

Nearby, Fiddler swore under his breath. ‘Adjunct – it’s … awake.’

‘And,’ whispered Banaschar, ‘it shall summon.’

Tavore kicked a space clear on the ground with one boot, and then set the sword’s tip against the earth. She pushed down using all of her weight.

The blade slid, as if through sand, down to half its length.

Stepping back, the Adjunct seemed to reel.

Banaschar and Fiddler reached her at the same time, taking her weight – gods, there is so little left of her! Bones and skin! She slumped unconscious in their arms.

‘Here,’ grunted Fiddler, ‘let’s drag her back – find somewhere clear.’

‘No,’ said Banaschar. ‘I will carry her down to the horses.’

‘Right. I’ll go ahead, get her some water.’

Banaschar had picked Tavore up. ‘Fiddler …’

‘Aye,’ he growled. ‘Like a starved child under that armour. When she comes round, Priest, we’re making her eat.’

The soldier might as well have said, ‘We’re laying siege to the moon,’ and been absolutely convinced that he would do just that, and then take the damned thing down in ruin and flames. It’s how a soldier thinks. At least, this one, this damned marine. Saying nothing, he followed Fiddler down the narrow, twisting track.

She had been laid down on a threadbare saddle blanket. Banaschar had unstrapped and removed her helm, and rested her head on the worn saddle they’d pulled from the Adjunct’s horse. Off to one side, Fiddler was splintering wood and building a small fire.

Taking a waterskin, the priest soaked a bundle of bandages from the sapper’s kit bag and began tenderly wiping the sweat and grime from Tavore’s brow and those so-plain features. With her eyes closed, he saw the child she had once been – serious, determined, impatient to grow up. But the face was gaunter than it should have been, too old, too worn down. He brushed tendrils of damp, lank hair from her forehead. Then glanced over at Fiddler. ‘Is it just exhaustion, do you— Gods below, Fiddler!’

The man was breaking up his Deck of Dragons, using his knife to split each card. He paused, looked across at the priest. ‘She’s getting a cooked meal.’

Banaschar watched as the sapper fed the splinters into the fire. The paints filled the flames with strange colours. ‘You don’t expect to survive, do you?’

‘Even if I do, I’m done with this. All of it.’

‘You couldn’t retire from soldiering even if you wanted to.’

‘Really? Just watch me.’

‘What will you do? Buy a farm, start growing vegetables?’

‘Gods no. Too much work – never could figure out soldiers saying they’d do that once they buried their swords. Earth grows what it wants to grow – spending the rest of your life fighting it is just another damned war.’

‘Right, then. Get drunk, tell old stories in some foul tavern—’

‘Like you was doing back in Malaz City?’

Banaschar’s smile was wry. ‘I was about to advise against it, Captain. Maybe it sounds good from here – being able to live every moment without purpose, emptied of all pressure. But take it from me, you’d do just as well topping yourself – it’s quicker and probably a lot less miserable.’

Fiddler poured some water into a pot and then set it on the flames. He began dropping shreds of dried meat into it. ‘Nah, nothing so … wasteful. Thought I’d take up fishing.’

‘Never figured you for a man of the seas.’

‘You mean, like, in a boat with lines and nets? Out on the waves and o’er the deeps? No, not that kind of fishing, Priest. Sounds like work to me, and dangerous besides. No, I’ll stay ashore. I’m thinking hobby, not livelihood.’

Glancing down at Tavore’s lined face, Banaschar sighed. ‘We should all live a life of hobbies. Doing only what gives us pleasure, only what rewards us in secret, private ways.’

‘Wise words, Priest. You’re just filled with surprises tonight, aren’t you?’

When Banaschar shot the man a look, he saw his faint grin and the tension eased out from him. He grunted. ‘I went into the priesthood looking for wisdom and only then did I realize I’d gone in precisely the wrong direction.’

‘Piety not all it’s made out to be, then?’

‘Is soldiering, Fiddler?’

The man slowly settled back, stirring with his knife blade. ‘Had a friend once, tried warning an eager little boy away from the soldier’s life.’

‘And did your friend succeed?’

‘Doesn’t matter if he did or didn’t. That’s not the point.’

‘So, what is the point, then?’

‘You can’t steer anyone away from the path they’re going to take. You can show ’em that there’s plenty of other paths – you can do that much – but past that? They’ll go where they go.’

‘Your friend should have scared that boy rigid. That might’ve worked.’

Fiddler shook his head. ‘Can’t feel someone else’s terror, either, Banaschar. We only know terror for what it is when it looks us dead in the eye.’

There was a sigh from Tavore and the priest looked down. ‘You fainted, Adjunct.’

‘The – the sword …’

‘It’s done.’

She struggled to sit up. ‘Then we must leave.’

‘We will, Adjunct,’ Fiddler said. ‘But first, we eat.’

Tavore pushed Banaschar’s hands away and struggled upright. ‘You damned fool – do you know who that sword is summoning?’

‘Aye. Just burned that card, as it happens.’

Banaschar almost felt the Adjunct’s shock, like a jolt of sparks snapping through the air between them.

The priest snorted. ‘You’ve gone and made her speechless, sapper.’

‘Good. Can’t eat and talk at the same time. Come over here, Adjunct, else me and the priest will have to hold you and force this stew down your throat. Won’t do anyone any good if you go and collapse at the wrong moment, will it?’

‘You – you should not have done that, Fiddler.’

‘Relax,’ the man replied, tapping his satchel. ‘Saved one House – the only one that means anything to us now.’

‘Ours is a house still divided, Captain.’

‘The King in Chains? Never mind him – the fool’s too busy undermining the throne he happens to be sitting on. And the Knight is with us.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘I am. Be at ease on that count.’

‘When that god manifests, Fiddler, it will be upon a battlefield – thousands of souls will feed its shaping. We are speaking of a god of war – when it comes, it could well fill half the sky.’

Fiddler glanced across at Banaschar, and then he shrugged. ‘Beware the vow of a Toblakai.’ And then, with a half-smile, he filled a tin bowl with stew and handed it up to the Adjunct. ‘Eat, dear Consort. The rest are with us. Reaver, Fool, the Seven … Leper …’ and his gaze fell for a moment with that title, before he looked back up, grinned over at Banaschar. ‘Cripple.’

Cripple. Oh. Well, yes. Been staring me in the face all this time, I suppose. Been thinking it was terror, that old mirror reflection. And surprise, it was.

While they ate, Banaschar’s memories wandered back, to the moment in her tent, and her words with Lostara, and all that followed.

Children, gather close. Your mother’s days are fraught now. She needs you. She needs us all.

Glancing up, he saw Tavore studying him. ‘Banaschar, was it you who removed my helm? Wiped down my face and combed through my hair?’

His gaze dropped. ‘Yes, Adjunct.’

She made an odd sound, and then said, ‘I am sorry … I must have looked a mess.’

Oh, Tavore.

Fiddler rose suddenly and said in a gruff voice, ‘I’ll saddle your horse, Adjunct.’

Hedge watched as the three riders rode back into the camp. ‘Bavedict, distribute the munitions.’

The alchemist turned and in a startled voice asked, ‘All of them?’

‘All of them. And get ’em kitted out – water, a little food, armour and weapons and nothing else.’

‘I’ll go talk to the sergeants.’

Nodding, Hedge set off.

He found Fiddler on foot, just outside the Adjunct’s tent. The man was alone, standing looking down at the ground.

‘We’re coming with you,’ Hedge said.

Fiddler looked up, scowled. ‘No, you’re not.’

‘The Bridgeburners are coming with you – nothing you can do about it.’

‘It’s all over with, Hedge. Just leave it alone.’ And he turned away.

But Hedge reached out, pulled the man round. ‘I already asked the Adjunct – I did it last night, once I figured out what was going on. You need me there, Fiddler. You just don’t know it yet – you don’t know the half of it, but you’ll just have to trust me on this. You need me there.’

Fiddler stepped close, his face dark. ‘Why? Why the fuck do I?’

Passing soldiers paused, turned to stare.

‘You just do! If you don’t – I swear this, Fid, I swear it – you’ll spend the rest of your days poisoned with regret. Listen to me! It’s not only us, can’t you see that? You need the Bridgeburners!’

Fiddler pushed him back with both hands, staggering Hedge. ‘They’re not Bridgeburners! It’s not just a fucking name! You can’t just pick up any old useless fools and call them Bridgeburners!’

‘Why not?’ Hedge retorted. ‘It’s what we were, wasn’t it? At the beginning? Young and wide-eyed stupid and wanting to be better than we were!’ He waved an arm to take in the camp. ‘No different from these Bonehunters – don’t you see that?’

‘Don’t follow me!’

‘You’re not listening! I went through – I came back! I have no choice, damn you!’

There were tears glistening in Fiddler’s eyes. ‘Just don’t.’

Hedge shook his head. ‘I told you. No choice, none at all.’

When Fiddler pushed past him, Hedge let him go. He looked round, scowled. ‘It’s almost noon – go eat something, you slack-jawed bastards.’ Then he headed back for his company’s camp.

Fiddler cut between two staff tents, and made it halfway down before he stopped and slowly sank to one knee, his hands over his face. As tears broke loose, shudders drove through him, wave upon wave.

We’re going to die – can’t he see that? I can’t lose him again – I just can’t.

He could still feel Hedge’s shoulders where he’d pushed him, and see the hurt look on the man’s face – no, don’t. His hands stung, his hands burned. He balled them into fists, head hanging, forcing himself to draw deep breaths, forcing all the rawness away, and with it the terrible anguish that threatened to break him, crush him down.

He needed to go to his soldiers now. The sergeants would have them ready. Waiting. Marines and heavies, the last of both. One more thing to do, and then we’ll be done. All of it, finished.

Gods, Hedge, we should have died in the tunnels. So much easier, so much quicker. No time to grieve, no time for the scars to get so thick it’s almost impossible to feel anything at all.

And then you showed up and tore them all open again.

Whiskeyjack, Kalam, Trotts – they’re gone. Why didn’t you stay there with them? Why couldn’t you just have waited for me?

Still the tears streamed down his face, soaking his beard. He could barely see the matted dead grasses beneath him.

End this. One more thing to do – they’ll try and stop us. They have to. We need to be ready for them. We need – I need … to be a captain, the one in charge. The one to tell my soldiers where to die.

Wiping at his face, he slowly straightened.

‘Gods,’ he muttered. ‘First the Adjunct, and now this.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s just call it a bad day and be done with it. Ready, Fid? Ready for them? You’d better be.’

He set out.

There was glory in pissing, Corabb decided as he watched the stream curve out and make that familiar but unique sound as it hit the ground.

‘Doesn’t look like you need both hands for that,’ Smiles observed from where she sat nearby.

‘Today, I shall even look upon you with sympathy,’ he replied, finishing up and then spitting on his hands to clean them.

‘Sympathy? What am I, a lame dog?’

Sitting leaning against his pack, Bottle laughed, earning a dark look from Smiles.

‘We are going somewhere to fight,’ Corabb said, turning to face her and the others sitting on the ground beyond. ‘Today, you are all my family.’

‘Explains the sympathy,’ Koryk muttered.

‘And I will stand at your side, Koryk of the Seti,’ Corabb said.

Smiles snorted. ‘To what, keep him from running?’

‘No. Because, this time, he will stand with us. He will be a soldier again.’

There was a long moment of silence from the gathered squad, and then Koryk rose and walked a short distance away.

‘There’s demons crouched in his brain,’ Cuttle said under his breath. ‘All that whispering must be driving him mad.’

‘Here comes the sergeant,’ Corabb said. ‘It’s time.’ He went to his kit bag, checked the straps once again, picking up the crossbow and admiring it for a moment before tying it on to the satchel. He re-counted the quarrels and was satisfied to find that they still numbered twelve.

‘Load up,’ Tarr said when he arrived. ‘We’re headed northwest.’

‘That’s damn near back the way we came!’ said Smiles. ‘How far? If I even come within sight of that desert, I’ll slit my own throat.’

‘It’s a big lake now, Smiles,’ Bottle pointed out.

Tarr said, ‘Should be there by noon tomorrow, or so the captain says. Take food for two days, and as much water as you can carry.’

Corabb scratched at the beard covering his jaw. ‘Sergeant – the regulars are getting ready to break camp, too.’

‘They’re going east, Corporal.’

‘When do we rendezvous?’

But the sergeant’s only reply was a sharp glance, and then he went to his own gear.

Smiles edged up close to Corabb. ‘Should’ve used that thing for more than just pissing, Corporal, and now it’s too late.’

Oh. I get it. We’re not coming back. ‘Then we march to glory.’

‘Hood’s breath,’ Smiles sighed.

But he caught a look on her face – quickly hidden. She is afraid. She is so young. ‘And you, Smiles, shall stand on my other side.’

Did she almost sag towards him then? He could not be sure, and she kept her face down, turned away as she worked on her satchel.

‘You have let your hair grow long,’ he said. ‘It makes you almost pretty.’

Cuttle edged close. ‘You really don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, do you, Corabb?’

‘Form up,’ Tarr said. ‘We’re in the lead to start.’

Cuttle met his sergeant’s eyes and gave a faint nod. Tarr turned and looked ahead to where Fiddler waited. The captain looked ill, but he held Tarr’s gaze without expression, and then Fiddler swung round and set off.

Their march would take them through the entire camp of regulars, down the central, widest avenue between the uneven rows of tents, awnings and blinds. The sapper looked up at the sky, then back down again – those blazing slashes seemed closer than ever, unnerving him.

Cuttle waved the others in their squad forward, then glanced back to see Balm leading his own soldiers, and beyond them Sergeant Urb. And then the rest of them. Hellian, Badan Gruk, Sinter, Gaunt-Eye, and the heavies falling in wherever they felt like it.

He stepped in behind Shortnose – the man had a way of wandering off, as if forgetting which squad he’d joined, but now he was here, trudging along under a massive bundle of rolled chain armour, weapons and shield. The heavy had tied a Nah’ruk finger bone to his beard and it made a thumping sound on his chest as he walked. His maimed shield hand was bound up in leather straps.

As they walked, the regulars to either side began converging ahead, as if to line their route, as if to watch in that Hood-damned silence of theirs as the marines and heavies passed. His unease deepened. Not a word from them, not a thing. As if we’re strangers. As the troop approached the broad avenue, the only sound came from their marching – the hard impact of their boots and the clatter of equipment – and through his growing anger Cuttle had an uncanny sensation of walking through an army of ghosts as the regulars drew up on either side. He didn’t see a single youthful face among all the onlookers. And not a nod, not even a tilt of a head.

But we look just as old and ruined, don’t we? What are they seeing? What are they thinking?

Tavore, I don’t envy you these soldiers. I can’t read them at all. Do they understand? Have they worked it out yet?

They’re heading east – to block the army the Assail are sending after us – to buy us the time we need. But if they can’t do it – if they can’t slow the bastards down – it’s all lost. This whole damned thing falls apart.

You’re headed for a fight. And we won’t be there for you – any of you. No fist of heavies. No knots of marines in the line. So if that’s a look of betrayal in your faces, if you think all this is about abandoning all of you, then Hood take me—

The thought ended abruptly, and Cuttle’s growing anger simply disintegrated.

The regulars began saluting, fists to their chests. Standing at attention, in suddenly perfect rows to either side.

The few muttered conversations among the marines and heavies fell off, and suddenly the silence became oppressive in an entirely different way. Cuttle felt more than heard the company’s footfalls slipping into cadence, and in the squad directly in front of him he now saw the soldiers edging into paired rows behind Captain Fiddler, with Corabb and Tarr in the lead, Smiles and Koryk behind them, followed by Bottle and Shortnose.

‘You just had to be uneven,’ growled Balm in a low voice as he came up on his right.

‘Then drop back.’

‘And shake this out all over again? Can’t even remember the last time I found myself on a parade – no, we just hold this, sapper, and hope to Hood no one trips over their own Hood-damned feet.’

‘Wasn’t expecting this.’

‘I hate it. I feel sick. Where we going again?’

‘Stop panicking, Sergeant.’

‘And who in the White Jackal’s name are you, soldier?’

Cuttle sighed. ‘Just march, Sergeant. Once we get through this, we can relax again. Promise.’

‘We getting medals or something?’

No. This is something else. This is what the Adjunct said wouldn’t happen. Look at these regulars.

They’re witnessing us.

‘Did you see this?’ Kisswhere asked.

Sinter kept staring straight ahead, but she frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your visions – did you see any of this? And what about what’s coming – what about tomorrow, or the next day?’

‘It’s not like that.’

Her sister sighed. ‘Funny. I can see what’s coming, right through to the very end.’

‘No you can’t. That’s just fear talking.’

‘And it’s got a lot to say.’

‘Just leave it, Kisswhere.’

‘No. I won’t. Tell me about a vision of the future, with us in it. Here’s mine. You’ve got a baby on your hip, with a boy running ahead. It’s the morning walk down to the imperial school – the one they were building before we left. And I got a girl who looks just like me, but wild, a demon in disguise. We’re exhausted, in the way of all mothers, and I’m getting fat. We brag about the runts, complain about our husbands, bitch at how tired we are. It’s hot, the flies are out and the air smells of rotted vegetables. Husbands. When are they going to finish fixing the roof, that’s what we want to know, when instead of doing something useful the lazy bastards spend all day lying in the shade picking their noses. And then if that’s not—’

‘Stop it, Kisswhere.’

To Sinter’s astonishment, her sister fell silent.

Was that the first time? Must’ve been. Sorido the miller’s boy. I’d woken up that morning with tits. We went behind the old custom house annexe, on that burnt stubble where they’d toasted an infestation of spiders only a few days before, and I lifted up my shirt and showed them off.

What was that boy’s name? Rilt? Rallit? His eyes got huge. I’d stolen a flask from the house. Peach brandy. You could set your breath on fire with that stuff. I figured he needed loosening up. Hood knows I did. So we drank and he played with them.

I had to fight him to get his cock out.

And that was the first time. Wish there’d been a thousand more, but it didn’t work out that way. He was killed a year later in his father’s shop – some rushed order on ship fittings, rumours of another crackdown on Kartoolii pirates because the Malazan overlords were losing revenues or something.

They weren’t pirates. That’s just a name for people being obvious about theft.

There could have been other boys. Dozens of them. But who wants to lie down on the ground on an island crawling with deadly spiders?

Rallit or Ralt or whatever your name was, I’m glad we fucked before you died. I’m glad you had at least that.

It’s not fair, how the years just vanish.

I love you, Hellian. How hard could it be to just say those words? But even thinking them made Urb’s jaw tighten as if bound in wire. Sudden sweat under his armour, a thudding heart, a thickening sensation of nausea in his throat. She had never looked better. No, she was beautiful. Why wasn’t he the drunk? Then he could blather out all he wanted to say in that shameless way drunks had. But why would she want him then? Unless she was just as drunk. But she wasn’t anything like that now. Her eyes were clear and they never rested, as if she was finally seeing things, and all that slackness was gone from her face and she could probably have any man she wanted now so why bother looking at him?

He kept his gaze ahead, trying not to notice all these regular soldiers with their salutes. Better to pretend they weren’t even there, weren’t paying them any attention, and they could walk out of this army, off to do whatever it was that needed doing, and no one needed to notice anything.

Attention made him nervous, when the only attention he really wanted was from her. But if she gave it to him, he’d probably fall to pieces.

I’d like to make love. Just once. Before I die. I’d like to hold her in my arms and feel as if the world’s just slid and shifted into its proper shape, making everything perfect. And I could see all of that, right there in her eyes.

And looking up … I’d see all these soldiers saluting me.

No, that’s not right. Don’t look up, Urb. Listen to yourself! Idiot!

Widdershins found that he was walking beside Throatslitter. He’d not expected an actual military march, and already his bare feet inside his worn boots were raw. He’d always hated having to throw his heels down with every step, feeling the shocks shooting up his spine, and having to lift his knees higher than usual was wearing him out.

He could see the end ahead, the edge of the damned camp. Once out of sight of these wretched regulars going all formal on them, they could relax again. He’d happily forgotten all this shit, those first months of training before he’d managed to slip across into the marines – where discipline didn’t mean striding in cadence and throwing the shoulders back and all that rubbish. Where it meant doing your job and not wasting time on anything else.

He remembered the first officers he’d encountered, bitching about companies like the Bridgeburners. Sloppy, slouching slackers – couldn’t get ’em to stand in a straight line if their lives depended on it, and as likely to slit their officers’ throats as take an order. Well, not quite. If it was a good order, a smart order, they’d step up smart. If it was a stupid order, an order that would see soldiers die for no good reason, well, the choice was not doing it and getting hammered for insubordination, or quietly arranging a tragic battlefield casualty.

Maybe the Bridgeburners had been the worst of the lot, but they’d also been the best, too. No, Widdershins liked being a marine, a Bonehunter in the tradition of their unruly predecessors. At least it had put an end to this kind of marching.

His heels were already bloody in his boots.

Deadsmell didn’t want to say goodbye, not to anyone. Not even Throatslitter limping one row ahead of him, whom with a choice comment or two he could make yelp that laugh – like squeezing a duck. Always entertaining, seeing people flinch on hearing it. And Deadsmell could do it over and over again.

It’d been a while since he’d last heard it, but now was not the time – not with all these regulars on either side. All these men and women saying goodbye to us. The Bonehunters were in their last days. This tortured army could finally see the end of things – and it seemed to have come up on them fast, unexpected, appallingly close.

But no. We marched across half a world. We chased a Whirlwind. We walked out of a burning city. We stood against our own in Malaz City. We took down the Letherii Empire, held off the Nah’ruk. We crossed a desert that couldn’t be crossed.

Now I know how the Bridgeburners must have felt, as the last of them was torn down, crushed underfoot. All that history, vanishing, soaking red into the earth.

Back home – in the Empire – we’re already lost. Just one more army struck off the ledgers. And this is how things pass, how things simply go away. We’ve gone and marched ourselves off the edge of the world.

I don’t want to say goodbye. And I want to hear Throatslitter’s manic laugh. I want to hear it again and again, and for ever more.

Hedge had drawn up his Bridgeburners just outside the northwest edge of the encampment. Waiting for the marines and heavies to appear, he scanned his collection of soldiers. They were loaded down, almost groaning beneath the weight of their gear. Way too many kittens.

Sergeant Rumjugs caught his eye and he nodded. She moved up to position herself at his side as he turned to face the Bonehunter camp. ‘Ever seen the like, sir? Who do you think gave the command for that? Maybe the Adjunct herself?’

Hedge shook his head. ‘No commands, Sergeant – this came from somewhere else. From the regulars themselves, rank and file and all that. I admit it, I didn’t think they had this in them.’

‘Sir, we heard rumours, about the marines and heavies … that maybe they won’t want us with them.’

‘Doesn’t matter, Sergeant. When it comes right down to it, we don’t even take orders from the Adjunct.’

‘But didn’t she—’

‘I lied,’ Hedge said. ‘I ain’t talked to nobody. This is my decision.’ He glanced over at her. ‘Got a problem with that, Sergeant?’

But she was grinning.

Hedge studied her. ‘You find that funny, do you? Why?’

She shrugged. ‘Sir, we heard rumours – other ones – about us not being real Bridgeburners. But you just proved ’em wrong, didn’t you? We don’t belong to nobody – only to each other, and to you, sir. You lied – hah!’

Behind them Sweetlard said, ‘Last night I took a man t’bed for free, sir, and y’know why? When he asked me how old I was and I said twenty-six, he believed me. Lies are sweet, ain’t they?’

‘Here they come,’ said Hedge.

Fiddler had appeared, leading his troops out from the camp. Even from this distance, Hedge could see the faces of the marines and heavies – sickly, grim. They’d not been expecting any sort of send-off. And they don’t know what to do with it. Did Fiddler throw a salute back? No, he wouldn’t have.

Fid, I see you. You’re as bad off as the rest of ’em. Like you’re headed for the executioner.

Us soldiers only got one kind of coin worth anything, and it’s called respect. And we hoard it, we hide it away, and there ain’t nobody who’d call us generous. Easy spenders we’re not. But there’s something feels even worse than having to give up a coin – it’s when somebody steps up and tosses one back at us.

We get antsy. We look away. And part of us feels like breaking inside, and we get down on ourselves, and outsiders don’t understand that. They think we should smile and wave or stand proud. But we don’t want to do anything of the sort, even when we’re made to. It’s because of all the friends we left behind, on all those battlefields, because we know that they’re the ones deserving of all that respect.

We could sit on a king’s hoard of those coins and still stay blind to all of ’em. Because some riches stick in the throat, and choke us going down.

When he saw Fiddler look up and see him, Hedge strode over.

‘Don’t do this, Fid.’

‘Do what? I told you—’

‘Not that. You halt your company now. You form ’em up facing those regulars. You’re captain now and they’re looking to you. It’s the coin, Fiddler. You got to give it back.’

The captain stared at Hedge for a long moment. ‘Didn’t think it’d be this hard.’

‘So you thought to just run away?’

Fiddler shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t sure what they wanted.’

Cocking his head, Hedge said, ‘You’re not convinced they’re worth it, are you?’

The captain was silent.

Hedge shook his head. ‘We ain’t made for this, you and me, Fid. We’re sappers. When I get in trouble on all this stuff I just think what would Whiskeyjack do? Listen, you need those regulars to stand up, you need them to buy you the time needed. You need them to buy it with their own blood, their own lives. It don’t matter if you think they’ve not earned a damned thing. You got to give the coin back.’

When Fiddler still hesitated, Hedge swung round and gestured to his Bridgeburners, then turned back. ‘We’re forming up, Fid, faces to the camp – you just gonna stand there, with all your marines and heavies mobbing up and not knowing where to fucking look?’

‘No,’ Fiddler replied in a thick voice. ‘Hedge – I think … I just faltered a step. That’s all.’

‘Better now than a few days from now, hey?’

As Hedge moved to join his squads, Fiddler called out. ‘Wait.’

He turned back. ‘What now?’

‘Something else everyone needs to see, I think.’ And Fiddler stepped forward and held out his hand.

Hedge eyed it. ‘You think that’s enough?’

‘Start there, idiot.’

Smiling, Hedge grasped that forearm.

And Fiddler pulled him into a hard embrace.

Badalle stood atop a wagon, Saddic at her side, watching the scene at the edge of camp.

‘What’s happening, Badalle?’ Saddic asked.

‘Wounds take time to heal,’ she replied, watching the two men embracing, feeling a vast tension seem to drain away on all sides.

‘Are they lovers?’

‘Brothers,’ she said.

‘The one with the red beard – you called him Father, Badalle. Why?’

‘It’s what being a soldier is all about. That is what I have seen since we found them. You do not choose your family, and sometimes there’s trouble in that family, but you don’t choose.’

‘But they did. They chose to be soldiers.’

‘And then they come face to face with death, Saddic. That is the blood tie, and it makes a knot not even dying can cut.’ And that is why the others are saluting. ‘Soon,’ she said, ‘very soon, we are going to see this family awaken to anger.’

‘But Mother is sending those ones away. Will we ever see them again?’

‘It’s easy, Saddic,’ she said. ‘Just close your eyes.’

Walking slowly, Pores made his way to the edge of the camp so that he could look out on the marines and heavies, who were now forming up to face the regulars. He looked round for the Adjunct but could not see her. Nor was Fist Blistig anywhere in sight – the man who tried to murder me.

There is nothing more dangerous than a man without a sense of humour.

As Fiddler and Hedge drew apart and headed for their respective companies, Faradan Sort came up alongside Pores, and then, on his other side, Fist Kindly.

Pores sighed. ‘Fists. Was all this by your command?’

‘I was barking orders when they just stood up and left me standing there,’ said Faradan Sort. ‘They’re as bad as marines, these regulars.’

‘We will see if that’s true soon enough,’ Kindly said. ‘Master-Sergeant Lieutenant Pores, are you recovered?’

‘Some additional healing proved possible once we were away from the desert. As you see, sir, I am up and about.’

‘It is your innate laziness that still needs addressing.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Are you agreeing with me, Master-Sergeant Lieutenant Pores?’

‘I always agree with you, sir.’

‘Oh, enough, you two,’ Faradan Sort said. ‘We’re about to be saluted.’

All the regulars had drawn to this side of the camp and stood in an uneven mass. There was an ease to all of this that Pores found … peculiar, as if the entire structure of the military, in all its rigidity and inane affectation, had ceased to be relevant. The regulars no longer held their own salute and now stood watching, for all the world like a crowd drawn down to the docks to see a fleet’s departure from the bay, while Captain Fiddler moved out to stand in front of his marines, facing them all. He lifted his hand in a salute, held it for a moment as his soldiers did the same, and then let the hand fall.

And that was it. No answering gesture from the regulars. Pores grunted. ‘It’s the old coin thing, isn’t it?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Kindly in a rough voice. He cleared his throat and said, ‘That tradition was born on the Seti Plain, from the endless internecine warfare among the horse clans. Honest scraps ended in an exchange of trophy coins.’ He was silent for a few breaths, and then he sighed. ‘Seti combs are works of art. Antler and horn, polished to a lustre—’

‘I feel another bout of laziness coming on, sir. Isn’t it time you ordered me to do something?’

Blinking, Kindly faced Pores. Then shocked him with a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not today.’ And he walked back into camp.

Faradan Sort remained at his side for a moment longer. ‘If he had a son to choose, Pores …’

‘I’ve already been disowned once, Fist, and regardless of what you might think, I’m not a glutton for punishment.’

She studied him. ‘He was saying goodbye.’

‘I know what it was,’ Pores snapped, wincing as he turned too quickly away. When she reached to take his arm, he waved her off. Both gestures made his chest hurt, but that was the kind of pain he welcomed these days. Keeping the other kind at bay.

Forgot to thank him. Deadsmell. And now it’s too late. And now Kindly goes all soft on me. Where’s the fun in that?

‘Go back to your wagon,’ Faradan Sort said. ‘I’ll detail three squads for the harness.’

No heavies now. ‘Better make it four, Fist.’

‘It is my understanding,’ she replied, ‘that we do not have far to go today.’

Despite himself, he glanced over at her. ‘Really? Has she announced our destination, then?’

‘She has.’

‘And?’

She looked across at him. ‘We’re looking for a suitable field of battle.’

Pores thought about that for a few moments. ‘So they know we’re here.’

‘Yes, Lieutenant. And they are marching to meet us.’

He looked to the departing column of marines and heavies. Then … where are they going? This is what I get for lying half dead for days, and then spoon-feeding old Shorthand, waiting for a word from him. Just one word. Something more than just staring into space – that’s not a proper way for a man to end his days.

And now I don’t know what the Hood’s going on. Me, of all people.

The camp was breaking up behind him. Everything coming down for the march, with barely a single word spoken. He’d never known an army as quiet as this one. ‘Fist.’

‘Yes?’

‘Will they fight?’

She stepped close, her eyes cold as ice. ‘You don’t ask that kind of question, Pores. Not another word. Am I understood?’

‘Aye, Fist. I just don’t want to be the only one unsheathing my sword, that’s all.’

‘You’re in no condition for that.’

‘That detail hardly matters, Fist.’

Making a face, she turned away. ‘I suppose not.’

Pores watched her head back into the camp.

Besides, I might need that sword. If Blistig gets close. It’s not like he’ll be of any use in the scrap – the very opposite, in fact. But I’ll choose the perfect moment. It’s all down to timing. All of life is down to timing, and that was always my talent, wasn’t it?

I’m mostly a nice guy. Made a career of avoiding blood and fighting and all the unpleasant stuff. The challenge was pulling that off while being in an army. But … not as hard as it sounds.

No matter. It’s not as if I’m afraid of war. It’s the chaos I don’t like. Kindly’s combs … now, you see, those I do understand. That man I understand. Through and through. And being his one unruly comb, why, how perfect was that?

Mostly a nice guy, like I said. But Blistig tried killing me, for a few empty casks.

I don’t feel like being nice any more.

‘Adjunct wishes to see you, Fist,’ said Lostara Yil.

Blistig glanced up, saw the look in her eyes and decided to ignore it. Grunting, he straightened from where he had been sitting amidst discarded equipment.

He followed the woman through the camp, paying little attention to the preparations going on around them. These regulars were good at going through all the motions – they’d done enough of it, after all, and had probably walked more leagues since forming up than most people did in a lifetime. But that didn’t add any notches on the scabbard, did it? For all their professionalism – suddenly rediscovered since the Blood for Water miracle, and not just rediscovered, but reinvented with a discipline so zealous it bordered on the obsessive – these regulars looked fragile to Blistig.

They would melt away before the enemy at the first hint of pressure. He’d seen them lining the route taken by the marines and heavies; he’d seen their pathetic salutes. Good for gestures now, these soldiers, but their faces were empty. They had the look of the dead. Every man, every woman.

When Lostara reached the entrance to the Adjunct’s tent, she halted, gesturing him inside.

He moved past her, stepped within.

Only the front chamber remained standing – the back end of the tent was already unstaked and hanging in a thick creased wall behind Tavore, who stood facing him. There was no one else present, not even that smirking priest, and Lostara Yil had not followed him in.

‘What is it, Adjunct? I have troops to oversee if you want us up and on the way before noon.’

‘Fist Blistig, I am placing you in command of the centre. You will have Fist Kindly on your right and Fist Faradan Sort on your left. Warleader Gall will hold the Khundryl in reserve, along with the skirmishers and archers.’

He stared at her, dumbfounded. ‘You are describing the presentation for battle,’ he said. ‘But there won’t be any battle. It will be a rout. We will face Forkrul Assail – and you’ve gone and given up your sword. Their sorcery will overwhelm us.’

Her eyes held on his, unwavering. ‘You will hold the centre, Fist. That is your only task in the upcoming engagement. You will be attacked by normal soldiers – Kolansii – a conventional army. Expect them to be highly disciplined and well trained. If there are heavy infantry among the enemy then you can be certain that they will strike for your position. You will not yield a single step, is that understood?’

Blistig drew off his helmet, contemplated throwing it at the woman standing opposite him. Instead, he clawed a hand through his thinning hair. I could kill her. Right now, here in this tent. But she bought their souls again, didn’t she? I’d never get away alive. Better to wait, find a more perfect moment. But then, who am I trying to fool? ‘Put me there, Adjunct, and I’ll take a knife to the back before the Kolansii even crest the horizon.’

There was a look in her eyes that made him wonder if she’d seen right through to his thoughts, if she knew how close she was to being murdered, and simply did not care enough to feel fear. ‘Fist, I was advised when in Aren to leave you in command of the city garrison. Indeed, there was talk of promoting you to the city’s Fist, and had that occurred it is possible that you would then be touted to become High Fist, overseeing all of South Seven Cities. I understand that what I have just described would have suited you perfectly. At least until the next uprising.’

Blistig’s voice was a rasp, ‘What is the point of this, Adjunct?’

‘However, your proponents – the officers and functionaries in Aren – couldn’t see a span beyond their city’s walls. They could not imagine that Jhistal Mallick Rel would not rot away the rest of his days in a gaol cell, or lose his head to a pike above the main gate. In other words, they had no comprehension of the extent of the man’s influence, how it had already corrupted the Claw, or that his agents were even then positioned within reach of Laseen’s throne.

‘Furthermore,’ she continued, still studying him, ‘that his hatred for you and your … betrayal at Aren, following Coltaine’s fall, pretty much assured your eventual assassination. You may indeed be unaware that between the Fall and my arrival in the city three attempts were made on your life. All of them successfully intercepted, at the cost of four valuable agents.

‘Your transfer to under my command was in fact the only means of keeping you alive, Fist Blistig. The fourth time your life was saved was at Malaz City; had we failed in extricating ourselves you would have been arrested and executed. Now, you may choose to believe that I undertook such efforts because I value you as a commander, and be sure that to this day I remain impressed and admiring of your quick wit and decisiveness when refusing to yield Aren to the rebels. But that was not my primary reason for saving your life. Mallick Rel, High Fist Korbolo Dom and their interests would seek to revise the events at Aren – the outlawing and castigation of the Wickans was but the beginning.

‘Fist Blistig, there are few who know the truth of those events. I saved your life to keep that truth alive.’

He was silent following this speech. A part of him wanted to disbelieve every word, wanted to call her a damned liar, and a self-serving one at that. But … how could any of this be self-serving? She was placing him in command of the centre – probably facing heavy infantry – among Malazan soldiers who despised him. She’d saved his life only to throw it away now, and how did that make sense, any sense at all? ‘Adjunct, are you expecting me to thank you?’

‘The only expectation of any importance, Fist, concerns commanding the centre to the best of your abilities.’

‘They won’t follow me.’

‘They will.’

‘Why should they?’

‘Because they will have no one else.’

No one … ‘Where will you be, Adjunct?’

‘I will be facing the Forkrul Assail and their sorcery. I will be fighting the power of their will. I will be preventing it from reaching my soldiers.’

‘But you gave up your damned sword, woman!’

‘There are residual effects to bearing such a weapon, Fist. In any case, none of that is your concern.’

‘Except when you fail. When you fall.’

‘Even then, Fist.’

His eyes narrowed on her. ‘That only works if you take them down with you. Is that the plan, Adjunct? One final sacrifice to defend an army that doesn’t even like you? That doesn’t want to be here? That doesn’t even know what it’s supposed to be fighting for? And then you expect me and the other Fists to hold them together? With you dead and gone?’

She cocked her head. ‘You are contradicting yourself.’

He waved a dismissive hand, the gesture chopping the air.

Tavore seemed to flinch slightly at that, but the tone of her next words belied the impression. ‘Maintain your line with the flanks, Fist.’

‘We’re going to get cut to pieces.’

Turning away, she reached for her leather gloves. ‘If so, Fist, just make sure you take a long time dying.’

He left without bothering to salute, walked with his helm dangling from one hand.

Three foiled attempts on my life? A corrupted Claw?

Then who did the foiling?

Banaschar stood twenty paces away from her tent, motionless while figures moved in measured haste around him, wanting to be a heavy stone in the stream, a place to set a foot and find an instant or two of rest. But his was a lifeless island, until Lostara Yil found him, taking his arm in hers and pulling him round – Henar Vygulf grinning off to one side.

‘What is this?’ Banaschar demanded, only vaguely resisting as she led him away – he’d just seen Blistig exit Tavore’s tent, his stride echoing that of a lifeless T’lan Imass, and he’d been considering going to the Adjunct again, to see what he could glean of what had taken place between her and the Fist. Instead, he was being pulled away.

And there, ahead, stood a small group of officers. Skanarow. Ruthan Gudd, Raband and Faradan Sort.

Banaschar sought to disengage his arm. ‘You keep forgetting, I’m not actually in this army.’

‘Our last palaver,’ said Lostara. ‘Make it mocking, make it solemn, however you like it, Priest. But it will happen, and you will be in attendance.’

‘Why?’

They’d reached the others, and Banaschar saw the expectation in their faces and wanted to hide under a shield.

Ruthan Gudd, fingers combing his beard, was the first to speak. ‘Priest. We’ve all been given our orders. Will you be at the Adjunct’s side through all of this?’

All of what? The dying? ‘I don’t know. I doubt it.’

‘Why?’ asked Faradan Sort, the word sharp, accusing.

He shrugged. ‘I expect she will be fighting. Eventually.’

Lostara Yil cleared her throat in the silence that followed, and then said, ‘She has ordered me, Henar and Ruthan Gudd to attend to her at all times.’

‘That makes sense,’ Banaschar said.

‘It’s the Forkrul Assail, isn’t it?’

To Lostara’s question Banaschar simply shrugged again.

‘She has surrendered her sword, somewhere,’ said Faradan Sort. ‘How does she expect to defend herself against the sorcery of the Assail?’

‘I don’t know.’

Raband voiced a raw curse and looked ready to leave, but Skanarow shook her head at him and he subsided, scowling.

Lostara caught Banaschar’s eye – he could see fear in hers. ‘Priest, I do not think I will again Shadow Dance. Not the way I did before. If she is expecting such a thing from me – perhaps against the Forkrul Assail—’

‘Captain, I don’t know what she is expecting,’ said Banaschar quietly. ‘You and Ruthan Gudd, you have both shown exceptional abilities. Is that why she wants you close? I imagine that it is, and at the moment of greatest need, will she look to you two? Why wouldn’t she?’

‘I can’t do it again!’

Banaschar glanced over at Ruthan Gudd. ‘And what of you, Captain? Besieged by the same uncertainties, are you? Or will the gift of the Stormriders reawaken to protect you?’

‘The Adjunct clearly believes that it will,’ he replied.

‘Have you told her otherwise, Captain?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Is it not why you’re here?’ Banaschar asked. ‘Was this not the reason for their gift?’

The others were studying Ruthan Gudd now, and the man looked decidedly unhappy. ‘It depends. Nobody’s ever as forthcoming on these things as one might like. Did they know what was hidden in Kolanse? Probably. Are they interested in … liberation?’

‘Hardly,’ growled Faradan Sort, one hand now on the sword belted at her side.

Ruthan Gudd’s eyes flicked down to that weapon and his smile was wry when he lifted his gaze to Faradan’s. ‘I suspected you had a sound reason for forswearing the Wall.’

‘I fought three links from Greymane.’

Ruthan Gudd nodded but said nothing more.

Breath hissed from Lostara Yil. ‘This isn’t fair. Ruthan – do you fear using what the Stormriders gave you?’

‘The Stormriders are not a people given to compromise,’ Banaschar said, when it was clear that Ruthan Gudd had no intention of replying. ‘The captain senses the ambivalence in what is to come. And the risk of failure. He anticipates that the power of the Stormriders will, if unleashed, conclude that said risk is too great – with too much to lose should the Adjunct’s plan fail.’

Lostara said, ‘Ruthan – do you not control that power?’

Finally, the man scowled and said, ‘Ask that of yourself and the Shadow Dance, Lostara Yil.’

‘But that is the will of a god!’

‘And whom do the Stormriders serve? Does anyone even know? You, Faradan? Are they mindless, senseless creatures? You have stood the Wall. Tell her – tell her what you have seen with your own eyes.’

‘They have purpose,’ she said slowly. ‘They are driven. More than that, I cannot say.’

‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Raband. ‘The fact is this: you and me, Skanarow, we’re in command of our companies. Is there anything more that you and I need know? Then I suggest we head back to our troops and leave the rest of their discussion to our superiors.’

Banaschar watched him dragging Skanarow away by one arm – she threw a look back at Ruthan Gudd but he either did not notice or chose not to, and so did not see the crushing grief take her face.

Sighing, Faradan Sort drew her gauntlets from her belt. ‘Fare you well, captains.’

The priest looked up at the morning sky, squinted at the Jade Strangers. Never been closer. We only have a day or two. Not more, surely.

‘Cotillion swore to me that he would never again take possession,’ said Lostara Yil.

Banaschar shot her a searching look. ‘Too tempting, I imagine?’

‘What’s given and what’s taken away, Priest.’

He nodded, understanding her meaning.

‘I was expecting to survive all of this,’ said Ruthan Gudd. ‘Now I am not so sure.’

‘So you know how the rest of us feel,’ snapped Lostara Yil.

But the man simply turned to Banaschar. ‘If you will not be with her, Priest, then where will you be? What is your reason for being here?’

‘There is a question that has been haunting me,’ he replied over the sound of the first horns announcing column formation. ‘How does a mortal win over a god? Has it ever happened before, even? Has the old order been overturned? Or is this just … special circumstance? A moment unique in all of history?’

‘You have won the Worm of Autumn to her cause, Priest?’

At Lostara’s question, Banaschar frowned. He studied her for a moment, and then glanced at Ruthan Gudd. ‘You look shocked,’ he said to him. ‘Is it that I somehow possessed that power? Or is it the very idea that what we do in this mortal world – with our lives, with our will – could make a god kneel before us?’ Then he shook his head. ‘But you both misunderstood me. I was not speaking of myself at all. I cannot win over a god, even when I am the last priest in that god’s House. Don’t you understand? It’s her. She did it. Not me.’

‘She spoke to your god?’

Banaschar grunted. ‘No, Lostara. She rarely speaks at all – you of all people should know that by now. No. Instead, she simply refused to waver from her path, and by that alone she has humbled the gods. Do you understand me? Humbled them.’

Ruthan Gudd shook his head. ‘The gods are too arrogant to ever be humbled.’

‘A year ago, lying drunk on my cot, I would have agreed with you, Captain. So tell me now, will you fight for her?’

His eyes were thinned as he studied Banaschar, and then he said, ‘With all my heart.’

The gasp that came from Lostara was almost a sob.

The Bonehunters formed up into column. Alone by express order, the Adjunct mounted her horse and remained motionless on it until the last of the wagons they were taking trundled past, and then she took up her reins and swung the animal to face west.

She could see the worn path taken by the marines and the heavies, angling slightly northward but still on a westerly track. They were already out of sight, vanishing into the deceptive folds of the plain. Her hand brushed the empty scabbard at her side, and then away again. She adjusted the strap of her helm, and looked down to examine her worn, oft-mended Malazan uniform. The burgundy was faded, the grey worn to white in places. The leather of her gloves was cracked, sweat- and salt-stained. The armour bands protecting her thighs had rubbed through the underpadding here and there.

She had clasped her cloak to the fittings situated on the harness over her breastbone, and the black wool hung heavy, drawing her shoulders back. Adjusting its weight until it was even, she straightened and ran a hand across the fittings she could reach, tightening them where needed. Reached up and pushed stray wisps of thin hair from her cheeks.

Guiding her horse round, she nudged the animal into a slow trot.

As she passed her soldiers on her left, the Adjunct held her gaze straight ahead.

Faces turned to watch her.

No one called out. Not a word of encouragement, not a single jest, not a question rising up above the thump of boots and the rustle of gear to which she might respond with a word or two.

She held herself straight, moving slowly, making her way towards the head of the column. And of all the journeys she had undertaken, since the very beginning, this one – from the back of the column to its head – was the longest one she had ever travelled. And, as ever, she travelled it alone.

Riding bone-white Jhag horses, the three Forkrul Assail reined in a third of a league ahead of their armies. In their minds, they could hear distant clamour, and they knew that the assault against the Great Spire had begun. But Akhrast Korvalain was trembling with blows from foreign magics, both ancient and new, and so details evaded their questing. The unease drifting between them was, alas, palpable.

‘It does not matter,’ Brother Aloft announced. ‘We have before us a singular task, and in this we shall prevail. If it follows that we must retrace our steps to win once more the Altar of Judgement, then we shall do so.’

Sister Freedom spoke. ‘Brothers, I sense three threats before us, but one will not reach us in time to affect the forthcoming battle, so we can for the moment discount it. It is, however, the smaller of the two elements before us that troubles me. Clearly, they have a specific intention, and the main force marching towards us is positioning itself with the aim of blocking our advance. From this, I conclude that the purpose of the smaller force is of vital importance.’

Brother Aloft slowly nodded. ‘What do you propose, Sister?’

‘We each possess an army, Brothers. If my senses are accurate – and I assure you that they are – any one of us alone is more than a match for the main force ahead of us. However, bearing in mind that our enemy is perhaps formidable in ways we have not yet been made aware of – they did manage to cross the Glass Desert, after all – I advise that we commit two armies to their destruction. The third, perhaps yours, Brother Grave, sets off at a faster pace to hunt down the smaller force – and prevent them from doing whatever it is they plan to do.’

‘And this small force,’ Brother Grave said in his thin voice, ‘they flee northwest, yes?’

‘I doubt it is flight as such, Brother,’ Freedom said, frowning. ‘I continue to sense a measure of confidence in you, Brother Grave, perhaps somewhat overinflated under the circumstances.’

The older Pure snorted. ‘We shall face humans. Thus far, in all my thousands of years of life, I have yet to be impressed by these creatures.’

‘Nevertheless, I implore you to engage with surety tempered by caution, Brother.’

‘I shall be suitably exact in the execution of my mission, Sister Freedom. I shall hunt down this handful of humans and destroy them.’

‘Your words reassure me,’ she replied. ‘Brother Aloft, I welcome your advice in the matter to follow, as much as I do Brother Grave’s. That third element – so disturbingly efficacious against our northern forces – is, as I said, too far away to affect the engagements we anticipate. However, there is the slight risk – as it is known that certain companies among them are mounted – that they would in fact intercept Brother Grave should he lead his forces north from here in his effort to reach his target as quickly as possible. You see, my instincts are that Brother Grave’s foe – despite its paltry size – is in fact the most dangerous element now arrayed before us.’

‘Understood, Sister Freedom. Then, might I suggest the following? That Brother Grave divide his army on the basis of speed of travel. That he personally lead his light and medium infantry not northwestward, but southwest skirting the force you and I shall engage, and then striking due north behind said enemy; while in turn his heavy infantry take the shorter northwest route – being heavy infantry, they can well successfully withstand incursions by cavalry should the unexpected happen. If led by the purest of the Watered, the heavy infantry element can coordinate their arrival at the target to coincide with Brother Grave’s own companies, as rudimentary communication should be possible.’

Sister Freedom turned to Brother Grave. ‘Does this suit you, Brother?’

‘Light and medium elements constitute a little over two thousand soldiers – my force was ever weighted on the heavier elements, organized as it originally was for sieges and set battles. Sister Freedom, how accurate is your gauging of the complement of this smaller enemy force?’

‘No more than a hundred, I believe, Brother Grave.’

‘Well then.’ The man smiled, face folding with the expression. ‘Two thousand against a hundred. Will you both forgive me for a small measure of confidence regarding those odds?’

Brother Aloft said, ‘Since we are certain that there is nothing like a pass or any other similar feature into which to force attackers, then I cannot but share your confidence, Brother Grave. At best, the enemy will be defending a hill – perhaps one of the ancient Elan barrow camps – and so can be attacked from all sides. And of course, even should the light and medium forces fail, the heavy infantry companies will rejoin you and thereby contribute to subsequent assaults. Given all this, I believe we have successfully addressed the matter of the smaller enemy force.’ Aloft faced Freedom. ‘Only a hundred, you say? Perhaps they are deserters.’

‘It is possible,’ she conceded. ‘Yet my instincts say otherwise.’

‘With vehemence?’

She glanced at him. ‘Yes, Brother Aloft, with vehemence.’

‘Then, if I may,’ said Aloft, ‘we should perhaps discuss another concern. The third force, which has so thoroughly negated our efforts at defeating or even containing it, is now marching with the clear intention of joining this battle – though as you say, Sister, they will be too late. My thoughts are these: it is too great a reach to imagine that there has been no coordination here. To begin, the strongest fortress in Estobanse is taken, thus threatening our north and, more important, our primary source of food, being the valley province. We respond by sending armies against them, only to have them crushed. Now, from what we are able to glean from Sister Reverence and Brother Diligence, at the Spire, two distinct elements have engaged us from the south. And we of course now march to block an incursion from the west. For all we know, a foreign fleet is even now entering Kolanse Bay.’ He surveyed the expressions before him and slowly nodded. ‘This was well planned, do you not agree? Its principal aim, to draw apart our active armies, has already succeeded. In each instance, we are forced to react rather than initiate.’

‘A proficient high command, then,’ said Sister Freedom, nodding.

But Aloft shook his head. ‘In truth, this has the feel of a grand strategy, and just as your instincts speak with vehemence to you about the matter of the smaller force, Sister Freedom, so now my instincts have been shouting that this invasion – this strategy and each and every tactical engagement – is in fact the product of a single individual’s will.’ He nodded to Brother Grave. ‘I accept your assessment of humans, in general. But is it not also true that, on rare occasions, there rises from the multitude of mediocrity that is humanity a single person of extraordinary vision conjoined with the will to achieve that vision, who presents a most formidable presence. One to shape the course of history.’

Brother Grave grunted. ‘Charismatic tyrants, you mean. Indeed, they do appear from time to time, burning bright and deadly and expunged just as quickly. Such individuals, among humans, are inevitably self-corrupting, and for all that they may shape history, that shaping is more often than not simply born out of that tyrant’s indulgence in destruction. Brother Aloft, you may well be right that we face such a person behind all of this. But does it matter in the end? And is it not that unbridled ambition that assures the fool’s demise? I would venture, with considerable amusement, that we now represent that fatal overreaching on that tyrant’s part.’ He faced Sister Freedom. ‘Have you not confirmed that the northern threat is too far away? This grand execution of coordinated invasions has failed, in fact.’

‘It may be as you say,’ acknowledged Brother Aloft. ‘But what if our eyes deceive us? What if what we are seeing is in fact precisely what our opponent wants us to see?’

‘Now you are too generous by far,’ Sister Freedom admonished him. ‘This is a breakdown in timing, perhaps precipitated by our detecting this western threat almost the instant it stepped out from the Glass Desert, and already being in perfect position to strike them with little delay.’

‘I accept the wisdom of your words, Sister.’

‘I will not castigate you, Brother, for listening to your instincts. Although, as we all know, if left unrestrained instincts have a way of encouraging panic – as they lie beyond the control of the intellect to begin with, theirs is the shorter path to fear.’

The three Forkrul Assail were silent then, each preoccupied with their own thoughts.

And then Sister Freedom said, ‘I shall seek to enslave the soldiers we face. They could prove useful.’

‘But not the hundred I hunt,’ said Brother Grave.

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Kill them all, Brother.’

Ben Adaephon Delat reined in hard, his horse’s hoofs skidding through the parched grasses.

Cursing, Kalam wheeled his mount round, the beast pitching beneath him in its exhaustion. He glared back his friend. ‘What is it now, Quick?’

But the wizard held up a hand, shaking his head.

Settling back to ease his aching spine, Kalam looked round, seeing nothing but empty, rolling land. The taint of green from the jade slashes overhead made the world look sickly, but already he was growing used to that.

‘Never mind the Adjunct,’ Quick Ben said.

Kalam shot him a startled look. ‘What? Her brother—’

‘I know – you think this was easy? I felt them pulling apart. I’ve been thinking about that all morning. I know why Ganoes wants us to find her – I know why he sent us ahead. But it’s no good, Kalam. I’m sorry. It’s no good.’

The assassin stared at his friend for a moment longer, and then he sagged, spat to clear the taste of ashes from his mouth. ‘She’s on her own, then.’

‘Aye. Her choice.’

‘No – don’t even try that, Quick. This is your choice!’

‘She’s forced my hand, damn you!’

‘How? What has she done? What’s all this about pulling apart? What in Hood’s name does that even mean?’

Quick Ben’s horse must have picked up some of its rider’s agitation, for it now shied beneath him and he fought to regain control for a moment. As the animal backed in a half-circle, the wizard swore under his breath. ‘Listen. It’s not with her any more. She’s made herself the sacrifice – how do you think I can even know this? Kalam, she’s given up her sword.’

Kalam stared. ‘What?’

‘But I can feel it – that weapon. It’s the blank place in my vision. That’s where we have to go.’

‘So she dies, does she? Just like that?’

Quick Ben rubbed at his face. ‘No. We’ve been doing too much of this – all of us. From the very start.’

‘Back to the fucking riddles.’

‘Underestimating her! From damned near the first day I ended up with the Bonehunters, I’ve listened to us all second-guessing her, every damned step she took. I did my share, Hood knows. But it wasn’t just me, was it? Her officers. The marines. The fucking camp cook – what did you tell me a while back? About that moment in Mock’s Hold, when she asked you to save her? You did it, you said, because she just asked you – no bargaining, no reasons or explanations. She just went and asked you, Kalam. Was it hard saying yes? Tell me the truth. Was it?’

Slowly, Kalam shook his head. ‘But I sometimes wondered … did I just feel sorry for her?’

Quick Ben reacted as if he’d been slapped. In a soft voice he asked, ‘Do you still think that, Kalam?’

The assassin was silent, thinking about it. Then he sighed. ‘We know where Ganoes wants us. We even know why – he’s her brother, for Hood’s sake.’

‘We know where she wants us, too, Kalam.’

‘Do we?’

Quick Ben slowly nodded.

‘So which of the fucking Parans do we obey here?’

‘Which one would you rather face – here or other side of the Gates – to tell ’em you failed, that you made the wrong choice? No, I don’t mean brazening it out, either. Just standing there, saying what needs saying?’

Fuck. ‘I feel like I’m back in Mock’s Hold,’ he said in a growl. ‘I feel as if I never left.’

‘And she meets your eyes.’

Abruptly a sob took the assassin, vicious as a body blow and just as unexpected.

His friend waited, saying nothing – and Kalam knew that he wouldn’t, because they’d been through it all together. Because true friends knew when to keep silent, to give all the patience needed. Kalam struggled to lock down on his emotions – he wasn’t even sure what had taken him, in that moment. Maybe this unrelenting pressure. This endless howl no one else even hears.

I stood looking down on the city. I stood knowing I was about to walk a path of blood.

The betrayal didn’t even matter, not to me; the Claw was always full of shits. Did it matter to her either? No. She’d already dismissed it. Just one more knife in her chest, and she was already carrying plenty of those, starting with the one she stuck there with her own hands.

Kalam shook himself. ‘Same direction?’

‘For now,’ Quick Ben replied. ‘Until we get closer. Then – southwest.’

‘To the sword.’

‘To the sword.’

‘Anyone babysitting it, Quick?’

‘I hope not.’

Kalam gathered his reins, drew a deep breath and slowly eased it back out. ‘Quick – how did she manage to cross that desert anyway?’

The wizard shook his head, half smiled. ‘Guess we … underestimated her.’

After a moment, they set out once again.

Wings crooking, Silchas Ruin slid earthward. After a moment, Tulas Shorn followed. To the south they could see something like a cloud, or a swarm. The air hissing past their wings felt brittle, fraught with distant pain rolling like waves across the sky.

Silchas Ruin landed hard on the ground, sembled almost immediately, and staggered forward, hands held over his ears.

Taking his Edur form, Tulas Shorn studied his friend, but drew no closer. Overhead, one of the jade slashes began edging across the face of the sun. A sudden deepening of shadow enveloped them, the gloom eerie and turgid.

Groaning, Silchas finally straightened, stiff as an old man. He looked across. ‘It’s the Hust sword,’ he said. ‘Its howling was driving me mad.’

‘I hear nothing,’ Tulas said.

‘In my skull – I swear I could feel bones crack.’

‘Unsheathe it, friend.’

Silchas Ruin looked over with wide eyes, his expression filling with dread.

‘Grasp it when you veer.’

‘And what will that achieve?’

‘I don’t know. But I cannot imagine that this gift was meant to torture you. Your only other choice, Silchas, is to discard it.’ He gestured southward. ‘We are almost upon them – I am, frankly, astonished that she still lives. But if we delay here much longer …’

‘Tulas, I am afraid.’

‘Of dying? A little late for that.’

Silchas smiled, but it was more of a grimace. ‘Easy for you to say.’

‘I dwelt a long time in the House of Death, tormented by the truth that I failed to achieve what I most wanted in my life. That sense, of terrible incompleteness, overwhelmed me many times. But now I stand with you, my brother, and I will fall in your stead if I can in this battle to come. Oblivion does not frighten me – I see only its blessed release.’

Silchas Ruin studied him. Then he sighed and reached for the sword. Hand closing on its plain grip, he slid the weapon free.

The Hust sword bucked in his hand, voicing a deafening shriek.

Tulas Shorn was driven back a step, and he stared in shock as enormous ghostly chains appeared, writhing from the sword’s patterned blade. Those chains seemed to be anchored deep into the ground, and suddenly the land beneath them was shaking, pitching them about as if the world was rolling its shoulders. From below, a rising thunder—

A blast of dirt and stone lifted skyward off to Tulas Shorn’s left, and he bellowed in shock upon seeing a dragon clawing its way free of the steaming earth. And then, off to the right, another erupted in a shower of debris, and then a third – each one chained as it rose from the ground, wings hammering the dust-filled air.

Their roars – of release – ripped across the plain.

Silchas Ruin stood, both hands now on the sword, as the ethereal chains snapped taut, scissoring wildly above him like the strands of a wind-whipped thread.

Eloth. Ampelas. Kalse.

Tulas Shorn staggered forward. ‘Veer! Silchas Ruin – veer! We have our Storm! He has given us our Storm!’

Screaming, Silchas Ruin blurred, pungent clouds roiling out from him. Sword and chains vanished – yet the three dragons held close in the air above them.

Veering, Tulas Shorn launched himself into the sky.

Eloth’s voice filled his skull. ‘Brothers! It is as Cotillion promised! We are freed once more!’

‘Only to die!’ cried another voice – Ampelas – yet there was nothing of frustration in its tone.

‘Should we prevail – Silchas Ruin, will you vow to break our chains?’

And Silchas replied, ‘Eloth, I so swear.’

‘Then we have a cause worth fighting for! He bargained true. He is a god with honour!’

The five Ancient Dragons wheeled then, climbing ever higher as they winged southward. The shadow cast down by one talon slash in the heavens above them marked their path, true as an arrow into the heart of the battle.

‘My leg!’ Telorast shrieked. ‘Curdle! I am crippled! Help me!’

The other skeletal lizard halted so quickly it fell over, rolled once, twice, and then leapt back to its feet. ‘Aaii! See the shadow? It hunts us! It chases us! Webs across the sky! Telorast – you are doomed!’

‘I see Eleint! They are coming for us! This was a trap! A lie! A deceit! Betrayal! Bad luck! Help me, Curdle!’

Curdle leapt up and down as if eating flies on the wing. ‘They only pretended! Those two usurpers – they are venal and vicious, selfish! Not-Apsalar was their servant, was she not? She was! This has been planned from the very start – Telorast, I will weep for you. My sister, my lover, my occasional acquaintance – I promise, I will weep for you.’

‘You lying bitch! Carry me! Save me! I would save you in your place if I was you and you were me and I wanted to run because that’s the smart thing to do – except when I’m me and you’re you! Then it’s not smart at all!’ She clawed furiously at the ground, one leg kicking, trying to reach Curdle, her small hands clutching the air, her serrated jaws clacking in a manic frenzy. ‘Come closer, I beg you!’ Snap snap snap. ‘I only want to say goodbye, I swear it!’ Snap snap snap snap.

‘The shadow!’ Curdle shrieked. ‘I’ve waited too long! Help!’ She began running, leaping over tufts of dead grass, dodging boulders and small stones. Her rush startled a grasshopper into the air and she bit it in half in passing. ‘Did you see that? Telor—’

Both creatures veered. Chains cracked like lightning, lifting them skyward.

‘Storm! Five Ancients – now seven!’

‘Eloth greets you, betrayers! Telorast Anthras! Kerudas Karosias!’

‘Eloth! Ampelas! Kalse! They still hate us! Telorast, look what you’ve done!’

Korabas, the Otataral Dragon, was being driven earthward as dragon after dragon crashed down on her from above, their talons raking through her hide, flensing her wings. She had killed hundreds, but now, at last, she was failing. The land beneath her loomed, every detail a bitter language of death. She could no longer give voice to her fury, her crushing frustration, and was too exhausted to strike out at the Eleint harrying her on all sides.

Blood streamed down her flanks, rained like acid on the lifeless earth below.

The summons dragged her forward, but she was blind to its purpose. Perhaps nothing more than a lure. Yet the imperative was absolute and she would strive to answer it. With her last breath, she would seek that fated place. A trap, or a promise? An answer to my prayers, or the making of my barrow? No matter. I fail. I would even welcome chains, but they will not grant me that mercy. I feel Mother awakening. I feel T’iam, so close now – the Storms gathered, the power building. She is coming – she will see me killed!

She pitched as yet another Eleint slammed down on her. With one last surge, she swung her neck round, lacerated jaws stretching wide—

And saw seven dragons, descending from high above the swarm surrounding her. Another Storm. This ends it, then.

The creature clinging to her back tore itself away, flinching from her jaws – she caught a hind limb, ripped the flesh from the bone.

The seven Ancients plunged into the maelstrom – and suddenly Eleint were screaming in shock and pain, bodies twisting as they plummeted, blooms of blood like clouds—

They fight to save me! But why? Do not draw near, friends! I am poison!

But – more – do not die for me!

I, whose touch is death, beg you – do not die for me!

Yet on they fought, but now their foes were recovering, and scores lifted higher to close on them.

And should T’iam manifest – she will take even you.

East, the place of the summons, called to her. Torn fragments of meat falling from her jaws, Korabas fixed her gaze upon that beckoning horizon. Her allies had drawn away her assailants, won her a reprieve with fatal sacrifice. She did not understand, but she would honour them in the only possible manner available to her.

If this be a destiny offered me, I shall meet it. I shall face it, and, if I can, I shall speak to the world.

And if this be the place of my death, so be it.

I was free, even if only for a moment.

I was free.

He had pushed them hard, marching them through half the night and without pause through most of this day, and the marines and heavies were staggering as they came within sight of the hill. The muscles of his legs leaden, Fiddler angled towards it. Vast bands of shadow were still tracking the landscape, cast down by the Jade Strangers spanning the entire sky, leaving the captain with a sense that the world was unravelling before his very eyes.

He had worked hard not to think about the army they had left behind, and the fate that awaited them. Before the captain now was all that mattered. That forlorn hilltop with its fractured flanks, the lone sword of Otataral thrust deep into the ground at its very centre.

He feared that it would not be enough – they had all feared as much, those among them who understood what she was attempting here. The chains that bound the Crippled God had been forged by gods. A single sword to shatter them all? Tavore, you must have believed it was possible. Or that some other force would awaken here, to lend us a blessed hand in this.

Without this – this breaking of chains – all that we do here is for naught.

Tavore, I am trusting you. With the lives of my soldiers – with the meaning to their deaths. I know, it’s unfair, asking this of you. You’re mortal, that and nothing more. But I know – I feel it – I am setting my weight upon your shoulders. We all are, whether we care to admit it or not.

And it’s that unfairness that’s tearing me apart.

He glanced off to his left. Hedge walked there at the head of his own troop – Letherii and Khundryl cast-offs, a mix of half-bloods from a dozen subdued tribes of the Lether Empire. They’d had trouble keeping up, so loaded down were the soldiers – Hood knew why they’d felt the need to carry so much. All those kittens, I expect. Hope they’re worth it.

Hedge had been keeping his distance, and Fiddler knew why – he could feel his own face transforming whenever his friend drew near, becoming a mask, bleak and broken, and the anguish and dread clawed at him with a strength he could not match. So much of this is unfair. So much. But now Hedge shifted his track, came closer.

He pointed at the hill. ‘That’s it? Damned ugly, Fid.’

‘We can defend it.’

‘We’re too thin, even for a knoll as puny as that one. Listen, I’m breaking up my company. I ain’t making too many big promises here, but my Bridgeburners got a secret—’

‘Kittens, aye.’

Hedge scowled at him. ‘You had spies! I knew it!’

‘Gods below, Hedge, never met anyone as hopeless with secrets as you.’

‘Go ahead and think that. You’re in for a surprise, I promise you.’

‘Can they match the Moranth munitions, that’s the only thing I need to know.’

But Hedge shook his head. ‘Not them. Never mind.’ And then he shrugged, as if dismissing something. ‘You was probably too busy last time, but we made a mess of those Short-Tails.’

‘And you didn’t use most of them up? That’s not like you, Hedge.’

‘Bavedict concocted more – the man’s a genius. Deranged and obsessive, the best kind of genius. Anyway, we’re packing them all.’

‘I’d noticed.’

‘Sure, it’s wore us out, all that stuff. Tell me, Fid, we going to get time to rest up first?’

‘Little late asking me that now.’

‘So what? I’m still asking you.’

‘To be honest, I don’t know. Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘Whether the Spire’s fallen to us. Whether they got the heart undamaged. Whether they managed to break its own set of chains, or whatever geas is protecting it – could be twenty Kenyll’rah demons for all we know, and imagine the scrap that’d be.’

‘Twenty Kenyll’rah demons? What is this, some bad fairy tale? Why not a demon king? Or a giant three-headed ogre with scorpion tails at the end of every finger, and a big one on his cock for added measure? Breathing fire outa his arse, too.’

‘Fine, so my imagination’s failed. Sorry about that – I ain’t no spinner of decent tales, Hedge.’

‘I’ll say. What else should I know? We got to kiss that fucking heart awake once we get it? Put a hat on it? Dance in fucking circles round it? Gods, not more blood sacrifice – that stuff creeps me out.’

‘You’re babbling, Hedge. It’s what you always do before a fight – why?’

‘To distract you, of course. You keep chewing on yourself there’ll be nothing left but wet gristle and a few pubic hairs I really don’t want to see. Oh, and the teeth that did all the chewing.’

‘You know,’ Fiddler said with a sidelong glance, ‘if you wasn’t here, Hedge, I’d have to invent you.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Just saying thanks, that’s all.’

‘Fine. Now can I babble some more? ’Cause I’m terrified, y’see.’

‘This will work, Hedge. Get your kitten throwers spread out through my squads, and we’ll make a mess of whoever tries to take us down.’

‘Exactly. Good idea. Shoulda thought of it myself.’

The man moved off again, and Fiddler’s gaze tracked him until he reached his original position at the head of the Bridgeburners. Bless ya, Hedge. He swung round to face his troops. ‘That’s the place, soldiers. That hill. Let’s quick-time it now – only a bell or two before dusk and I want us digging and piling stones in a solid perimeter.’

‘Aye, Captain,’ barked out a heavy. ‘Could do with some fucking exercise.’

Another soldier answered. ‘Knew I should never have carried you, woman!’

‘If you’d been carrying me, Reliko, I’d be pregnant by now – any chance y’get, right, you rat-eating piece of elephant dung.’

‘Maybe if I closed my eyes. But then, can a man even breed with a warthog?’

‘If anybody’d know the answer to that—’

‘Save your breaths, damn you,’ growled Fiddler.

They trudged over the lesser rises, tackled the hillside. Bottle moved up past Corabb and made the climb alongside Sergeant Tarr. ‘Listen, Sergeant …’

‘Now what, Bottle? Pull out your shovel – we got work to do.’

Soldiers were throwing down their kits on all sides, muttering and complaining about sore backs and aching shoulders.

‘It’s this ground,’ Bottle said, drawing close. ‘I need to talk to the captain.’

Tarr scowled at him, and then nodded. ‘Go on, but don’t take too long. I don’t want you dying ’cause you dug your hole too shallow.’

Bottle stared at the man, and then looked round. ‘They that close?’

‘How should I know? Care to risk your life that they aren’t?’

Swearing under his breath, Bottle set out to where he’d last seen Fiddler – up near the crest of the hill. Hedge had gone up there as well.

Taking a narrow, twisted route between outcrops of bedrock, he heard boots behind him and turned. ‘Deadsmell. You following me for a reason or is it my cute backside?’

‘Your cute backside, but I need to talk to Fid, too. Two joys in one, what can I say?’

‘This hill—’

‘Barrow.’

‘Right, fine. Barrow. There’s something—’

‘Sunk deep all the way round it, aye. Widdershins damn near shit himself the moment he hit the slope.’

Bottle shrugged. ‘Us other squaddies call him Widdershits, on account of his loose bowels. What about it?’

‘Really? Widdershits? That’s great. Wait till Throatslitter hears that one. But listen, how come you’re keeping secrets from us like that? Names like that? We wouldn’t do it to you, you know.’

‘Stifflips and Crack? Scuttle and Corncob? Turd and Brittle?’

‘Oh, you heard them, huh?’

They reached the crest, stepped out on to level ground. Ahead, standing near a long sword thrust into the ground, Fiddler and Hedge. Both men turned as the soldiers approached, hearing the stones snapping underfoot.

‘Forgot how to dig holes, you two?’

‘No, Captain. It’s just that we got us company.’

‘Explain that, Bottle. And be succinct for a change.’

‘There’s a god here with us.’

Hedge seemed to choke on something and turned away, coughing, hacking and then spitting.

‘You idiot,’ said Fiddler. ‘That’s the whole fucking point.’

‘Not him, Captain,’ said Deadsmell.

‘What do you mean, not him? Of course he’s here – as much of him as there is, I mean. The Adjunct said this was the place.’

Deadsmell met Bottle’s eyes, and after a moment Bottle turned away, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘the Crippled God ain’t here. We’d know it if he was.’

Fiddler gestured at the sword. ‘That’s the Adjunct’s, Bottle. Otataral, remember? Why should you think you’d be able to sense anything?’

Deadsmell was rubbing at the back of his neck as if he wanted to wear off two or three layers of skin, checking to see if he still had a backbone. Then he drew a fortifying breath and said, ‘He’s foreign – we’d know it anyway, Captain.’

Fiddler seemed to sag.

Hedge clapped him on the back. ‘Relax, Fid, it’s just the usual fuck-up. So we go through the motions anyway – you’re still a damned sapper, you know. Who said you were supposed to be on the thinking side of things? We don’t know that all this isn’t how it’s supposed to be right now, anyway. In fact, we don’t know a damned thing about anything. The way it always is. What’s the problem?’ He faced Bottle then. ‘So which turd-chewing god’s got the nerve to horn in our business?’

But Deadsmell was the first to respond. ‘Smells like old death.’

‘Hood? Wrong. Impossible.’

‘Didn’t say that, did I?’ Deadsmell retorted, scowling. ‘Just smells old and dead, right? Like brown leaves in a cold wind. Like a barrow’s stone-lined pit. Like the first breath of winter. Like—’

‘Worm of Autumn,’ growled Bottle.

‘I was working up to that, damn you!’

‘What does D’rek want with us?’ Hedge demanded.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Fiddler, turning back to stare at the sword. ‘We’ve had that priest crouching on our shoulders ever since Malaz City. When we were here he said something about his god, I seem to recall. Wrapping round the base of the hill. Him and the Adjunct seemed to think we’d need help. Anyway, it’s not like we can do anything about it. Fine, what you said, Hedge. We go through the motions. Deadsmell, is this place a barrow?’

‘Aye, but no longer sanctified. The tomb’s been looted. Broken.’

‘Broken, huh?’

‘Trust the Adjunct,’ said Hedge.

Fiddler rounded on him. ‘Was that you saying that?’

Hedge shrugged. ‘Thought it worth a try.’ Then he frowned. ‘What’s that smell?’

‘Probably Widdershits,’ Bottle said.

‘Gods, downwind, damn him – always downwind!’

Masan Gilani threw herself down near Sinter and Kisswhere. ‘Balm just tried putting his hand down my breeches. Said he forgot where he was. Said he wasn’t even looking. Said he thought he was reaching into his kit bag.’

Kisswhere snorted. ‘And with that sharpness of wit, Dal Honese men won an empire.’

‘I should’ve stayed with the cavalry.’

‘There was no cavalry.’

‘The Khundryl, then.’

Sinter slowly straightened, studied the darkening sky. ‘See any clouds?’ she asked, slowly turning as she scanned the heavens.

‘Clouds? What’s up, sister?’

‘Not sure. I keep expecting …’

‘Clouds?’

Sinter made a face. ‘You were the one asking me what I was seeing, remember? Now I’m telling you, I got something.’

‘Clouds.’

‘Oh, never mind.’ She settled back down lengthways in the slit trench she’d hacked out of the stony barrowside. ‘But if anyone sees …’

‘Clouds, aye,’ said Masan Gilani, rubbing at her eyes.

Rejoining his squad, Bottle glanced over at Shortnose. ‘Joined us again, have you?’

‘I brought a shield,’ the heavy said.

‘Oh, that’s nice.’

‘You need to tie it to my hand.’

‘What, now?’

‘Tie it so it doesn’t come loose. Use … knots and things.’

‘With rawhide.’

‘And knots and things.’

Bottle moved over to the man, crouched down.

‘You do that,’ Smiles observed, ‘and next he’ll be asking you to give him a shake, too.’

‘Make sure it’s after the little shudder,’ Cuttle advised. ‘Else you get wet.’

‘I once shuddered so hard,’ said Shortnose, ‘I shit myself.’

Everyone looked over, but it seemed that no one could think of a rejoinder to that.

Koryk had drawn his sword from its scabbard and now began running a stone down the length of the blade’s edge. ‘Someone make us a fire,’ he said. ‘We’re facing east here – if they come in from the morning sun … I want charcoal under my eyes.’

‘Sound enough,’ replied Cuttle, grunting to his feet. ‘Glad you’re back thinking like a soldier, Koryk.’

The Seti half-blood said nothing, lifting the weapon to squint at its edge.

‘Once that’s all done,’ Tarr said, ‘eat, drink and sleep. Corporal, set the watch.’

‘Aye, Sergeant. Listen all of you! I can taste it in the air!’

‘That’d be Widdershins.’

‘No! It is glory, my friends. Glory!’

Koryk said, ‘If that’s the smell of glory, Corabb, I knew an anaemic cat that was queen of the world.’

Corabb frowned at him. ‘I don’t get it. Was it named Glory?’

Corporal Rim settled down beside Honey. ‘I can hold a shield,’ he said. ‘I’ll cover you one side.’

‘Not if it’s going to get you killed.’

‘A soldier who’s lost his weapon arm isn’t much good to anyone. Just let me do this, will you?’

Honey’s brow creased. ‘Listen, you’ve been moping ever since the lizards. It’s obvious why, but still, show us a smile, will you? If you die here you won’t be the only one, will you?’

‘So what’s the problem if my guarding you gets me killed?’

‘Because I don’t want it on me, right?’

Rim scratched at his beard. ‘Fine then, I’ll shield-bash the fuckers.’

‘That’s better. Now, I got a watch here – go to sleep, sir.’

Fiddler walked the crest of the hill, doing a full circuit, studying where his troops had dug in and fortified defensive positions using boulders and stones. Hedge was right, he saw. They were too thin, and the footing was precarious at best. Should’ve brought spears – like those Bridgeburners did.

Admit it, Fid, having Hedge here may hurt like a stuck knife, but you’re glad of it anyway.

He studied the sky – the setting of the sun had passed almost unnoticed, so bright were the Jade Strangers overhead. Sighing, the captain moved to find a place to sit, his back against a carved stela. He closed his eyes. He knew he should try to sleep, but knew as well that such a thing was impossible.

He’d never wanted any of this. Handling a single squad had been burden enough. And now everyone here’s looking to me. If only they knew, the fools. I’m as lost as they are.

In the ghoulish light he drew out the House of Chains. The lacquered wooden cards slipped about in his hands as if coated in grease. He squinted down at them, slowly worked his way through each one, studying it in turn. Seven cards. Six felt cool to his touch. Only one glistened with sweat.

Leper.

Aw, Hedge. I’m so sorry for that.

The Shi’gal Assassin had left a place of flame far behind him now. Flame and the blood of a slain god raining down from a tortured sky. He had witnessed the deaths of thousands. Humans, K’Chain Che’Malle, Imass. He had seen the fall of Forkrul Assail and Jaghut warriors. Toblakai and Barghast. All for the scarred thing he now clutched in his hands.

It dripped blood and there seemed to be no end to that flow, trickling down his fingers, painting his claws, spattering his thighs as the rhythmic beat of his wings carried him westward, as if chasing the sun’s eager plunge beyond the horizon. The heart was once more alive, heavier than any stone of similar size – the weight of a skystone, such as fell from the sky. But that seemed an appropriate detail, since it belonged to the Fallen God.

Gu’Rull’s mind tracked back to the last scene he had witnessed atop the Spire, moments after he had torn loose the heart from those dying chains. The body of the Mortal Sword lying so motionless on the blood-splashed platform. The dog guarding what had already left the world.

It is only the dumb beast that understands futile gestures – the cold necessity for them, in the face of all the hard truths. We who hold to the higher aspirations of the intellect, we surrender too quickly. And yet, in looking upon that dog – a creature knowing only loyalty and courage – we find flavours to wound our own souls.

I now wonder, is it envy we feel?

He had underestimated the Matron’s choices. Destriant Kalyth, Shield Anvil Stormy and Mortal Sword Gesler – were these not worthy humans? They have shown us a path, for all the children of Gunth Mach. Two are fallen. Two gave their lives, but one remains.

I am not likely to see her again. But in my mind, in this moment and all the moments that remain to me, I will honour her, as I honour Gesler and Stormy. They lived as brothers, they fell as brothers. I shall call them kin, and of the tasks awaiting me, I shall in turn strive to see this through.

Destriant, in your sorrow and grief – which I even now taste – I will seek to give meaning to their deaths.

His wings shifted slightly at a sudden twist in the currents, and all at once the air seemed to thicken around the Shi’gal Assassin, filling with a strange susurration – heavy whispers, a sudden darkness that swarmed and swirled, blotting out the entire sky.

And Gu’Rull realized that he would not be making this journey alone.

Sinter sat up, and then stood. She studied the sky – and there, to the east. A black cloud, vast and seething, growing. Growing. Gods below. ‘Everyone!’ she shouted. ‘Get under your shields! Take cover! Everyone!’

‘Beloved children! Listen to your mother! Hear her words – the words of Crone! We took inside us his flesh! All that we could find! We kept it alive on the blood of sorcery! All for this moment! Rejoice, my sweet children, for the Fallen God is reborn!’

And Crone gave voice to her joy, and on all sides her children, in their tens of thousands, cried out in answer.

The winged K’Chain Che’Malle, clutching its precious prize, was buffeted by the cacophony, and Crone cackled in delight.

Ahead, she could sense the fragments of bone scattered on the knoll – the bones of dozens of people once interred in crypts within the barrow. Would they be enough? There was no choice. The moment had come, and they would take what was available to them. They would make a man. A poor man. A weak man. But a man nonetheless – they would make a home for the god’s flesh from these bones, and then fill it with their own blood, and it would have to be enough.

The Great Ravens whirled over the knoll, and then plunged downward.

Fiddler threw himself behind the carved stela. The thunder of wings was deafening, crashing down, and the air grew hot and brittle. He felt the stone shuddering against his back.

Something like fists struck the ground, concussive blows coming one after another. He clutched at his head, tried to block his ears, but it was no use. The world had vanished inside a storm of black wings. He was suffocating, and before his eyes small objects were flashing past, converging somewhere close to the sword. Splinters, bleached fragments – bones, pulled into the air, prised loose from tangles of grass and roots. One cut a vicious gouge across the back of his hand and he flinched it under cover.

Who had voiced the warning?

Whoever it had been, it had probably saved their lives.

Except for me – I stayed too close to the sword. I should have gone down lower, with my soldiers. But I held back. I didn’t want to see their faces, didn’t want to feel this terrible love that takes a commander before battle – love for his soldiers, every one of them, that builds and ever builds, trying to shatter his heart.

My courage failed – and now—

Gu’Rull circled high overhead. He watched as the Great Ravens launched themselves at the knoll, saw the blooms of raw power erupt one after another. The black-winged creatures were sacrificing themselves, one by one, to return their god to living flesh – to make for his soul a mortal house.

One of the birds swung up alongside him and he tracked her with his lower eyes.

‘K’Chain Che’Malle! I am Crone, mother of all these blessed children! You bring a gift!’ And she laughed.

Reaching for her mind, Gu’Rull recoiled at the first touch – so alien, so cold in its power.

Crone cackled. ‘Careful! We are anathema in this realm! Heed me well now – your task is not done. Beyond this gift you carry, you will be needed on the morrow. But I tell you this – in your moment of dire need, look again to the skies. Do you understand?

‘I promised a most noble lord. I have sent my sweetest daughter far away, but she will return. You will see – she returns!’

The huge raven banked up closer still. ‘Look below! They are almost all gone. We have waited for this all our lives – do you see what we have made? Do you?’

He did. A figure, sprawled close to the Otataral sword, bound by chains to the earth. But its chest was a gaping hole.

Gu’Rull crooked his wings, plummeted.

Crone followed, cackling madly.

The last of the other ravens plunged into the man’s body in a flash of lurid power.

Wings thundering to slow his descent, the Shi’gal landed straddling the man and looked down, appalled at this mockery the Great Ravens had made. Bent bones, twisted muscles, a sickly pallor, the face deformed as if by disease.

The hole in its chest was a pool of black blood, revealing the reflection of Gu’Rull’s own elongated face, his glittering eyes.

He took the heart in his hands, slowly crouched, and settled it like a stone in that ragged-edged pit. The blood swallowed it.

Flesh knitted, bones growing like roots.

The K’Chain Che’Malle spread his wings once more, and then lifted skyward.

Crone watched from above. Reborn! Reborn! Look down, all ye souls in the sky – look down upon the one taken from you! He is almost within reach – your lost wandering is soon to end, for his spark of life shall return, his eyes shall open!

Witness, for I am that spark.

He was brought down. He was torn apart. Scattered across the world. He made us to keep him alive – we fed on his corpse, by his will.

Ye souls in the sky – your god did not lose faith. He did not.

As the K’Chain Che’Malle lifted away, Crone swept down, power burgeoning within her. All she had. Eyes fixed on the body below, she loosed one last cry – of triumph – before striking home.

One final detonation, of such power as to fling Fiddler away, send him rolling to the very edge of the slope. Gasping, drawing in the suddenly cold night air as the echoes died away, he forced himself on to his hands and knees. Astonished that he still lived.

Silence now swallowed the knoll – but no, as he looked up, he saw marines and heavies stumbling into view, slowly rising to their feet in bludgeoned wonder. The ringing in his ears began to fade, and through the fugue he could now hear their voices.

Pushing himself to his feet, he saw that the half-buried standing stone he had been hiding behind had been pushed almost on to its side by the blast – and all the others ringing the summit were similarly tilted back. On the ground, not a single spear point remained, leaving only scorched earth.

Seeing a figure lying close to the sword, Fiddler staggered forward.

A broken, deformed man. The Crippled God.

Heavy chains pinned him to the ground.

We’ll never break those. Not with that sword. We’ve done nothing but make him more vulnerable than he has ever been. Now, he can truly be killed.

Perhaps that’s a mercy.

Then he saw that the man’s eyes were on him.

Fiddler drew closer. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

But the twisted face softened, and in a frail voice the Crippled God replied, ‘No need. Come near – I am still so … weak. I would tell you something.’

Fiddler walked until he was beside the figure, and then he squatted down. ‘We have water. Food.’

But the god shook his head. ‘In the time when I was nothing but pain, when all that came from me was spite, and the hunger to hurt this world, I saw you Malazans as no better than all the rest. Children of your cruel gods. Their tools, their weapons.’ He paused, drew a rattling breath. ‘I should have sensed that you were different – was it not your emperor’s champion who defied Hood at the last Chaining? Did he not cry out that what they sought was unjust? Did he not pay terribly for his temerity?’

Fiddler shook his head. ‘I know nothing about any of that, Lord.’

‘When he came to me – your emperor – when he offered me a way out … I was mistrustful. And yet … and yet, what do I see now? Here, standing before me? A Malazan.’

Fiddler said nothing. He could hear conversations from all the slope sides of the barrow, voices raised in wonder, and plenty of cursing.

‘You are not like the others. Why is this? I wish to understand, Malazan. Why is this?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And now you will fight to protect me.’

‘We can’t break these chains – she was wrong about that.’

‘No matter, Malazan. If I am to lie here, bound for the rest of days, still – you will fight to defend me.’

Fiddler nodded.

‘I wish I could understand.’

‘So do I,’ Fiddler said with a grimace. ‘But, maybe, in the scrap to come, you’ll get a … I don’t know … a better sense of us.’

‘You are going to die for me, a foreign god.’

‘Gods can live for ever and make real their every desire. We can’t. They got powers, to heal, to destroy, even to resurrect themselves. We don’t. Lord, to us, all gods are foreign gods.’

The bound man sighed. ‘When you fight, then, I will listen. For this secret of yours. I will listen.’

Suddenly so weary that his legs trembled beneath him, Fiddler shrugged and turned from the chained man. ‘Not long now, Lord,’ he said, and walked away.

Hedge was waiting, seated on one of the tilted standing stones. ‘Hood take us all,’ he said, eyeing Fiddler as he approached. ‘They did it – her allies – they did what she needed them to do.’

‘Aye. And how many people died for that damned heart?’

Cocking his head, Hedge drew off his battered leather cap. ‘Little late to be regretting all that now, Fid.’

‘It was Kellanved – all of this. Him and Dancer. They used Tavore Paran from the very start. They used all of us, Hedge.’

‘That’s what gods do, aye. So you don’t like it? Fine, but listen to me. Sometimes, what they want – what they need us to do – sometimes it’s all right. I mean, it’s the right thing to do. Sometimes, it makes us better people.’

‘You really believe that?’

‘And when we’re better people, we make better gods.’

Fiddler looked away. ‘It’s hopeless, then. We can stuff a god with every virtue we got, it still won’t make us any better, will it? Because we’re not good with virtues, Hedge.’

‘Most of the time, aye, we’re not. But maybe then, at our worst, we might look up, we might see that god we made out of the best in us. Not vicious, not vengeful, not arrogant or spiteful. Not selfish, not greedy. Just clear-eyed, with no time for all our rubbish. The kind of god to give us a slap in the face for being such shits.’

Fiddler sank back down on to the ground. He leaned forward and closed his eyes, hands covering his face. ‘Ever the optimist, you.’

‘When you been dead, everything after that’s looking up.’

Fiddler snorted.

‘Listen, Fid. They did it. Now it’s our turn. Ours and Tavore’s. Who’d have thought we’d even get this far?’

‘Two names come to mind.’

‘Since when didn’t their empire demand the best in us, Fid? Since when?’

‘Wrong. It was as corrupt and self-serving as any other. Conquered half the fucking world.’

‘Not quite. World’s bigger than that.’

Fiddler sighed, freed one hand to wave it in Hedge’s direction. ‘Go get some rest, will you?’

The man rose. ‘Don’t want anyone interrupting all that feeling sorry for yourself, huh?’

‘For myself?’ Fiddler looked up, shook his head, and his gaze slipped past Hedge, down to where his soldiers were only now settling once again, desperate for sleep.

‘We’re not finished yet,’ Hedge said. ‘You plan on talking to ’em all? Before it all starts up?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because this is their time, from now to the end. They can do the talking, Hedge. Right now, for me, I’ll do the listening. Just like that god back there.’

‘What do you expect to be hearing?’

‘No idea.’

‘It’s a good knoll,’ Hedge said. ‘Defendable.’ And then he departed.

Closing his eyes again, Fiddler listened to the crunch of his boots, until they were gone. Chains. House of Chains. Us mortals know all about them. It’s where we live.

Calm could see the rise where she had left him, could see a darker shape low across its summit. The chains of her ancestors still bound him. Distant deaths tracked cold fingers across her skin – Reverence was no more. Diligence was gone. They had lost the heart of the Fallen God.

When a building is so battered and worn that no further repairs are possible, it needs tearing down. As simple as that, now. Their enemies might well stand filled with triumph at this very moment, there on the heights of the Great Spire, with a fresh clean wind coming in from the sea. They might believe that they had won, and that no longer would the Forkrul Assail make hard the fist of implacable justice – to strike at their venal selves, to crush their presumptuous arrogance. They might now imagine that they were free to take the future, to devour this world beast by beast, tree by tree, emptying the oceans and skies of all life.

And if the victory on this day just past tasted of blood, so be it – it was a familiar taste to them, and they were still not weaned from it and perhaps would never be.

But nature had its own weapons of righteousness. Weapons that struck even when none held them. No god, no guiding force or will beyond that of blind destruction was even necessary. All it needed was freedom.

The time for Lifestealer had come.

Face the sea, you fools. Face the rising of the sun, imagining your new day.

You do not see what comes from the darkness in the west. The slayer is awakened. Obliteration awaits you all.

Innocence and ignorance. He had struggled with those two words for so long, and each time he had looked upon the face of Icarium Mappo had known his own war, there in his mind. They were places of being, that and nothing more, and long had sages chewed on their distinctiveness. But they understood little of the battle the Trell had fought. He protected innocence by making ignorance a weapon and shield. In the belief that innocence had value, was a virtue, was a state of purity.

So long as he remains … ignorant.

Knowledge is the enemy. Knowledge was ever the enemy.

Staggering through the gloom, shadow roads crossing the plain around him though there was no sun left to cast them, he looked up to see a figure in the distance, coming from the southeast.

Something cold whispered through him.

He’s close. I feel him … so close! He forced himself to move faster – that stranger, the way it walked, the way it seemed a thing of bleached bone beneath this uncanny light – he knew. He understood.

With a soft groan, he broke into a run.

She saw him, after turning, after feeling his footfalls lumbering closer. Skin the colour of stained wood, a dark visage bestial by nature and ravaged by deprivation. The creature was emaciated, hunched beneath a heavy satchel, his clothes half rotted off. An apparition, yet one of weakness and pathos.

Calm faced him, waited.

When she saw him spot the body of Lifestealer – when he cried out a small animal sound, pitching as he changed direction, as he stumbled towards Icarium – Calm stepped into his path. ‘It is too late, Trell. He is mine now.’

Haunted eyes fixed on her as the Trell stopped, only a few paces away. She could see the pain that had come from running, the way his chest heaved, the way he bent over, legs shaky beneath him. Then he sank down, pulled the satchel from his shoulder. His hands fumbled and a scatter of small objects spilled out from the sack – the shards of a broken pot. The Trell stared down at them, as if in horror. ‘We’ll fix that,’ he mumbled, visibly jerking as he pulled his gaze away from the fragments. Looking up, he glared at Calm. ‘I won’t let you, Assail.’

‘Don’t be a fool.’

He pulled a heavy mace from the satchel, struggled to his feet.

‘I will kill you if you continue to stand in my way,’ she said. ‘I understand, Trell. You are his latest protector – but you lost him. All the ones before you – and there were many – they all lost him, eventually, and then they died.

‘But none of you ever understood. The Nameless Ones weren’t interested in Icarium. Each time, the one they chose – that one was the real danger. A warleader who threatened their hidden alliances. A rebel of terrible potential. Each time, for nothing more than squalid, immediate necessities – political expediency – they snatched away the maker of trouble, gave to him or her a task impossible to achieve, and a lifetime chained to it.

‘You are the last of them, Trell. Made … harmless.’

He was shaking his head. ‘Icarium—’

‘Icarium Lifestealer is what he is and what he has always been. Uncontrollable, destined to awaken again and again, there in the midst of the devastation he has wrought. He cannot be stopped, cannot be saved.’ She stepped forward. ‘So, let me free him, Trell.’

‘No.’ The mace lifted in his hands. ‘I will die first.’

She sighed. ‘Trell, you died long ago.’

Roaring, he charged.

Calm evaded the clumsy swing, moved in close, one hand shooting out. The blow against his right shoulder punched the bone from its socket, ripped the muscles clean away. The Trell was thrown round by the impact. She drove her elbow into his face, shattering it. Angled a kick against his right shin, broke both bones.

The mace thudded on to the ground.

Even as he fell, he tried to grasp her with his left hand. She caught it by the wrist, clenched and twisted, crushed the bones. A savage pull snapped him closer. Calm plunged her other hand into his chest, up and under the ribs, the fingers stabbing through to sink deep. She pushed him back, her hand reappearing in a welter of blood, fingers clutching half a lung.

Another push sent him on to his back.

Calm dropped down over him, hands closing on his throat.

Mappo stared up at her. Lies. I was nothing. Throwing away my life. They gave me a purpose – it’s all anyone needs. A purpose. She had stolen his breath and his chest raged with fire. His body was broken, and now the end was upon him.

Icarium! She’s done something to you. She’s hurt you.

Darkness closed around him. I tried. But … too weak. Too flawed.

They all hurt you.

I was nothing. A Trell youth among a dying people. Nothing.

My friend. I am sorry.

She crushed his windpipe. She crushed every bone in his neck. Her fingers pushed through wrinkled, slack skin – skin that felt like worn deerhide – and the blood welled out.

His dead eyes stared up at her from a blackened face, a face now frozen in a peculiar expression of sorrow. But she would give that no thought. Just one more warrior cursed to fail. The world was filled with them. They littered battlefields. They marched into the fray beating time with swords on shields. But not for much longer.

He is mine. I will awaken him now – I will free him to kill this world.

A sound to her left, and then a voice. ‘That’s not nice.’

She twisted, to fling herself away, but something massive slammed into the side of her head, hard enough to lift her from the ground, spin her in the air.

Calm landed on her right shoulder, rolled and came to her feet. Her face – her entire head – felt lopsided, unbalanced.

The backswing caught her left hip. Shards of jagged bone erupted from her pelvis. She folded around the blow, pitched headfirst downward, and once more landed hard. Fought to her knees, stared up with her one working eye to see a Toblakai standing before her.

But you freed me!

No. You’re not him. That was long ago. Another place – another time.

‘I don’t like fighting,’ he said.

His next swing tore her head from her shoulders.

‘Brother Grave?’

‘A moment.’ The Forkrul Assail stared at the distant knot of hills. This is where the cloud of birds descended. I see … shapes, there, upon the flanks of the Elan barrow. He spoke to the High Watered at his side. ‘Do you see, Haggraf? We will now encircle – but maintain our distance. I want us rested before we strike.’

‘Perhaps we should await the heavy infantry, Pure. They have prepared for us on that barrow.’

‘We will not wait,’ Grave replied. ‘That hill is not large enough to hold a force of any appreciable threat. Before dawn, we shall form up and advance.’

‘They will surrender.’

‘Even if they do, I will execute them all.’

‘Pure, will you make them kneel before our blades?’

Brother Grave nodded. ‘And once we are done here, we shall return to Brother Aloft and Sister Freedom – perhaps the enemy they have now found will prove more of a challenge. If not, we will form up and march our three armies north, to eliminate that threat. And then … we shall retake the Great Spire.’

Haggraf strode off to relay the orders to the company commanders.

Brother Grave stared at the distant barrow. At last, we will end this.

Vastly Blank stepped down from the boulder, and then sat to adjust the leather bindings protecting his shins.

Fiddler frowned down at the heavy, and then across at Badan Gruk.

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Just our luck, Captain, that it’s him got the best eyes here.’

‘Soldier,’ said Fiddler.

Vastly Blank looked up, smiled.

‘Captain wants to know what you saw from up there,’ Badan Gruk said.

‘We’re surrounded.’ He began pulling at a torn toenail.

Fiddler made a fist, raised it for a moment, and then let his hand fall to his side again. ‘How many?’

Vastly Blank looked back up, smiled. ‘Maybe three thousand.’ He brought up most of the nail, which he’d prised off, and squinted at it, wiping the blood away.

‘And?’

‘Banded leather, Captain. Some splint. Not much chain. Round shields and spears, javelins, curved swords. Some archers.’ He wiped more blood from the nail, but it was still mottled brown.

‘They’re getting ready to attack?’

‘Not yet,’ Vastly Blank replied. ‘I smell their sweat.’

‘You what?’

‘Long march.’

‘Best nose, too,’ Badan Gruk offered.

Vastly Blank popped the nail into his mouth, made sucking sounds.

Sighing, Fiddler moved away.

The sky to the east was lightening, almost colourless, with streaks of silver and pewter close to the horizon. The sound of the Kolansii soldiers was a soft clatter coming at them from all sides. The enemy taking position, readying shields and weapons. Ranks of archers were forming up, facing the hill.

Sergeant Urb heard Commander Hedge talking to his own dozen or so archers, but couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. Shifting his heavy shield, he edged closer to where Hellian sat. He couldn’t keep his eyes from her. She is so beautiful now. So pure and clean and the awful truth is, I liked her better when she looked like a bird that’s flown into a wall. At least then I had a chance with her. A drunk woman will take anyone, after all, so long as they clean up after them and take care of them, and got the coin for more to drink.

‘Take cover – they’re drawing!’

He worked his way back under his shield.

He heard Fiddler. ‘Hedge!’

‘After the first salvo!’

Distant thrums. Hollow whistling, and suddenly arrows thudded the ground and snapped and skidded on rock. One pained howl and a chorus of curses.

Urb looked across at her to see if she was all right. Two arrows were stuck in her shield and there was a lovely startled look on her face.

‘I love you!’ Urb shouted.

She stared at him. ‘What?’

At that moment a thick rushing sound filled the air. He saw her flinch back down, but these weren’t arrows. He angled himself up, saw a band of enemy archers on the ground, writhing, and, pelting back towards the barrow, one of Hedge’s Bridgeburners, his shoulders covered in turf, his uniform grey and brown with dirt.

Dug a hole, did he? Hit the archers with some gods-awful grenado.

Hedge shouted, ‘Archers down!’

‘Gods below!’ someone bellowed. ‘What was that blue stuff? They’re rotting to bones!’

Looking over, Urb saw the accuracy of that assessment. Whatever had splashed all over the archers had dissolved their flesh. Even the bones and quivers filled with arrows were nothing but paste.

Now an officer was stepping out from the ring of Kolansii infantry – tall, white-skinned.

Corporal Clasp crawled up beside him. ‘That’s one of those Fuckeral’s, isn’t it?’

‘You!’ shouted Hellian, pointing a finger at Urb. ‘What did you say?’

The Forkrul Assail then roared – impossibly loud, the sound hammering against the hillside. Urb was driven into the ground by the concussion. He clawed at his ears. A second roar—

And then it seemed to dim, as if muffled.

A quavering voice lifted from a nearby trench. ‘Worm says fuck you, Assail!’

‘Is that you I’m smelling again, Wid?’

Urb uncurled, straightened up, though still on his knees.

He could see the Forkrul Assail. Watched him roaring for a third time – but the sound barely reached through.

A rock sailed out, landed well short of the Pure, bounced and rolled. The enemy commander seemed to flinch from it nevertheless, and then he whirled.

‘Here they come!’

Hellian’s voice was much closer and much louder. ‘What did you say?’

He twisted round. Corporal Clasp was lying between them, staring back and forth.

‘What in Hood’s name is with you two?’

‘I love you!’ Urb shouted.

When he saw her delighted grin, Urb clambered over a grunting Clasp. Hellian pitched up to meet him, her mouth hard against his own.

Pinned by Urb’s weight, Clasp squirmed and kicked. ‘You idiots! The enemy’s advancing! Get off me!’

Cuttle watched the lines closing in. At twenty or so paces javelins flashed out, colliding against uplifted shields, and then, at a signal from the company commanders, the Kolansii surged forward into a charge against the slope.

The sapper half rose from his position. The crossbow thocked, thick cord humming, the vibration a soft brush against his cheek. He saw his quarrel take a squad leader in the throat. The rest of the marines had also loosed quarrels into the rushing enemy. Bodies went tumbling among the crags and outcrops.

The sapper set his weapon down behind him, swung his shield round, slipping his arm through the straps, and drew his short sword. These four motions were done before the squad leader hit the ground. ‘Hold and at ’em!’ he shouted, rising as the first Kolansii arrived.

An arrow had pinned Saltlick’s left foot to the ground, but he didn’t want to move anyway. The soldier arriving directly in front of him stumbled at the last moment. Saltlick pressed his shield down on the man and drove the pommel of his sword through the top of his helm and then the bones of his skull. When he pulled his weapon free, the helm was stuck to the pommel.

A spear thrust at him. He batted it aside with the helm, put his shoulder behind his shield-bash, and flattened the soldier’s face. As the man reeled back, Saltlick stabbed him low in the gut. Dragged the weapon free and began hacking at another Kolansii – they seemed to be everywhere.

He never even saw the spear that impaled his neck and tore out his throat.

Koryk swore, swinging his left arm to shake off the remnants of his broken shield. He drew a Seti long knife from his harness, kicked away the man whose skull had broken his shield, and looked up in time to meet the next attacker.

Blades flashed out, the heavier one batting aside the jabbing spear, the thinner one thrusting through leather armour to sink a hand’s width into the Kolansii’s chest, and then back out again. As the soldier staggered back, sagging, Koryk brought his long sword down between head and neck, the blow of such power that he cut through a clavicle and down through three ribs where they met the breastbone.

Koryk twisted to avoid another spear point, then heard a laugh and saw Smiles spin away again, leaving behind her a toppling corpse.

Another surging mass of Kolansii rushed up towards them.

The blued Letherii blade seemed to shout as it clove through the side of a helm, crushing the cheek-guard and then the bones it was meant to protect. Blood spat out from the soldier’s gaping mouth, the eyes bulging, and then Corabb kicked the man away, watched as he pitched backward to collide with the next soldier.

The echo of that shout raced back and forth in his skull. He bellowed in answer to it, lifted the weapon crossways over his shield and awaited the next fool.

I am a marine! A heroic soldier on a day of glory! Come to me and die!

Swearing, Throatslitter cut off an arm to his right, then another to his left. Blood sprayed him from both sides, making him curse some more. He shifted to avoid a spear thrust, kicked under a jaw hard enough to snap the head back, and then slashed across that exposed neck.

Beside him, Deadsmell staggered to repeated blows on his shield from a Kolansii wielding a heavy spiked axe. Throatslitter’s sideways thrust drove his long knife over the attacker’s shoulder, into the gap behind the corner of jaw and the flared helm, angling slightly upwards to slice through the spinal cord just below the base of the skull.

Righting himself, Deadsmell lunged with his shield, blocking an attacker trying to take Throatslitter from the flank. The enemy soldier grunted at the impact, knees buckling. Having broken his own weapon, Deadsmell now held the spiked axe, and he hammered it down, splitting the Kolansii’s round shield, and then thrusting the spike into the man’s shoulder.

Ducking low, Throatslitter cut through the Achilles tendon of the Kolansii’s right leg, and as the screaming man fell he stabbed down through the eye socket, silencing the cries.

‘Stay down!’ shouted Widdershins behind him.

A quarrel hissed over Throatslitter, caught the next foe in the chest.

From Deadsmell’s other side, Balm shouted, ‘Where’d you get that stupid axe, soldier! Find a sword! You end up hanging out there and you’re finished!’

‘I’m looking, damn you! I’m looking!’

Kisswhere fell on to her back. She heard the blocked thrust above her, and then Sinter’s snarl as her sister backslashed across the Kolansii’s face. Kicking herself clear of his collapsing body, her hand closed on a javelin. She grasped it, pushed herself back on to her feet, and leapt into the press yet again.

Sinter was taking blows on her shield, righting herself from that sideways lunge against Kisswhere’s assailant. Badan Gruk then flung himself at her attacker, pushing his short sword deep into the man’s side.

An axe came down on the back of the sergeant’s helm, splitting it, driving Badan Gruk face first into the ground. The half-moon blade sobbed free, its edge dragging free hair, scalp and fragments of bone.

Howling, Sinter cut off the hand holding it, and then the flailing arm, and then opened wide the man’s belly with a single savage slash. Intestines tumbled out over Badan Gruk’s corpse.

And still she howled.

A spear transfixed Lap Twirl, drove him against a tilted standing stone. The Falari cutter shrieked as the iron point bit through to grind against the rock. He chopped down with his short sword, slicing off the fingers of the nearer hand along the spear’s shaft. The pressure from the weapon released all at once. He slid forward on the slick wood until he was close to the Kolansii, and slashed halfway through the woman’s neck, severing the jugular.

As the woman fell, the cutter dropped sword and shield, grasped hold of the butt end of the spear. Feeling the point dig at an angle into the ground at the base of the stone behind him, he flung out his feet and fell straight down. The shaft snapped just past his back. Leaving it there, he gained his knees, wiping his hands on dead grasses, and took up shield and sword again.

Spitting out a mouthful of blood from a cut tongue, he gasped, ‘Now that wasn’t so bad.’

More Kolansii clambered into view between the outcrops. Lap Twirl went forward to meet them, stepping over Burnt Rope’s body. He had enough left in him to take a few more down. Maybe.

Skulldeath sailed sideways through the air, gliding over the hunched back of a Kolansii engaged in a fierce battle with Reliko. Lashing down, his blade bit deep beneath the flared rim of the man’s helm, cutting through his vertebrae. Spinning round, Skulldeath landed in a crouch, and then screamed as he lunged forward. He saw a face – staring – directly ahead, and the Kolansii ducked down behind his round shield, slashing out with his scimitar, but Skulldeath leapt high, one hand landing atop the enemy’s helm, and used that to pivot round above him. Cutting downward, he sliced through the Kolansii’s hamstrings.

Striking the ground, the desert prince rolled—

He heard Sinter shouting – heard Kisswhere’s cursing—

Gaining his feet, Skulldeath found himself surrounded. He twisted, slashed, ducked, kicked and closed. Bodies fell away. Blood sprayed.

Then a blow hammered his lower back, lifted him from his feet. He tried curling away from the blow, but something was jammed in his body, a hard edge crunching and grinding against his spine. He was driven to the ground face first, and then they were beating on him – heavy edges chopping into his muscles and bones.

One struck the back of his head and there was darkness, and then oblivion.

Hedge stood over the corpse of Bavedict – the damned fool had been killed outright by that first shower of arrows, taking one through an eye. From his vantage point Hedge could see the ring of defenders contracting as the enemy pushed higher up the slope. He watched Fiddler moving down to block an imminent breach where most of a squad had gone down.

‘You – archers – keep an eye on there. If they get through it’s a straight path to the Crippled God.’

‘Yes sir!’

‘Now, the rest of you – we got to relieve the pressure. Take those coppery ones and throw for the fifth and sixth ranks – use ’em all up. If we don’t make ’em reel right now we’re done for.’

‘What’s the copper kittens do, sir?’

Hedge shook his head. ‘I forget, and the alchemist’s dead. Just go – spread out, get moving!’

As they left, the sapper took up his crossbow – he only had half a dozen quarrels left. The occasional arrow still sailed down here and there, but either the sappers he’d dug in below the slope were all dead or they’d used up their munitions – it’d be just his luck if some errant arrow took him or Fiddler out now.

Loading his weapon, he moved down past his four remaining archers, who were sending arrows into the breach. He could see Fiddler, there with those Dal Honese sisters and a lone heavy infantryman shorter than any of them. The Kolansii who’d been advancing to flank them were all down, feathered with arrows. ‘Good work,’ barked out Hedge to his archers. ‘Now find somewhere else you’re needed.’

A stone turned underfoot and Fiddler’s left ankle gave way in a stab of pain. Cursing, he stumbled. Looked up to see a Kolansii closing – the eyes manic and wild beneath the helm, a heavy axe lifting high.

The quarrel punched the man back a step, and he looked down in astonishment at the heavy bolt buried in his chest.

One hand closed on Fiddler’s collar, dragged him clear. An all-metal crossbow landed in his lap, followed by a quiver. ‘Load up, Fid,’ said Hedge, drawing his short sword. ‘Keep ’em off my left flank, will you?’

‘You getting mad, Hedge?’

‘Aye.’

‘Gods help them.’

His attacker had pushed his spear right through Bottle’s right thigh, pinning him down, but Bottle had replied with a sword through the stomach, and as the Kolansii sagged back voicing terrible screams the marine decided he’d come away the winner of the argument.

Is that what this is? An argument? But look at them – they’re slaves. They’re not asking for this.

Tarr dropped down beside him, blood streaming from a gash in his face. ‘You want that spear out, Bottle? It ain’t bleeding much for the moment, but if I take it out …’

‘I know,’ Bottle said. ‘But it’s pushed right through – I want it gone, Sergeant. I’ll stuff rags in.’

‘A bleeder—’

‘It ain’t one, Sergeant. It’s just a big fucking hole.’

Tarr pushed Bottle on to his side, and then quickly drew out the spear. ‘Bleeding,’ he said after a moment, ‘but not spurting. When I see Deadsmell I’ll send him your way.’

Nodding, feeling faint, Bottle pushed himself upright, fumbling at the pouch at his side, where he found a roll of bandages. He was working a wad into one end of the hole when there was a flash of heat from downslope and then blood-chilling screams.

Brother Grave stared, in shock, furious at his own helplessness, as copper-hued grenados sailed down from the defenders to strike the Kolansii ranks at the foot of the barrow and on the level ground beyond it. The emerald fires that erupted when they shattered seemed almost demonic as they spread with terrible ferocity through the ranks.

The attack was a shambles – he saw his soldiers reeling, flinching back.

This is going to take longer than I anticipated.

He looked to the northeast, seeking that telltale sign of dust on the horizon. Where are they?

‘Haggraf. Sound the recall. We shall wait until the fires burn down. Then strike again, and again, until they are all dead!’

The stench of burnt flesh carried with it a strange flavour, something between sulphur and limes.

The Crippled God listened to the clamour of battle on all sides. He heard the cries of pain and anger, but these were sounds he had expected. Amidst the clash of iron and the splinter of wooden shields, amidst the whistle of arrows – some of them striking close – and the splinter of shafts against insensate stone, he heard soldiers shouting to each other, heard their desperate breaths as they struggled to stay alive and to kill those who rose up against them in seemingly endless waves.

And overhead the sky was almost blinding with all the souls abandoned by his descent to this world. He thought to hear them as well, but they were too far away, lost in the heavens. Did they still struggle to hold on to their faith, with their god vanished for so long? Or had they surrendered to the cruel malice that came to so many of the spiritually vacant? Did they now wander without purpose, in the horror of a meaningless existence?

Fires erupted around him – not so close that he could feel their heat – and now shrieks rushed out to fill the air.

Sounds of dying, from all sides. He had heard these sounds before. There was nothing new, nothing to give him comprehension. That mortal lives could so willingly extinguish themselves, in the name of causes and noble desires – was this not the most profound, most baffling sacrifice of all? The one sacrifice every god has long since forgotten; the one sacrifice that they, in their callous indifference, could not even comprehend.

Their flesh is all they know – all these men and women here. Flesh as now clothes me. Feel our limits, our terrible limits. So frail, so temporary. A flitting light, a moment’s breath.

I hear you surrendering it. This one gift that is the only gift ever given you – you yield it back into the firmament. And the world passes on, barely taking notice.

Will no one notice?

I will heed your deaths. I will remember.

The Crippled God listened, past the horns of retreat, past the cries for healers, past the clashing signals announcing the next wave to advance upon these beleaguered few. The Crippled God listened, and he waited.

Seven of the Dead Fires, the T’lan Imass stood on a bare rise to the east of the Malazan regulars. Nom Kala and Kalt Urmanal were now among them, as bound as true kin, and in Nom Kala’s mind it was well. She did not feel like a stranger. She did not feel alone.

Urugal the Woven spoke. ‘She prepares for the enemy’s approach. We have listened to her silence and we know that there are no lies within her soul. Yet she is mortal.’

‘Many who see her,’ said Beroke, ‘believe her weak – not in her will, but in her flesh and bones. She has yielded her sword. I sought to give her mine, but she refused me.’

‘We understand the power of a formidable will,’ observed Kahlb the Silent Hunter.

‘Nevertheless,’ said Beroke.

Urugal said, ‘I have elected that we remain with her. To stand here rather than join the fate of the marines. Should the Crippled God indeed rise once more, we shall not even witness that moment.’ He faced the others. ‘You did not agree with me on this – my command that we remain with her.’

‘It is what we may lose, Urugal,’ said Thenik the Shattered. ‘To see him reborn.’

‘Must our faith show its face to us, Thenik?’

‘I have longed for proof,’ the Shattered replied. ‘That all that we have done has purpose. Is this not what the Fallen One offered us? Yet we do not lend our swords to the defence of our god.’

‘In the manner I have chosen,’ countered Urugal, ‘we will do just that.’

Nom Kala spoke, hesitantly. ‘Kin, I have listened to the soldiers – these Malazans. At the campfires, in the times of rest.’ They had turned to regard her now. ‘They speak to each other rarely, yet when they do, it is of her words from long ago. When she spoke of being unwitnessed. They do not, I feel, quite understand her – nor do I – and yet, when I hear them, when I see what stirs in their eyes … the word awakens something in them. Perhaps it is no more than defiance. But then, is not defiance mortality’s most powerful proclamation?’

There was silence for a time, barring the faint moan of the morning wind.

Finally, Beroke said, ‘Unwitnessed. Then let us make this our cause, too.’

‘One none of us understands?’ demanded Thenik.

‘Yes. One none of us understands.’

‘Very well. Nom Kala, your words awaken in me … defiance.’ Thenik turned to Urugal. ‘We have been ghosts among them. We have given them so little, because we had so little to give. This day, let us give to her all that we have left.’

‘The Fallen One,’ said Beroke, ‘has placed his trust in her. His faith. Urugal, I honour you. My kin, I honour you all.’ The T’lan Imass paused, and then said, ‘One must be sacrificed. The interference of Akhrast Korvalain remains and will do so until the last of the Forkrul Assail falls. But the sundering of the Vow, by one of us here, will grant us what we seek. I volunteer to be that sacrifice.’

‘Soft-Voice,’ said Urugal, ‘you are most formidable in battle. One of lesser use should be the one to sunder the Vow. It shall be me.’

‘You are both incorrect,’ said Thenik. ‘I am well-named the Shattered. There must be no sentimentality to this decision. Nor obstinate courage – after all, does any of us here not possess that? Beroke. Urugal. Kahlb and Halad. Nom Kala of the wise words. Kalt Urmanal of Trell blood. I shall open the way for you all, in the name of defiance. The discussion ends.’

The T’lan Imass were silent.

And in silence they fell to dust.

The enemy had been sighted. The enemy was closing. Lostara Yil stood with the Adjunct in Tavore’s tent, watching as the woman prepared for battle. The Adjunct had selected a standard issue long sword from the depleted stores. Its last wielder had scorched uneven patterns down the length of the leather-backed wooden scabbard. An eye bereft of talent but possessed of boundless discipline and patience. Not an artist. A soldier.

The captain had enquired of Tavore about her selection of this particular weapon – was it the scabbard’s elaborate pattern that caught her interest? The well-honed blade edges? The solid-looking cross-hilt and firm grip? – and had earned nothing more than a blank look in reply. And Lostara understood, when Tavore had a moment later glanced back at the scabbard, that the Adjunct had not even noticed any of these details.

Her coat of chain waited on the wooden chest that had held it, with the leather-cuffed gauntlets folded over the glistening iron links. The plain shirt Tavore was now wearing was worn through in places, revealing pale, almost bloodless skin and the ripples of bone so close beneath it. Her iron helm with its grilled cheek-guards sat waiting on the map table.

Tavore finished binding her boot laces, and then walked to stand before a small wooden box beside the helm, one that bore a silver-inlaid family crest of House Paran. The fingertips of her right hand settled upon the lid, and then the Adjunct closed her eyes for a moment.

Lostara suddenly felt an intruder on this, Tavore’s private readying for what was to come, and almost turned to leave before recalling that the Adjunct had ordered her to attend her preparations, to help with the chain coat and its fastenings.

The lid creaked as Tavore opened it, startling Lostara.

Reaching inside, she drew out a necklace – a simple leather string and an eagle’s talon of brass or gold. Then she turned to the captain. ‘Would you tie this for me, please?’

But Lostara simply stared at the talon.

‘Captain.’

She looked up, met Tavore’s eyes.

The Adjunct sighed. ‘I am a child of the Emperor – what more is there for you to understand, Lostara Yil?’

‘Nothing, Adjunct.’ She moved forward, took the necklace in her hands. As she stepped close, drawing it up round Tavore’s neck, Lostara caught a faint scent of perfume from the woman’s thin, straight hair and her knees came close to buckling, a rush of ineffable sorrow taking hold of her.

‘Captain?’

‘A moment – sorry, sir.’ She struggled to tie the knot, but it was harder than it should have been, as her vision wasn’t clear. ‘Done.’

‘Thank you,’ Tavore replied. ‘Now, the chain.’

‘Of course.’

Banaschar stood holding the reins of the Adjunct’s horse. A Khundryl breed, tough and stubborn, but it was gaunt, aged by suffering, its coat matted and dull. Even the Burned Tears had, in the last days on the desert, failed in their diligence. This beast had no running left in it – the damned thing might well collapse beneath Tavore as she rode out to address her army.

Address her army. Is this truly the Adjunct? When did she last speak to all of her soldiers? Now I remember. On the ships. Confusing words, the awakening of an idea few could even grasp.

Will she manage better this time?

He realized that he was nervous for her – no, he was sick with anxiety. So I stand here holding the reins of her horse, outside her tent. I am … gods, the word is pathetic. But what does it matter? I am also priest to a god about to die on him.

I once vowed that I would meet this day cold sober. What a miserable vow to make.

The tent flap was drawn back and Captain Lostara Yil stepped outside, looked round until she saw Banaschar, and then gestured.

He led the beast forward by the reins.

The Adjunct stepped into view. Met his eyes and nodded. ‘Demidrek. You have stood here for some time, I should think – I was expecting one of my aides to attend to this, and they’re used to standing around and waiting. My apologies.’

He blinked. ‘Adjunct, you misunderstand. I drove the poor man away.’ He handed her the reins. ‘I am and always will be honoured, Tavore Paran.’

‘If I could,’ she said, ‘I would order you away from here.’

‘But I am not one of your soldiers to be bullied around,’ he said, smiling. ‘So I will do as I damned well please, Adjunct.’

She studied him, and then said, ‘I wonder.’

‘Adjunct?’

‘Is this not the true purpose of a priest? To take faith from the one hand and place it into the next? To stand between a god and one such as myself?’

His breath caught. ‘A few remain,’ he managed. ‘Most go through the motions, but see themselves as privileged … from both sides. Closer to their god than to their unordained flock.’

‘But that is not you, is it?’

‘Adjunct, I am kneeling beside you.’

There was the flicker of something in her eyes, something raw swiftly suppressed, and then she was setting a boot in the stirrup and drawing herself into the saddle.

Banaschar stepped back. Looking away, he saw rank upon rank of soldiers turned, facing them, and now they slowly shifted as Tavore trotted her mount forward. She reached the southwest corner of the formation before wheeling inward to pass along the back line. She rode straight in her saddle, a figure in tattered chain, upon a starved, dying horse.

The image seemed to sear itself in Banaschar’s mind.

Reaching the far end, she swung round the corner – making her way up to face the front of the three, much-reduced, legions. She would speak to her soldiers now. And, much as he yearned to hear her words, he knew that they were not for him.

Chest aching, the priest turned away.

As she rode towards the head of her forces, Tavore could see the dust cloud from the approaching army, and it was vast. Wheeling her horse, she walked the animal on a course parallel to the presented ranks, slowing the beast’s steps enough to move her gaze from one face to the next in the front line.

When the Adjunct finally spoke, her voice carried firm on the wind. ‘Does anyone know you? You, who stood in the shadows of the heavies and the marines. Who are you? What is your tale? So many have seen you – marching past. Seen you, standing silent and unknown. Even now, your faces are almost lost beneath the rims of your helms.’ She was silent for a long moment, her eyes tracking each and every visage.

And then she halted, gaze fixing upon one man. A Falari. ‘Corporal Grid Ffan, Third Squad, Eleventh Company. Bonehunter. You carried Sample – the soldier on your left – on your back. The last day in the desert. And, before the Blood for Water, the only thing that kept you – and her – alive was your love for her.’

The man seemed to sway before her words. She nudged her horse forward. ‘Where stands Wreck-Eye?’

‘Here!’ cried out a voice from a dozen ranks back.

‘When Lostara Yil lost consciousness protecting my life on the day of the Nah’ruk, you led your squad to recover us. Myself. Henar Vygulf. Captain Yil. You lost a brother, and to this day you can find no tears for him. But be at ease. There are those in your squad who have wept in your stead. At night, when you sleep.’

She walked her horse forward a few more steps, found another face. ‘Sergeant Ordinary Grey. When Sergeant Gaunt-Eye’s squad of marines broke and tried to murder him, you and Could Howl held them all off – you cut them down to save Gaunt-Eye. Because once, long ago on the Holy Desert of Raraku, he showed kindness to you.’

She reached the end of the ranks, turned her mount round and began retracing her route. ‘Who are you? I know who you are. What have you done? You have stayed with me since the very beginning. Soldiers, hear me! This day is already lost to history, and all that happens here shall remain for ever unknown. On this day, you are unwitnessed.

‘Except for the soldier to either side of you. They shall witness. And I tell you this, those soldiers to either side of you, they are all that matters. The historians’ scrolls have no time for soldiers like you – I know, for I have read hundreds of them. They yield a handful of words to speak of defeat or victory. Perhaps, if so warranted, they will make mention of great valour, extraordinary courage, but the weight of those words is no more and no less than those used to speak of slaughter and murder. Because, as we all know, one soldier can be hero and villain both.

‘We have no place in their histories. So few do. They are not us – they were never us, and we shall never be them.

‘You are the Unwitnessed, but I have seen what you see. I have felt what you feel. And I am as much a stranger to history as any of you.’

The Adjunct reined in again, at the very centre, and swung her horse round to face the silent troops. ‘On the day of the Na’ruk, they stood for you. Today, here, you shall stand for them. And I shall stand with you, my beloved soldiers.’ She held up a gauntleted hand. ‘Say nothing. We are walls of silence, you and me. We are perfect reflections of the one we face, and we have faced each other for so long now.

‘And the meaning of that silence is none of the enemy’s business.’

Behind her she could feel the tramp of thousands of boots reverberating up from the ground, but she would not turn, would not face the enemy. Her eyes belonged only to her soldiers, and, she could see, theirs belonged in turn to her and her alone.

‘Bonehunters. Yield only in death on this day.’

When she rode to take her position on the south flank, Fist Blistig watched her, his eyes following her as did the gazes of every soldier round him.

Gods below. What kind of rousing speech was that? Salvage it, Fist – before it’s too late. He swung round. ‘For’ard ranks! Dr—’

But he got no further. Weapons snapped out of sheaths and scabbards, shields lifting on to shoulders.

And in the faces around him he saw the coldest iron he had ever seen.

Sister Freedom surveyed the enemy position. They had done the best they could given the limits of the land, arrayed along a modest ridge, and before them the ground stretched more or less level, although just to the north rose a series of low hills. Her scouts had informed her that the land beyond those hills was cut by ravines – if not for that obstacle to ordered retreat, no doubt the enemy commander would have positioned his or her troops on those heights. But movement would have been too restricted, and in a battle that could prove deadly.

She saw no heavily armoured infantry among the foreign soldiers facing them, and no cavalry. The ranks of archers anchoring each flank looked pitifully small.

‘This is barely an army,’ ventured Brother Aloft, who rode at her side. ‘I might well believe that they crossed the Glass Desert – see how disordered and worn they are, how few in number. They must have left a road of corpses behind them.’

‘Of that I have no doubt,’ Freedom replied, eyes narrowing upon seeing a lone rider – a slight, frail-looking figure – out in front of the facing line of soldiers. ‘Yet,’ she added, ‘crossing that desert should have been impossible.’

‘The foes who destroyed our kin at the Great Spire were known to Brother Diligence. Bolkando. Letherii. I do not recognize those standards.’

‘Nor I, Brother Aloft. From what land have they come, I wonder?’ She looked round, baffled. ‘To this place. To die.’

‘Brother Grave draws close to the smaller force.’

She nodded. Though faint, his sending had reached through to her. Akhrast Korvalain was in a tumult – disturbed and thinning with weakness. There is something still to come. I feel its assault. She looked up at the sky but saw only those slashes of jade. Icy worlds flung across the heavens. They had last appeared on the day the foreign god was brought down.

And that is the truth of this – all of this. They seek to return him to the heavens.

But the fate of the Fallen God belongs to the gods, not to humans. We could have wrested that privilege away from those gods – with our ancient power, our Elder Warren – but that has been taken from us. For the moment.

‘Whose game was this?’ she wondered, eyes still on that frail commander – who was clearly addressing his or her troops. Her. That is a woman.

‘Sister?’

She shook her head. ‘Audacity rarely goes unpunished.’ She reined in. ‘The way to the south is open. Brother, I want you there – I no longer trust that we shall have the power to make these foreigners yield.’

‘But … why?’

‘We shall strike them, yes, but not seeking to enslave. Voice no words in your cries, Brother. Instead, flense the flesh from their bones. I trust nothing more subtle.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Lead your forces round to the south, to encircle – the ranks we see are no doubt screening reserves, and I would know their strength. I in turn will leave the centre to High Watered Melest and take the north, where I will lead the dead king’s elite infantry into the crook between the enemy’s flank and the hills.’

‘There is great risk in that, Sister Freedom.’

‘No one hides behind those hills, Brother. Furthermore, with me in the lead, we can drive that flank inward. Shatter the hinge on your side while I break the one on mine, and we shall make quick work of this.’

Aloft faced the north. ‘Do you sense anything from High Watered Kessgan? Have they encountered the other army? Brother Grave cannot find them at all.’

‘Nor can I. If they are in battle, then we must trust that they can delay or even drive back the enemy.’

The woman commanding the foreigners was now riding to take position on the south flank. Whatever she had said to her soldiers had elicited no cheers, no defiant roars.

‘She has lost them!’ cried Brother Aloft.

‘So it seems. Brother – see where she goes? She understands the weakness of that side. Ride straight for her when you advance. Kill her.’

‘She might well be alone by then – I believe this army is moments from routing.’

‘Such is the failing of their kind,’ Freedom replied. ‘Humans have the qualities of vermin – you will find them everywhere, but they share a belief in the virtue of running away when threatened. We shall have to hunt them down, Brother, and rid us of them once and for all.’

‘I will ride to my vanguard now, Sister. When next we meet, it shall be standing upon the corpses of these wretched upstarts.’

‘The ground will welcome their bones,’ she replied, nodding.

Warleader Gall surveyed his paltry force of horse-warriors, and then, helm tucked under one arm, he walked over to Hanavat. The foundling Rutt was beside her, the unnamed baby cradled in his arms. His thin face was white with fear.

‘Wife,’ said Gall in greeting.

‘Husband.’

‘I will die today.’

‘I know,’ she replied.

‘Will you flee this battle? For our child?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Please. I beg you.’

‘Husband, we have nowhere to go. We shall find you in the Ancestral Hills, beneath a warm sun, and the desert flowers will fill our eyes with the colours of spring.’

At the ancient parting words of the Khundryl, Gall slowly closed his eyes. ‘I have fallen,’ he said, looking up once more to meet her level gaze. ‘You have seen my weakness.’

‘I have only seen what can be found in all of us, beloved. Does not a Warleader of the Khundryl walk the same ground as the rest of us? Your gift was courage and cunning on the field of battle. That gift remains. Take it with you this day, in the name of Coltaine, and in the spirit of the Wickans, who were the greatest horse-warriors this world has ever seen. Did we not proclaim that? With your own words, did you not cry their name to the heavens – until even the Ancestral Hills stirred in the awakening of our ghosts?’

‘I did, my love.’

‘We burned tears upon our faces to mark their passing from the world. But I see Khundryl warriors behind you, husband. I see the best of what remains. Lead them. I give to you the courage of my own heart, to join with yours. Today, I am proud.’

Trembling, he stepped forward and took her in his arms.

Fist Faradan Sort watched the massive army form up on the plain beyond. By numbers alone the centre dominated. Medium infantry along with skirmishers and crescents of archers: she judged seven or eight thousand. The wings belonged to heavy infantry, and she could see a pure-blooded Forkrul Assail commanding each one. Her eyes narrowed on the Pure opposite her – a female, mounted on a bone-white horse, from which she was now dismounting.

‘They have power in their voice!’ Faradan Sort shouted. ‘By command alone they will seek to make you yield. To drop your weapons. Defy them, Malazans!’ Easy enough to say. Probably impossible to achieve. This could turn into horror very quickly. She drew her sword. Ancient scars from the sorcery of the Stormriders marred the blade, forming a crazed mottling of pattern welding and watermarking.

In her mind, a faint echo rose up – the crash of massive waves, shuddering the treacherous, icy stone underfoot. The bitter cold bite of the shackles round her bandaged ankles. Explosions of foam – and then, rising through the blue-white foment, a shape, a figure armoured in ice— she shook herself, mouth suddenly dry.

It’s a warm day. Nothing to slip on. No numbness to steal all feeling from my hands. No raw patches where my skin has torn away at the touch of metal.

I have faced worse. Remember that – it’s what has kept you going battle after battle.

The Forkrul Assail was walking ahead of her troops now, up towards a low rise.

Faradan Sort suddenly looked down, studied the yellow, brittle grasses, the countless rodent holes. ‘Soldiers – anyone see any scorpions hereabouts?’

A chorus of grunts answered her, all in the negative.

‘Good. That will do, then. Shields high – seems she’s got something to say to us!’ Gods, this is where it gets unfair.

Smiling, Sister Freedom studied the enemy forces. Ah, we were wrong. They are not moments from routing. There was rage and stolid determination in the faces across from her, but none of that would help – not now. Shields and armour would resist the power she was about to unveil, would protect them – for a time. Perhaps a handful of heartbeats. But then her voice would tear through, claw away skin and muscle, spray blood into the air. Bones would snap, skulls would shatter.

They were all about to die, and nothing they did would prevent that.

As here, so too the rest of the world.

Glancing to her left, she saw the centre advancing – now less than thirty paces distant from the motionless line of defenders. Archers were loosing arrow upon arrow, with the enemy’s own archers countering here and there. Soldiers were falling, though for most shields fended off the deadly rain. Twelve paces, and then the charge. Its weight will drive them back, break up that facing line, and into the gaps we will pour, splitting the formation apart. And then will come the slaughter.

Returning her attention to the flank opposite her, she raised her arms, began drawing breath.

The flint sword that erupted from the ground beneath the Forkrul Assail ripped into the inside of her left thigh, lifting her into the air as the tip cracked and pierced her hip bone. As its wielder rose in a shower of earth, stones and roots, others burst from the ground surrounding the Forkrul Assail.

Weapons hammered into her.

Howling, writhing still on that sword, she lashed out. The back of one hand struck the forehead of Urugal the Woven, collapsing it inward, pitching the T’lan Imass from its feet.

Kalt Urmanal’s bone mace caught the Forkrul Assail under her left arm, spun her entirely around, boots skyward, and off from the skewering sword.

She landed with a roar, surging back to her feet.

Beroke’s obsidian-tipped spear slid through her, exploding out from her lower belly. Twisting round, the Assail grasped hold of the spear shaft and lifted it into the air, taking Beroke with it. Releasing the wood, she reached up to trap Beroke’s skull between her hands as he slid closer to her.

With a bellow she crushed the warrior’s skull.

In her mind, Sister Freedom shouted commands to her officers. ‘Charge the enemy – break through and encircle them! Kill every damned one of them! Leave these bone-bags to me!’ The T’lan Imass with the crumpled forehead came towards her again. Snarling, she flung herself at him.

Blistig could feel the desperate rage growing in him, and as the enemy ranks suddenly seemed to build like a rising wave and rush howling towards him, he screamed his own fury.

The collision lifted soldiers from their feet, shoved them into the air. Blood misted, weapons hammered down, and the front ranks of the Malazans recoiled, and then stiffened. The clamour was deafening – weapons and shrieks – and the world was crazed before the Fist’s eyes, frantic with motion, the flash of faces, teeth bared, sudden gushes of blood from mouths and gaping throats. Bodies pushing up against his shins. Staggering, flaying with his sword, buffeted by repeated blows against his shield, Blistig fought with the ferocity of a rabid dog.

He was going to die. They wanted to kill him – every damned one of them wanted to kill him, drag him down, trample his corpse. His life wasn’t supposed to end like this. He would fight, and fight. This was not going to be the end – he wouldn’t let it. I will not let it!

Chaos spun wild around him and the soldiers pressing against his sides.

They were pushed back another step.

Lostara Yil moved up alongside the Adjunct, drawing her swords. Another dance. All I can do. The dance of the world – this fucking, miserable, murderous world. She saw Ruthan Gudd take Tavore’s other flank, and behind her she could hear Henar Vygulf – the fool was singing some damned Bluerose sea shanty.

Ahead, advancing now, leaning forward and striding on stiff legs like a madman, came the Forkrul Assail. His eyes were feral and they were fixed on the Adjunct.

When he roared, the sound hammered them back.

Blood sprayed into the air and Lostara staggered, blinded. Whose blood? What— And now it was pouring down her cheeks and she saw Henar thump down, turning to her a shredded face. Oh, gods, it’s my blood – we’re all—

Impossibly, the Adjunct straightened against that devastating onrush of wordless sound, drew her sword round, and sought to close.

The Forkrul Assail was still almost forty paces away.

We can’t do this. Even Tavore – we can’t—

Ruthan Gudd reached the Adjunct’s side in his armour of ice – but that too was riven with cracks, breaking away in a hail of shards. He seemed to be reaching for her, as if to drag her back – away from this – but no retreat was far enough.

The Assail roared again.

Lostara Yil’s own scream was lost even to her own ears.

She felt her body skidding across the broken, tortured ground.

Against this – we are done with. Not even the Adjunct. Not even Ruthan Gudd. He slays us. Cotillion—

But not even a god could hear her prayers now.

Fifty paces behind, driven to his knees by the power of Akhrast Korvalain, Banaschar wiped blood from his eyes. He had tried to get closer – tried to move up and join with the Adjunct and her companions – but he had failed.

Failure. I know that word – spent many a night sitting at its table—

A figure stepped past him.

Badalle hummed softly to herself, and that gentle sound pushed away all that the Quisitor flung at her. Ahead, she could see how the power was hurting Mother – even with all her magic-deadening blood, her extraordinary will, Mother was being torn apart.

She gave words to her wordless song. Simple words, three to find the fourth, when the fourth was all that mattered. ‘Opals gems diamonds shards. Opals gems diamonds shards.’ You have forgotten so much. Until only hunger and pain remains. I know those two things. I know them well. We have shared them, you and I.

‘Opals gems diamonds shards. Opals gems diamonds shards.’

I sent you away once. I told you to take your hurt and your hunger away from us. Because we deserved neither.

Someone hurt you long ago. Someone hurt Rutt long ago. Someone hurt Saddic, and Held, and all the others. Someone must have hurt me, too.

‘Opals gems diamonds shards. Opals gems diamonds shards.’

I sent you away. Now, I summon you. See the bringer of pain. See the deliverer of hunger. The Quisitor. I know him. I remember him. He came among my people. He told them they had to die. To answer ancient crimes.

Perhaps he was right.

But that did not mean he had the right.

‘Opals gems diamonds shards. Opals gems diamonds shards.’

Do you know his kind? I think you do. Do you awaken now to ancient hurts? I think you do. I summon you. They like their justice. Now, my friend, deliver it.

‘Opals gems diamonds shards. Opals gems diamonds Shards!’

And above the Forkrul Assail, the sky darkened.

Banaschar stared as the swarm of locusts descended – where they had come from, how they had been summoned, he knew not. Their sound was a seething whisper, and then a swarming, howling cacophony. He saw the Forkrul Assail cease his attack, saw the man look up.

And then the swarm plunged down in an enveloping cloud, a storm of wings that suddenly blossomed crimson.

Brother Aloft screamed, and as he screamed the locusts crawled into his mouth, poured inside, mandibles slashing. Blood soaked the creatures, helped them slide down his throat. Choking, blinded and deafened, he fell to his knees. They chewed inside – his windpipe, and now his stomach. They blocked his nostrils, fought to enter his ears. Their bites cut through his eyelids and burst the eyes behind them. They swarmed into the sockets.

The god of the Forkrul Assail was coming home.

The locusts formed a seething pillar, which fell as the body it shrouded toppled to one side. Flashes of red gristle, of pink bone, and then the creatures were lifting away on their wings, rushing into the Kolansii infantry – but those soldiers, well armoured, their shields up before their faces, pushed through and the locusts spun, the whirr of their wings reaching a higher pitch, as if giving voice to their frustration.

Abruptly the swarm lifted, swirled into the air overhead.

Badalle could feel their need – it was without end – and she knew that if they remained in this place she would lose control of them – they would devour everyone.

Go now. You cannot stay.

The roar reached a pitch that shivered the air – a scream of impotence – and then the whirling cloud spun away.

Just beyond the bones of the Forkrul Assail, the Kolansii infantry advanced, and before them stood four figures sheathed in blood.

Mother, when this is done – when you and all your children have fallen – I shall with my last breath summon them again. To deliver our revenge.

Warleader Gall sat on his horse, eyes on the heavy infantry pushing past the embattled female Forkrul Assail. Their ranks were disordered, broken by the steep pitch of the hillside on their right, crowding to avoid the hill where fought their commander and the T’lan Imass. Large stones that had long ago rolled down from the summit further slowed their advance.

He could see the flank of Malazans turning to ready for the inward attack – but he could also see that the intention of the enemy was to win through to the rear of the defenders.

Beside him, Shelemasa said, ‘Warleader – the south flank—’

‘We must choose one or the other,’ Gall cut in. ‘Do you see the ones before us? They cannot hold their lines – but see how, once they are past the Malazans, they will be able to spread out, once more on level ground. They will then form up.’

‘Warleader, the Adjunct—’

‘We cannot help her,’ he said. ‘If there were three thousand of us, yes, we could challenge that flank. But these ones here – at the threshold of open ground – we will meet them there.’ He drew his tulwar, rode out ahead of his pitifully small army, and then wheeled.

‘In the name of Coltaine and the Fall!’

He needed say nothing more. Weapons flashed, the horses tossing their heads as they caught the sudden fever of their riders.

Gall sawed on his reins, pitching his mount round. The beast reared, hoofs scything in the air.

And the Warleader laughed.

Faradan Sort had pushed her way to the edge of the flank – once the Kolansii broke through, she would need to be there, to hold her soldiers, to maintain their resolve – but they do not need me. See their faces! The enemy seeks our underbelly and will be met with iron. And I will be there – this battle shall be mine, to the end.

And then she heard the sound of horse’s hoofs. Looked up, twisted round – and saw the Khundryl Burned Tears at full charge. Even as the first of the Kolansii spilled out from the narrow passage, the horse-warriors – with Gall in the lead – crashed into them.

The impact shook the ground, rippled through bodies all the way to the Malazan ranks.

‘Hold fast!’ Faradan Sort shouted. ‘Now push! Into the enemy! Push!’

The Kolansii advance had been checked – but not for long, she knew. It has to be enough. Now let’s make them pay for that bad footing.

The north-facing side of the Malazan phalanx surged forward, Faradan Sort in their midst, and the Kolansii heavy infantry turned to meet them. But they were staggering, stones rolling underfoot, boulders trapping their legs.

And the Khundryl were in a frenzy, driving ever deeper into their ranks.

Gods! See them fight!

Sergeant Ordinary Grey grasped hold of the corporal’s jerkin, pulled him close. ‘Grid Ffan – where’s your squad?’

The Falari’s eyes were wild, his face bright red. ‘All around us, you Kartoolii spider bait!’

‘Where’s your sergeant?’

‘Dead! Where’s your fucking squad?’

‘With your sergeant,’ snapped Ordinary Grey. ‘Except for my Semk here …’

They were being jostled, ever losing ground. Grid Ffan’s eyes shifted past the sergeant and then widened. ‘Someone sewed up his fucking mouth!’

‘He likes it that way. Now listen – the south flank—’

‘We ain’t got a south flank!’

‘She’s over there – her and that Shadow Dancer and that captain with piss-ice in his beard. The Assail’s finished, but the heavy infantry’s about to fold us up. She named you, Ffan! Just like she named me and Could Howl. You understanding me?’

Grid Ffan shifted round. ‘Hare Ravage! Sample! Find the others – we’re pulling out of this press!’

The squad’s huge mailed fist turned to the corporal. ‘I barely got a swing in! Been waiting for fucking ever, Corporal!’

‘We’ll get you your Hood-damned fight, you Kanese squid-eater – we’re taking on a whole army of heavies!’

‘How many of us?’ Sample demanded, her blue-tinted skin ashen with dust.

Ffan turned back to Ordinary Grey, who answered, ‘Maybe ten.’

The Napan’s grin flashed white, and in a sharp, piercing voice, she cried out, ‘Shades, Brutan, Asp, Shipwreck and Gill Slime! With us! Move, damn you all!’

Pores sagged beside Kindly, who risked a moment to glower down at the man. ‘Get out of here! You’re a damned liability!’

‘Just need – to – catch my breath!’

Beyond Pores, in the seething press, Kindly saw a dozen or so soldiers moving through the ranks away from the front line. ‘What in Hood’s name are they doing?’ But he saw no panic in the faces of the soldiers closest to them – words were shouted back and forth, and the ranks shifted to make room for them to pass.

Pores straightened once more, followed Kindly’s glare. ‘Ordinary Grey … Ffan and Sample. And there’s that scary Semk – it’s the ones she called on, sir.’

‘Is it now?’

Another hard shove from the front staggered them back again.

‘Head back to the camp, Pores – do something useful. Protect the children.’

‘I don’t think – oh, right. Sir—’

‘I’m moving up again – get out of here.’

‘Sir—’

‘That’s it – you’re up on report, soldier! Now go before I kill you myself!’

Lesser Watered Trissin moved past the bones of Brother Aloft – she struggled to not look down, yet could not help herself. Locusts still crawled here and there, out from under the bones or the slack skins of intestines, still crowded the gaping jaws.

She could feel Sister Freedom’s fury and pain as the wounded Pure lashed out – the T’lan Imass would not win that battle – but they were taking all the Forkrul Assail’s concentration. In truth, it was High Watered Melest who was commanding the assault, from the centre.

She saw, ahead of them, a line of four soldiers, and her eyes widened – this is all they have for us? They are mad!

Off to the right, spilling out from the enemy phalanx, came a dozen or so medium infantry.

A laugh burst from her. ‘This is what they offer in opposition?’ She gestured, her mind snapping out the command to spread out, widen the facing line.

They would sweep past these fools, and then wheel round to close on the flank from behind.

The battle was as good as done.

‘Adjunct,’ said Ruthan Gudd, ‘we need to fall back – into the phalanx. We can’t stay out here – we can’t hold that advance—’

But Tavore Paran seemed to be beyond words. Blood flowed down her face, as if all that she had contained, all that she had held inside, was now pushing free.

Gods below. ‘Take her left, Lostara – with Henar on yours. I’ve got the right. Adjunct! Fuck this waiting, let’s charge.’

Her head snapped round, the eyes raw and wild.

And then the four of them were moving forward.

Trissin shouted in shock – they were attacking!

And now she saw – one of the soldiers was sheathed in ice, even unto the long sword in his hand. And another was coming forward with the fluid grace of water, two swords seeming to flow from her hands. Apart from the ice-bound figure, the others were covered in blood – these were the ones who had stood against Brother Aloft. That woman – she commands this army.

What is she doing?

What are they all doing?

Grid Ffan swore in a stream of languages and then yelled, ‘Run, you fools! Catch up to ’em!’ And as they pelted forward, ten regulars racing to join up with their Adjunct and her officers, the corporal found breath to bark out orders.

‘Hare Ravage – go far end and arrive hard! Sample – follow him up! Shades Elar and Brutan Harb – back up the Shadow Dancer and the Bluerose. Shipwreck and Could Howl, stay with me for the Adjunct! You too, Grey.’

Sergeant Ordinary Grey cursed. ‘I outrank you, Ffan!’

‘So what?’

‘Right,’ the man gasped. ‘You all, what Ffan said! Carry on, Corporal!’

‘Asp Slither – got any magic? How ’bout you, Gill?’

‘’S coming back,’ hissed Gill Slime.

And Asp Slither cackled like a strangled swan. ‘Just watch me!’ she crowed.

‘No!’ Ffan shouted – they were only a dozen or so paces away now. ‘Hold back, both of you! Find their fucking commander and hit the fucker with all you fucking got, you fucking got it?’

The Kartoolii mage cackled a second time and loomed close. ‘No, sir. What do you mean?’

A strange burbling sound spat out from Could Howl.

Ffan shot the Semk a look. ‘That’s some laugh you got there.’

They arrived like a whirlwind, into the front line of the Kolansii. Swords were a blur in the hands of the dancer, and, where they touched, blood sang forth and bodies tumbled back. The ice-clad soldier waded in, blows bouncing from him unnoticed, and cut deep into the ranks, his sword seemingly everywhere. The tall soldier on the dancer’s left was bellowing as he beat down the Kolansii in front of him, shield-slamming another and knocking the two men off their feet, where they fouled those coming up behind them. And the commander fought with breathtaking precision, every motion either evading a thrust or dealing death, on her face an expression that struck ice through Trissin’s heart.

And then the other soldiers arrived, four coming up around the commander, three of them howling like demons, the fourth with his mouth horribly sewn tight. They struck in a manic frenzy, driving the Kolansii back.

She saw a huge soldier collide with the heavies who had swung round the ice-bound man, somehow knocking three of them to the ground. His short sword lashed down, seemingly little more than touching each Kolansii on the side of the neck – and from three throats blood sprayed out.

‘Surround them!’ screamed Trissin from three ranks behind the fighting. ‘Cut them—’

A ball of flames engulfed the Kolansii commander, raging wild, and from the cloudless sky above lightning crashed down, the impact thundering, flinging soldiers to the ground, the strike creating a vast hole in the ranks. Burnt flesh and parts of bodies rained down.

Three demons clawed up from the ground beneath the burning woman, their bodies covered in protruding mouths filled with dagger-length fangs, the talons on the ends of their fingers long as sabres, their heads swarming with coal-red eyes. Roaring, they lunged into the raging flames, tearing the commander to pieces.

Seeing all this, Grid Ffan shot a wild look back at his mages – saw them convulsed with laughter. Fucking illusionists! ‘Tone it down, you fools! You want t’give it all away?’

Gill Slime and Asp Slither looked up, suddenly straight-faced.

‘Got anything else?’ Ffan demanded.

Both shook their heads.

‘Then get up here and fight!’

The Kolansii had recovered, were now pushing to close once again. And more were swinging round on the far side, forcing Sample and Hare Ravage to back up.

Swearing, Ffan worked up close to the Adjunct.

‘Sir! We need to fall back into the phalanx! Adjunct!’

When she did not reply – or even seem to hear him – he cursed and said to the sergeant beside him, ‘Grey, listen. We come up and around her, either side – we make us a wall so she can’t get past us. Shipwreck, go there – and you, Semk, right here – we’re going to force her back and into the ranks, understood?’

‘It’s the battle lust, sir!’ shouted Shipwreck, staggering drunkenly as was his way in moments of high excitement, when his damaged inner ear started acting up.

‘I know what the fuck it is, idiot. Now, let’s do this!’

Lostara Yil was being pulled away from the Adjunct’s flank – Henar Vygulf was hard pressed, now defending himself from attackers on two sides. The sudden arrival of the regulars had eased the threat, but only momentarily – there were simply too many of the bastards.

Sobbing, bearing countless wounds, Lostara Yil drew closer to her love.

Don’t die. Please. Don’t die.

A sword blade clipped Henar’s head. He staggered, stunned.

Lostara screamed, now fighting blind to the threats pressing in around her, her gaze fixed on Henar.

The two regulars collapsed in to fend off the blows rushing down towards Henar. A woman and a man, the former Nathii, the latter Seven Cities – she had never seen them before, but they fought the attackers to a standstill above her love, who’d dragged off his cracked helm, blood gushing down from a scalp wound, and was trying to regain his feet.

Lostara hacked down a Kolansii on her left, leapt over his crumpling form. The grace was gone now. Only brutal savagery remained. She opened another man’s throat.

The Nathii woman shrieked, a sword driven through her chest. Dropping her weapon she took hold of the arm gripping that sword, and pulled her attacker down as she fell. Her companion’s short sword licked out, cut through half his neck; the man was shouting, trying to drag Henar back to his feet, until an axe crushed the back of the regular’s head, through helm and bone, and flung him forward, limbs flopping. But Henar was on his feet once more – and Lostara reached his side. Just beyond, a row of faces: Malazan regulars, shouting from their line on the flank, screaming and beckoning. Close! Hurry! Come to us!

Lostara spun round, blades whipping out. ‘Henar! To the ranks! Go!’

She saw the other regulars spilling back, all of them arrayed protectively round the Adjunct as they forced her towards the ranks. Ruthan Gudd and one huge regular were fighting to prevent the group from getting cut off, enveloped, but even they were being pushed back.

Take me, Cotillion! Please, I beg you! Take me!

But from her patron god … nothing. She twisted to her left, marched ahead to hold the enemy.

A dozen Kolansii rushed her.

The Khundryl had pushed as deep as they could into the press of heavy infantry. They had gone farther than Warleader Gall had thought possible. But now the horses were all dead, and so too the last of his warriors. But the advance had been blocked – bodies alone were enough to prevent the enemy from swinging round the Malazan wing – so now they were simply pushing inward, forcing the regulars into an ever-contracting formation.

A sword had ripped open everything below his ribcage. He was lying on his back, on the corpses of strangers and kin, his intestines spilled out and tangled round his legs.

Something was pulsing in the air – he could not be certain if it came from outside or from somewhere deep inside him. No. Outside. Voices, rising in rhythm, but he could not quite make out the word. Again and again, the sound rising and falling, coming from somewhere off to his right.

He found the pounding of his heart falling into that pulse, and warmth flowed through him, though he knew not the reason for it.

Darkness was drawing close.

That sound. That sound … voices. They are voices. Rising from the Malazans. What are they saying? What do they shout, again and again?

Abruptly, thick blood crackled in one ear, opened a way through, and he could at last hear the endlessly repeated cry.

‘Khundryl! Khundryl! Khundryl!’

A word for his fading heart, a song for his ending life. Coltaine, I shall stand before you. We shall ride with your Wickans. I see crows over the Ancestral Hills—

Sister Freedom strode forward as the huge Imass toppled. She kicked him on to his back, plunged her battered hands down, closed her fingers through torn, papery skin and ripped sinews, and took hold of his spine. She paused a moment, glaring at the one with the flint-studded harpoon who was rising yet again a few paces away.

The Forkrul Assail was a mass of wounds and broken bones, but she was far from dead. Bellowing, she lifted the T’lan Imass from the ground and broke his spine like a branch, twisting it amidst snapping, grinding sounds. Flinging the corpse away, she advanced on the last undead warrior.

‘This ends now!’

The female warrior backed away.

They were both down from the rise, down among heaps of bodies – cold flesh and thick, cooling blood underfoot, limbs that flopped away with each step.

Fury filled Freedom. At the murder of Brother Aloft. At the pathetic audacity and stubbornness of these T’lan Imass. At this army of foreigners who refused to break, who did nothing but die where they stood, killing her soldiers and killing yet more of them.

She would destroy them – soon, once this last Imass was crushed and torn apart.

She stepped over a dead horse-warrior, one boot cracking into the side of the man’s head.

The blow rang loud, and Gall opened his eyes. Blinked up at the sky. I should be dead. Why am I not yet dead?

Behind him he heard someone speak. ‘Surrender to me, T’lan Imass. Your kin are all gone. There is no point in continuing this fight. Stand and I will destroy you. But I will give you leave to depart. Be done with this – it is not your battle.’

Gall reached down, took hold of a handful of his intestines, just under his ribcage and tore it free. He groped, slicing open the palm of his hand on a discarded sword – a Kolansii blade, straight and tipped for thrusting. A child’s toy. Not like my tulwar. But it will have to do. He climbed to his feet, almost folded as a weight slipped behind his ribs and sternum – with his free hand he reached in, to hold everything up.

Turning, he found himself staring at the back of the Forkrul Assail. Beyond her stood a T’lan Imass, the one he knew to be named Nom Kala. Her left thigh had been shattered, bent and splintered, yet still she stood, her spear held at the ready.

Gall stepped forward, and drove the sword through the Forkrul Assail, through her spine. She arched in shock, the breath rushing from her.

The Khundryl fell back, his lungs slipping past his spread fingers to flop in his lap.

He was dead before his head hit the ground.

Nom Kala stepped forward. The Forkrul Assail’s eyes were wide, staring into her own. The T’lan Imass had been watching those eyes for what seemed an eternity, since the moment they had risen up from the ground beneath her. She had studied the malice and ferocity in that unhuman glare. She had witnessed the flares of pleasure and triumph each time the Assail had shattered another of her kin. She had seen their delight when breaking Kalt Urmanal’s spine.

But now there was a sword thrust through the Forkrul Assail, iron gleaming blue-red, and those eyes held nothing but astonishment.

Nom Kala took one more step closer. Then drove her harpoon into the bitch’s eye.

Hard enough to drive through, punching out the back of the Assail’s skull.

The Malazan army was crumbling. Driven back, pushed ever tighter inward, they left bodies heaped in ribboned mounds with every step they yielded. Joined by a stumbling Pores, Banaschar led the non-combatants – the children of the Snake and the Khundryl – as far back as they dared, but it was clear that the Kolansii sought only to annihilate the Bonehunters. All the heavy infantry now working round from the south were ignoring the huddled mass of unarmed onlookers.

Blistig was still fighting, a hard, defiant knot at the front of the centre phalanx. Banaschar could see Kindly, there on the right, doing the same. And Faradan Sort on his left. These three Fists, chosen by the Adjunct, simply refused to fall.

The ex-priest could no longer see Tavore, but something told him that she still stood – somewhere in the ranks on the south-facing line. That attack, with the squad of regulars coming up to join it, had been … extraordinary.

And that magic was … ridiculous. But see that commander – lying dead. That’s real enough. Not much Assail blood in that one, to have succumbed to nothing but invented nightmares. Nice play, regulars.

But it was all hopeless. All that he’d seen here, all that he’d witnessed.

He felt a presence to his right and turned to see Hanavat, and a step behind her and to one side, Rutt carrying the child. ‘Your husband – I am sorry,’ said Banaschar.

She shook her head. ‘He stopped them. They all did. And now – see? The Forkrul Assail herself has fallen.’

‘It was well fought, was it not?’

She nodded.

‘Tell me, have you named the child?’

Hanavat met his eyes. ‘I believed … what is the point? Until this moment. Until you spoke.’ Then her eyes fell from his. ‘Yet for the life of me, I cannot think of one.’

‘Gall?’

‘Gall bears but one face in my life, and so it shall ever be. Priest, I am lost.’

He could say nothing to that.

We are all lost.

Banaschar faced the terrible battle once more, Hanavat upon one side with the boy and the baby, Pores upon the other. They looked on, silent.

To where the Bonehunters were dying. Every one of them.

The air swirling brittle with outrage, High Fist Ganoes Paran rode to the top of the ridge, Fist Rythe Bude at his side. Behind them the Host was drawing up at the trot – he did not need to look behind him, or listen to Bude’s desperate breaths, to know that they were exhausted.

That legion of heavy infantry had savaged them. Without Kalam and Quick Ben’s deadly antics, the High Watered who had commanded the Kolansii had proved a stubborn foe, refusing to yield to the inevitable – they had been forced to kill every last one of them before finally cutting down the commander.

And now his army was bleeding, dragging itself up the slope like a wounded dog.

They reached the rise and reined in.

Before them, the Bonehunters formed a crumbling core under sustained attack from three sides, and in moments the fourth side would be engulfed as well. Ganoes could barely comprehend the magnitude of the slaughter he was seeing – corpses made low hills around the combatants, as orderly as the berms of an earthworks fortification.

Shock and horror tightened like a fist round his heart.

His sister’s army had been reduced to less than half a thousand, and they were falling fast.

‘High Fist—’

Rythe Bude’s mouth snapped shut when he spun to her and she saw his face. Paran swung his mount round as the first line of soldiers reached the summit. ‘To the edge! To this damned edge! Close up, damn you! Those are fellow Malazans dying down there! Look on them! All of you, look on them!’

His horse staggered beneath him, but he righted it with a savage sawing of the reins, then reached up and dropped the full visor over his face. Drew out his sword and rose in his stirrups as still more soldiers crowded the ridge.

‘Draw breath, you bastards! And CHARGE!’

As he and Fist Rythe Bude drove their mounts down the slope, Ganoes Paran angled close to her. ‘Into that flank – leave the south alone!’

‘Yes sir!’

‘Look for any mixed-bloods.’

The look she shot him was venomous. ‘Oh really, sir?’

Behind them the ground shook as the Host thundered down the slope.

‘High Fist! If we take down their commanders! Mercy?’

He glared ahead, drawing his mount away from the woman, angling towards the unoccupied flats between the fighters and the non-combatants. ‘Today, Fist, I don’t know the word!’

But he knew he would change his mind. Cursed with softness. I got it all. Left nothing for Tavore, my sister of ice-cold iron. We should have shared it out. Like coins. Gods, so many things we should have done. Is it now too late? Does she live?

Sister, do you live?

High Watered Melest, still shaken by the deaths of the Pures, turned at the cries of shock and dismay from the Kolansii on the right flank, and his eyes widened upon seeing another foreign army pouring down from the hills. Even as he watched, they slammed into the heavy infantry – and these attackers were as heavily armoured, and with the weight of the downhill charge behind them they shattered the wing with the force of an avalanche.

Howling in rage, he pushed back through the ranks – he needed one of the Pures’ horses, to attain a higher vantage point. They still held the centre and fully commanded the south side of the field. Victory was still possible.

And he would win it.

In his mind, drawing as much strength as he could from Akhrast Korvalain, he exhorted his soldiers into a battle frenzy.

‘Kill them! All these who have so defied us on this day – destroy them!’

His horse lagging beneath him, beginning to weave, Paran cursed and slowed the beast. He fumbled in the saddlebag on his left, drew out a lacquered card. Glared at the lone rider painted on it. ‘Mathok! I know you can hear me! I’m about to open the gate for you. But listen! Come at the charge, do you understand? You wanted a damned Hood-balled blood-pissing fight, and now I’m giving it to you!’

Paran kicked his horse forward again, pushing the poor beast into a gallop. He fixed his eyes on the place where he would tear open the gate, and then rose in his stirrups. ‘There,’ he said to the card, and then threw it.

The card sailed out, level as a quarrel from a crossbow, so fast it blurred as it cut through the air.

Beneath Paran, his horse stumbled. Then collapsed.

He threw himself clear, struck hard, rolled and was still.

Ruthan Gudd fought to defy the envelopment, but even with this unknown brute of a soldier fighting at his side he could not prevent the hundreds of Kolansii from swinging round, well beyond the reach of their swords.

Behind him he felt a sudden surge rip through the regulars, pushing everyone forward a step. Twisting round, Ruthan strained to see the cause – but dust filled the air, and all he could see was the reeling mass of Malazans, now breaking apart, spilling out, as if in a berserk fever they now sought to charge – but before these soldiers there were no Kolansii.

They are broken. They are finally—

Thunder spun him round, and he stared, disbelieving, as thousands of warriors rode out from an enormous gate – but no, this ragged tear in the fabric of the world did not deserve so lofty a title. It was huge, opened to a howling wind – and it was barely thirty paces from the first ranks of the enemy.

The riders bore lances, their mounts heavily armoured across chest and neck. They struck the disordered mass of heavy infantry – there had been no time to wheel, no time to draw shields round – and the concussion of that impact shuddered through the Kolansii. The wing split, broke apart – and suddenly all cohesion was lost, and the horse-warriors were delivering slaughter on all sides.

The regular infantryman beside him stumbled then, leaned hard against Ruthan Gudd’s hip. Startled, he stared down, saw the man pressing his forehead against his ice-sheathed side.

Eyes closed, the gasping Kanese breathed, ‘Gods below, that feels good.’

Lostara Yil saw Adjunct Tavore stumbling away from the ranks. The pressure was gone – the enemy had other foes to deal with, and those foes were driving them back, away from the Bonehunters. She stared after Tavore.

The Adjunct was barely recognizable. Covered in blood and gore, her helm torn off, her hair stained red, she staggered into the clear. Ten jerking, almost manic steps, her sword still in her hand but held out to one side, as if the arm had forgotten how to relax.

Lostara pulled free of the ranks, moved after her – but a hand grasped her, dragged her back, and Henar’s voice was close by her ear. ‘No, love. Leave her. Just … leave her.’

Her steps ran out, lost all momentum, and then she was standing, alone, her back to her army. The sounds of battle seemed to be falling away, as if thick, heavy curtains were being drawn across every side of the world, shutting away every scene, every swirl of motion and dust.

She was alone.

The sword, still held out so awkwardly, and her head slowly tilting back, to lift her face to the sky.

Eyes were upon her now, but she saw them not.

Tavore’s mouth opened, and the cry of anguish that tore from it held nothing human.

It rang across the field of battle. It pushed past the witnessing Bonehunters, reached out and caressed countless corpses. It fought with the dust, rising up to vanish in the lurid green hue of the sky’s fading light.

When her voice gave out, all could see that cry continuing in the stretched contortion of her face. Silent now, she gave nothing to the sky, and in that nothing, there was everything.

Half stunned by the fall from the horse, Paran staggered towards her. That sound had not come from his sister. Too terrible, too ravaged, too brutal, and yet it dragged him towards her, as if he was caught in a rushing current.

Off to his left, a few hundred Bonehunters still alive, motionless, unable even to sag or settle to the ground. They looked upon his sister and he could make no sense of their meaning, of what they still wanted from her.

Is this not enough? This one weakness, breaking loose so raw, so horrifyingly, from her?

Is it never enough?

I don’t – I don’t understand what you want from her! What more are you waiting for?

Through the bars of his helm’s iron grille, she was directly ahead, a prisoner still.

Someone was rushing towards her. Another enemy. She could not even open her eyes, could not turn to meet him. One more death seemed too much, but she knew what waited within her. This need. This need … to finish.

Do not attack me. Please. Someone stop him. Please.

I will kill him.

She heard him arrive and she dropped down into a crouch, spinning round, eyes opening – a heavy helm, an armoured body lunging for her.

Her blade was a blur.

He caught her wrist, was rocked back by the force of the swing.

Pulled her close as she struggled.

Fumbled at his helm’s strap.

‘Tavore! Stop! It’s me – it’s Ganoes!’

The helm came away, left his hand to thump on the ground – she stared up at him, disbelieving, and then, in her face, everything shattered.

‘I lost her! Oh, Ganoes, I lost her!’

As she collapsed into his arms, frail as a child, Ganoes held her tight. One hand against the back of her sweat-matted head, her bloodied face now pressed into his shoulder as she broke down, he found himself sinking to his knees, taking her within him.

And when he looked up, over at those Bonehunters, he saw that whatever they had been waiting for they had now found.

Like him, like her, they were settling down, to their knees. They were … surrendering.

To whatever was left inside them.

Muffled against his shoulder, through her sobs, she was saying his name. Over and over again.

On a distant part of the field, as High Watered Melest swung his Jhag horse round, seeking to flee, Mathok’s lance took him in the side of the head.

And the final battle of the Bonehunter Regular Infantry was done.

‘Corporal! Get over to those fat women!’

‘Dead, Sergeant!’

‘Then the other one, damn you!’

‘Both corporals are dead – I told you!’

Cursing, Hellian sidestepped a lunging attacker, drove her knee into the man’s jaw. The head snapped upward and the body beneath it sagged. She stabbed him in the neck and then turned to glare at her squad’s last soldier. ‘Well what good are you, damn it? What’s your name?’

‘You stupid brain-dead cow – I’m Maybe! I been with you from the start!’

‘And you’re still here – just my luck. I’ll hold this track – go find someone to spell those two whales. Most of those Bridgeburners are dead.’

Swearing, Maybe moved off.

Hellian took a moment to dry the sweat and blood from her palm, and then picked up her sword again. Where was Urb? If that fool was dead she’d kill him. No, that’s not right. No matter.

Below, she saw more helmed heads lurching into view on the narrow, winding incline.

Come on, then. One of you’s gotta have a flask. Something, for Hood’s sake. See what happens when I’m sober?

Corabb heard Maybe shouting behind him and turned – saw weapons flashing, Kolansii soldiers pouring up on to the summit. Marines were going down all round Maybe – Mulvan Dreader, Ruffle, Honey – ‘Breach!’ he screamed. ‘Breach!’

And then he was running.

Maybe stumbled, stabbed through one calf, buckling to blows against his shield. Corabb saw Ruffle push herself on to her hands and knees – but then an axe descended, bursting her skull. She flopped back down, limp as a rag doll.

Now he could see the breach. The two Bridgeburner sergeants had both gone down at the top of the trail they had been defending.

Corabb leapt over the chained god.

Kolansii faces turned towards him – and then he was among them, his sword singing. The shield was torn from his left arm by an axe blade. A point bit deep into his side. Howling, he slashed open a shoulder, cutting through chain, the links scattering, and then drove another man to his knees on the backswing.

A heavy grunt from someone on his right – Shortnose had arrived, shield-bashing two foes, sending both to the ground. He’d collected up a Kolansii axe and now used it to dispatch the stunned soldiers.

More of the enemy rushed them.

The Crippled God was able to turn his head, was witness to the savage, desperate defence from these two Malazans. He watched the enemy driven back in one instant, then pushing closer in the next. The sweat of one of his protectors had splashed his face when the man had sailed over him, and those droplets now ran down in trickles, leaving tracks that felt cool as tears.

It seemed that there would be no reinforcements to this modest engagement – the enemy was upon them on all sides. They had finally come within sight of his chained body – and now the Forkrul Assail understood the purpose behind all this. The Crippled God could feel the Assail’s hunger.

I am almost all here, within this bag of skin. And I remain in chains.

He can wound me. He can feed on my power for all time – and none could challenge him. He will unleash my poison upon the world.

The Malazan with the cut-off nose-tip staggered, pierced through by a sword, and then another. Only to then straighten, his axe lashing out. Bodies reeled, toppled in welters of gore. He stumbled forward, and the Crippled God saw his face in profile – and saw the man’s smile as he fell face first on to the ground.

Leaving but one defender, harried now by three Kolansii, with a fourth and fifth soldier appearing from behind them.

His lone stalwart marine cut one down with his singing blade. And then another – crippled by a thigh chopped down to the bone.

The axe that caught the marine was swung from the shield side – but the Malazan held no shield, could not block the swing. It cut clean through his left shoulder, severing the arm. Blood spraying, the man stepped back, his torso held pitched to one side, unbalanced. A second swing slashed through half his neck.

Somehow, the marine found the strength to drive the point of his sword into his killer’s throat, the tip bursting out below the back of the skull. The thrust toppled him forward, into the dying man’s arms. They fell as one.

Even as the remaining two Kolansii moved towards the Crippled God, weapons lifting, quarrels flashed in the air, knocked both men down.

The god heard the scuff and thump of boots, and then someone landed and slid up against him, and he turned his head to the kneeling saviour, looked up into Captain Fiddler’s eyes.

‘They reach you, Lord?’

The Crippled God shook his head. ‘Captain, your soldiers …’

As if the word alone wounded him, Fiddler looked away, and then scrambled back on to his feet, cranking back the claw on the crossbow, his eyes fixing on the breach. Those eyes then went wide. ‘Hedge!’ he screamed.

Hedge fell against the hacked bodies of Sweetlard and Rumjugs. The trail just below where the two women had fought was jammed with corpses – but beyond them he could see more Kolansii soldiers, dragging the way clear. They’d be through in moments.

Too many. Fuck.

How long had they been fighting? He had no idea. How many waves of attacks? It seemed like hundreds, but that wasn’t possible – they still had daylight above them. Dying daylight, aye, but still …

Eyes on the mass of enemy below, an enemy heaving ever closer, he drew round the satchel he had collected from the mound of gear close to the feet of the Crippled God. Drew out the cusser. Always keep one. Always.

Sapper’s vow. If you’re going down, take the bastards with ya.

He lifted it high.

Behind him he heard Fiddler shriek his name.

Aw, shit. Sorry, Fid.

Hedge plunged down the trail, rushing the mob of Kolansii.

And then heard someone behind him, and whirled. ‘Fiddler, damn you! No! Go back!’

Instead, his friend tackled him. Both went down, the cusser flying from Hedge’s hand.

Neither man ducked for cover, instead turning to watch the munition take its leisurely, curving path down to the press of soldiers – and all those bobbing iron helms.

It struck one of those helms clean as a coconut falling from a tree.

Burst open to spill insensate carmine powder.

The two sappers stared at each other, faces barely a hand’s width apart, and in unison they cried, ‘Dud!’

And then a Malazan slammed down beside them in a clatter of armour – a man if anything shorter than Reliko, yet pale and thin, his ears protruding from the sides of his narrow head. He faced them and offered up a yellow, snaggle-toothed smile. ‘Got your backs, sirs. Get on wi’yee now!’

Fiddler stared at the man. ‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’

The soldier gave him a hurt look. ‘I’m Nefarias Bredd, sir! Who else would I be? Now, get back up there – I’ll cover yee, aye?’

Fiddler turned and dragged Hedge back on to his feet, pulling him up the trail. As they scrabbled to the edge, hands reached down and dragged them up. The faces of the marines now surrounding them – Tarr, Bottle, Smiles and Koryk – were the palest he had ever seen. Deadsmell arrived and fell to his knees beside the prone bodies of Rumjugs and Sweetlard, looked up and muttered something to Tarr.

Nodding, Sergeant Tarr pushed Hedge and Fiddler from the edge. ‘We got this breach taken care of, sirs.’

Fiddler grasped Hedge’s arm, yanked him as he dragged him away.

‘Fid—’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ He rounded on Hedge. ‘You thought to just do it all over again?’

‘It looked like we was finished!’

‘We ain’t never finished, damn you! We drove ’em back again – you hearing me? They’re pulling back – we drove them back again!’

Hedge’s legs suddenly felt watery beneath him. He abruptly sat down. Gloom was settling round them. He listened to gasping breaths, cursing, ragged coughs. Looking about, he saw that the others within sight were also down on the ground, too tired for anything more. Heads fell back, eyes closed. His sigh was a rasp. ‘Gods, how many soldiers you got left, Fid?’

The man was now lying beside him, back propped against a tilted stone. ‘Maybe twenty. You?’

A shudder took Hedge and he looked away. ‘The sergeants were the last of ’em.’

‘They ain’t dead.’

‘What?’

‘Cut up, aye. But just unconscious. Deadsmell figures it was heat prostration.’

‘Heat— Gods below, I told ’em to drink all they had!’

‘They’re big women, Hedge.’

‘My last Bridgeburners.’

‘Aye, Hedge, your last Bridgeburners.’

Hedge opened his eyes and looked over at his friend – but Fid’s own eyes remained shut, face towards the darkening sky. ‘Really? What you said?’

‘Really.’

Hedge settled back. ‘Think we can stop ’em again?’

‘Of course we can. Listen, you ain’t hiding another cusser, are you?’

‘No. Hood take me, I been carrying that one for bloody ever. And all that time, it was a dud!’

Faces floated behind Fiddler’s eyes. Stilled in death, when so many memories of each one gave them so much life – but that life was trapped now, inside Fiddler’s own mind. And there they would remain, when in opening his eyes – which he was not yet ready to do – he would see only that stillness, the emptiness.

He knew which world he wanted to live in. But, people didn’t have that choice, did they? Not unless they killed the spark inside themselves first. With drink, with the oblivion of sweet smoke, but those were false dreams and made mockery of the ones truly lost – the ones whose lives had passed.

Around him, the desperate gulps of breath were fading, the groans falling off as wounds were bound. Few soldiers had the strength to move, and he knew that they were now settled as he was, here against this stone. Too tired to move.

From the slope on all sides, the low cries and moans of wounded Kolansii lifted up, soft and forlorn, abandoned. The Malazans had killed hundreds, had wounded even more, and still the attackers would not relent, as if this hill had become the lone island in a world of rising seas.

But it’s not that.

It’s just the place we chose. To do what’s right.

But then, maybe that alone gives reason to take us down, to destroy us.

Hedge was silent beside him, but not asleep – if he had been, his snores would have driven them all from this place, the Crippled God included, chains be damned. And from the army still surrounding them, down on the lower ground, nothing more than a sullen mutter of sound – soldiers resting, checking weapons and armour. Readying for the next assault.

The last assault.

Twenty-odd soldiers cannot stop an army.

Even these soldiers.

Someone coughed nearby, from some huddle of stones, and then spoke. ‘So, who are we fighting for again?’

Fiddler could not place the voice.

Nor the one that replied, ‘Everyone.’

A long pause, and then, ‘No wonder we’re losing.’

Six, a dozen heartbeats, before someone snorted. A rumbling laugh followed, and then someone else burst out in a howl of mirth – and all at once, from the dark places among the rocks of this barrow, laughter burgeoned, rolled round, bounced and echoed.

Fiddler felt his mouth cracking wide in a grin, and then he barked a laugh, and then another. And then he simply could not stop, pain clenching his side. Beside him, Hedge was suddenly hysterical, twisting over and curling up as the laughter poured out of him.

Tears now in Fiddler’s eyes – wiping them frantically – but the laughter went on.

And on.

Smiles looked over at the others in her squad, saw them doubling over, saw faces flushed and tears streaming down. Bottle. Koryk. Even Tarr. And Smiles … smiled.

When her squad-mates saw that, they convulsed as if gut-stabbed.

Lying jammed in a crack between two stones a third of the way down the slope, half buried beneath Kolansii corpses, and feeling the blood draining away from the deep, mortal wounds in his chest, Cuttle heard that laughter.

And in his mind he went back, and back. Childhood. The battles they fought, the towering redoubts they defended, the sunny days of dust and sticks for swords and running this way and that, where time was nothing but a world without horizons – and the days never closed, and every stone felt perfect in the palm of the hand, and when a bruise arrived, or a cut opened red, why he need only run to his ma or da, and they would take his shock and indignation and make it all seem less important – and then that disturbance would be gone, drifting into the time of before, and ahead there was only the sun and the brightness of never growing up.

To the stones and sweat and blood here in his last resting place, Cuttle smiled, and then he whispered to them in his mind, You should have seen our last stands. They were something.

They were something.

Darkness, and then brightness – brightness like a summer day without end. He went there, without a single look back.

Lying beneath the weight of the chains, the Crippled God, who had been listening, now heard. Long-forgotten, half-disbelieved emotions rose up through him, ferocious and bright. He drew a sharp breath, feeling his throat tighten. I will remember this. I will set out scrolls and burn upon them the names of these Fallen. I will make of this work a holy tome, and no other shall be needed.

Hear them! They are humanity unfurled, laid out for all to see – if one would dare look!

There shall be a Book and it shall be written by my hand. Wheel and seek the faces of a thousand gods! None can do what I can do! Not one can give voice to this holy creation!

But this is not bravado. For this, my Book of the Fallen, the only god worthy of its telling is the crippled one. The broken one. And has it not always been thus?

I never hid my hurts.

I never disguised my dreams.

And I never lost my way.

And only the fallen can rise again.

He listened to the laughter, and suddenly the weight of those chains was as nothing. Nothing.

‘They have resurr—’ Brother Grave stopped. He turned, faced the dark hill.

Beside him, High Watered Haggraf’s eyes slowly widened – and on all sides the Kolansii soldiers were looking up at the barrow, the weapons in their hands sagging. More than a few took a backward step.

As laughter rolled down to them all.

When Brother Grave pushed harshly through the soldiers, marching towards the corpse-strewn foot of the hill, Haggraf followed.

The Pure halted five paces beyond the milling, disordered ranks, stared upward. He flung Haggraf a look drawn taut with incredulity. ‘Who are these foreigners?’

The High Watered could only shake his head, a single motion.

Brother Grave’s face darkened. ‘There are but a handful left – there will be no retreat this time, do you understand me? No retreat! I want them all cut down!’

‘Yes sir.’

The Forkrul Assail glared at the soldiers. ‘Form up, all of you! Prepare to advance!’

Suddenly, from the hill, deathly silence.

Brother Grave smiled. ‘Hear that? They know that it is over!’

A faint whistling in the air, and then Haggraf grunted in pain, staggering to one side – an arrow driven through his left shoulder.

Brother Grave spun to him, glared.

Teeth clenching, Haggraf tore the iron point from his shoulder, almost collapsing from the burst of agony as blood streamed down. Staring down at the glistening sliver of wood in his hand, he saw that it was Kolansii.

Snarling, Brother Grave wheeled and forced his way back through the press of soldiers. He would join this assault – he would ride his Jhag horse to the very top, cutting down every fool who dared stand in his way.

In his mind, seeping in from the soldiers surrounding him, he could hear whispers of dread and fear, and beneath that palpable bitterness there was something else – something that forced its way through his utter command of their bodies, their wills.

These were hardened veterans, one and all. By their hands they had delivered slaughter, upon foes armed and unarmed, at the command of the Forkrul Assail. They had been slaves for years now. And yet, like a black current beneath the stone of his will, Brother Grave sensed emotions that had nothing to do with a desire to destroy the enemy now opposing them.

They were in … awe.

The very notion infuriated him.

‘Silence! They are mortal! They have not the wits to accept the inevitable! You will fight them, you will take them down, every last one of them!’ Seeing them wither before his command, a surge of satisfaction rushed through him and he moved on.

‘And I will claim the Crippled God,’ he hissed under his breath, finally pushing clear of the troops, marching towards his hobbled horse. ‘I will wound him and Akhrast Korvalain shall be reborn, and then none will be able to oppose me. None!’

Motion off to his left caught his attention. He halted, squinted into the green-tinted gloom.

Someone was walking towards him across the plain.

What now?

At forty paces he saw the figure raise its arms.

The sorcery that erupted from him was a blinding, coruscating wave, argent as the heart of lightning. It tore across the ground between them, struck one edge of the Kolansii ranks, and scythed through them.

Bellowing in answer, Brother Grave threw up his hands a moment before the magic struck.

He was flung backwards through the air, only to slam into something unyielding – something that gave an animal grunt.

Strength fled Brother Grave. He looked down, stared at two long blades jutting from his chest. Each knife had pierced through one of his hearts.

Then a low voice rumbled close to one ear. ‘Compliments of Kalam Mekhar.’

The assassin let the body sag, slide off his long knives. Then he turned and slashed through the rope hobbling the horse. Moved up alongside the beast’s head. ‘I hate horses, you know. But this time you’d better run – even you won’t like what’s coming.’ He stepped back, slapped the animal’s rump.

The bone-white Jhag horse bolted, trying a kick that Kalam barely managed to dodge. He glared after it, and then turned to face the Kolansii soldiers –

– in time to see another wave of Quick Ben’s brutal sorcery hammer into the press of troops, tearing down hundreds. The rest scattered.

And the High Mage was shouting, running now. ‘Through the gap, Kalam! Hurry! Get to that barrow! Run, damn you!’

Growling, the assassin lumbered forward. I hate horses, aye, but I hate running even more. Shoulda ridden the damned thing – then this would be easy. Better still, we should never have let the other one go. Quick’s going on soft on me.

A Kolansii officer with Assail blood in him stepped into his path, clutching his wounded shoulder.

Kalam cut the man’s head off with a scissoring motion of his long knives, knocked the headless body to one side, and continued on. He knew that tone from Quick Ben. Run like a damned gazelle, Kalam!

Instead, he ran like a bear.

With luck, that would be fast enough.

Hedge knew that sound, recognized that flash of blinding magefire. He rose, dragging Fiddler to his feet. ‘Quick Ben! Fiddler – they’re here!’

On all sides, the last few marines were rising, weapons hanging, their faces filling with disbelief.

Hedge pointed. ‘There! I’d know that scrawny excuse for a man anywhere! And there – that’s Kalam!’

‘They broke the Kolansii,’ Fiddler said. ‘Why are they running?’

As Hedge spun round – as if to shout to the marines – his hand suddenly clenched on Fiddler’s arm, and the captain turned.

He looked skyward.

‘Gods below!’

She was the finder of paths. There were ways through the worlds that only she had walked. But now, as she forced her will through the warren’s veil, she could feel the pressure behind her – a need that seemed without answer.

Instinct had taken her this far, and the world beyond was unknown to her.

Has my course been true? Or nothing but a lie I whispered to myself, over and over, as if the universe would bend to my will?

I promised so much to my lord.

I led him home, I led him to the throne of his ancestors.

I promised answers. To all of the hidden purposes behind all that his father had done. I promised him a meaning to all this.

And I promised him peace.

She emerged into a dying day, trod lifeless grasses beneath her moccasin-clad feet. And the sky above was crazed with emerald comets, the light stunning her eyes with its virulence. They seemed close enough to touch, and in the falling rain of that light she heard voices.

But a moment later those actinic arcs were not alone in the heavens. Vast shadows tore ragged trails through the green glow, coming from her right with the fury of clashing storm clouds. Blood and gore spattered the ground around her like hail.

She spun in that direction, and the breath escaped Apsal’ara in a rush.

A blight was taking the land, faster than any wildfire – and above it was a dragon, appallingly huge, assailed on all sides by lesser kin.

Korabas!

She saw the front of that blight rushing towards her.

She turned and ran. Reached desperately for warrens, but nothing awakened – it was all being destroyed. Every path, every gate. Life’s myriad fires were being snuffed out, crushed like dying embers.

What have I done?

They are following – they trusted in me! My lord and his followers are coming – there is no stopping that, but they will arrive in a realm which they cannot leave.

Where flies Korabas, there shall be T’iam!

What have I done?

Suddenly, in the distance ahead, sure as a dreaded dawn, the rift she had made tore open wide, and five dragons sailed out, their vast shadows rushing towards her. Four were black as onyx, the fifth the crimson hue of blood.

Desra. Skintick. Korlat. Silanah. Nimander.

And awaiting them, in the skies above this world, between earth and the fiery heavens, the air swarmed with their kin. And Korabas.

At war.

She saw her lord and his followers drawn into that maelstrom – all lost, stolen away by what was coming.

Where flies Korabas, there shall be T’iam.

And the goddess of the Eleint had begun to manifest.

Panicked, weeping, Apsal’ara began running again, and there, in the distance, beckoned a hill crowded with crags and boulders, and upon that hill there were figures.

As Fiddler turned to face the west, he found himself staring at the most massive dragon he had ever seen. Harried by scores of lesser dragons, seemingly torn to shreds, it was labouring straight for them.

He spun – the Adjunct’s sword was now bleeding coppery, rust-stained light, visibly trembling where it was driven into the earth. Oh no. We’re all dead.

The land beneath the Otataral Dragon was withering, crumbling to dust and cracked, bare clay. The devastation spread out like flood-waters over the plains.

The sword wasn’t enough. We all knew that. When we stood here – her, me, the priest …

The priest!

He whirled round.

At that moment Quick Ben reached the crest. ‘No one leaves the barrow! Stay inside the ring!’

The ring? ‘Gods below. D’rek!’

The wizard heard him and flashed a half-panicked grin. ‘Well said, Fid! But not gods below. Just one.’

Kalam stumbled into view behind Quick Ben, lathered in sweat and so winded he fell to his knees, face stretched in pain as he struggled to catch his breath.

Hedge threw the assassin a waterskin. ‘You’re out of shape, soldier.’

Fiddler saw his marines drawing up – their eyes were on the approaching dragon, and the hundreds of other, smaller dragons swooping down upon it in deadly waves. When some of them saw the blight, spreading out and now rushing closer, they flinched back. Fiddler well understood that gesture. ‘Quick Ben! Can she protect us?’

The wizard scowled across at him. ‘You don’t know? She’s here, isn’t she? Why else would she be here?’ He then advanced on Fiddler. ‘Didn’t you plan this?’

‘Plan? What fucking plan?’ he retorted, unwilling to budge. ‘Banaschar said something … his god was coming – to offer protection—’

‘Exactly – wait, what kind of protection?’

‘I don’t know!’

The blight struck the lower ground, caught the scattered Kolansii soldiers. They disintegrated in billows of dust.

The Malazans threw themselves to the ground, covering their heads.

Fiddler simply stared, as the Otataral Dragon voiced a terrible cry that seemed to hold in it a world’s pain and anguish, age upon age – and its tattered wings, snapping like torn sails, thundered wildly in the air as the creature halted directly above the barrow. Quick Ben pulled him down to the ground.

Nearby the earth shook as the corpse of a dragon slammed into it. A curtain of blood slapped the hillside.

The wizard dragged himself close. ‘Stay low – she’s fighting it. Gods, it’s killing her!’

Twisting round on the ground, Fiddler looked over at the Crippled God. His eyes widened.

Forged by the gods, the chains shattered like ice, links exploding, flinging shards in a vicious hail. Soldiers cried out, flinched away. The Crippled God remained lying on the ground, motionless. He had carried that weight for so long, he felt unable to move.

Yet his chest filled with air, the unyielding constriction now gone. The sudden release from pain left him hollow inside. Trembling took his body, and he turned his head.

The mortals were screaming, though he could not hear them. They looked upon him with desperate need, but he no longer understood what they desired of him. And then, blinking, he stared up, not at the hovering, dying dragon, but beyond it.

My worshippers. My children. I hear them. I hear their calls.

The Crippled God slowly sat up, staring down at his mangled hands, the uneven fingers, the nubs where nails should have been. He studied his scarred, seamed skin, the slack muscles beneath it. Is this mine? Is this how I am?

Rising to his feet, his attention was caught by the hundreds of dragons now massing to the south. They had drawn back from the Otataral Dragon, and now had begun writhing, swarming against each other, forming spiralling pillars of scale, wings and dragon flesh, twisting above a more solid mass. The shape towered into the sky, impossibly huge, and from the flattened, elongated ends of those pillars, high above them all, eyes suddenly flared awake.

A word whispered into the Crippled God’s mind – faint, yet still voiced in a howl of terror.

T’iam.

Manifesting. Awakening to slay the Otataral Dragon.

The Crippled God saw a man fighting his way closer to where he stood, as if against a whirlwind. Iron in his beard, a familiar face he vaguely recalled, and with that recollection vague emotions rising into his thoughts. There have been sacrifices this day. Made for me, by these strangers. Yet … asking for nothing. Not for themselves. Still, what do they now want from me?

I am free.

I can hear my children.

And yet they are trapped in the heavens. If I call them down, all will be destroyed here.

There were others, once – they fell as I did, and so much was damaged, so much was lost. I see them still, trapped in jade, shaped to make a message to these mortal creatures – but that message was never understood, and the voices stayed for ever trapped within.

If I call my children down, this world will end in fire.

Craning, he stared beseechingly into the heavens, and reached up, as if he might fly into them.

The uneven fingers strained on the ends of his misshapen hands, pathetic as broken wings.

The bearded man reached him, and now at last the Crippled God could hear his words, could understand them.

‘You must chain her! Lord! She will accept your chains! You must – T’iam is manifesting! She will destroy everything!’

The Crippled God felt his face twisting. ‘Chain her? I, who have known an eternity in chains? You cannot ask this of me!’

‘Chain her or she dies!’

‘Then death shall be her release!’

‘Lord – if she dies, then we all die! I beg you, chain her!’

He studied this mortal. ‘She accepts this?’

‘Yes! And quickly – D’rek is dying beneath us.’

‘But my power is alien – I have no means of binding it to this world, mortal.’

‘Find a way! You have to!’

He was freed. He could walk from this place. He could leave these mortals – not even the deadly power of the Otataral Dragon could harm him. Otataral, after all, is nothing more than the scab this world makes to answer the infection. And what is that infection? Why, it is me.

The Crippled God looked down upon this mortal. He kneels, as all broken mortals kneel. Against the cruelty of this and every world, a mortal can do nothing but kneel.

Even before a foreign god.

And what of the love I possess? Perhaps there is nothing – but no, there is no such thing as foreign love.

He closed his eyes, released his mind to this world.

And found them waiting for him.

Two Elder Gods, each taking a hand – their touches heartbreakingly gentle. The crushing pressure in this place had levelled every feature, darkness and silts swirling in unceasing dance. Currents raged on all sides, but none could reach through – the gods held them at bay.

No, only one of these Elders possessed that power, and he was named Mael of the Seas.

They led him across this plain, this ocean bed lost to the sun’s light.

To where knelt another mortal – but only his soul remained, though for the moment it once more occupied the body it had abandoned long ago: rotted with decay, swirl-tattoos seeming to flow in the currents from the naked form. He knelt with his hands thrust down, buried deep in the silts, as if seeking a lost coin, a precious treasure, a memento.

When he looked up at them, the Crippled God saw that he was blind.

‘Who is this?’ the mortal asked. ‘Who is this, nailed so cruelly to this tree? Please, I beg you – I cannot see. Please, tell me. Is it him? He tried to save me. It cannot have come to this. It cannot!’

And the Elder God who was not Mael of the Seas then spoke. ‘Heboric, you but dream, and this dream of yours is not a conversation. Only a monologue. In this dream, Heboric Ghosthands, you are trapped.’

But the mortal named Heboric shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. All I have touched I have destroyed. Friends. Gods. Even the child – I lost her too, to the Whirlwind. I lost them all.’

‘Heboric Ghosthands,’ said Mael, ‘will you fill this ocean with your tears? If you believe this notion to be new, know this: these waters were so filled … long ago.’

The other Elder God said, ‘Heboric, you must awaken from this dream. You must free your hands – they have waited for this moment since the island. They have touched and taken the Jade and now within you reside a million lost souls – souls belonging to this foreign god. And, too, your hands have touched Otataral, the summoner of Korabas.’

But Heboric sank back down, groping in the silts once more. ‘I killed my god.’

‘Heboric,’ said Mael of the Seas, ‘even gods of war will tire of war. It seems that only mortals will not. No matter. He has absolved you of all blame. His blood has brought life to dead lands. He deems it a worthy sacrifice.’

‘But that sacrifice will fail, Heboric,’ said the other Elder God, ‘if you do not awaken from your dream.’

‘Who is upon the tree?’

‘Heboric, there is no one upon the tree.’

The sightless eyes lifted once again. ‘No one?’

‘Let us see your hands, old friend. I have awakened all the warrens, and all now lead to one place. A cavern far beneath a barrow, made by the jaws of D’rek. Shall we walk there now, Heboric?’

‘A barrow?’

‘A barrow.’

‘No one dreams within a barrow.’

Both Elder Gods were silent to that, and when the Crippled God looked at each of them in turn he saw that they were weeping – he could see the tears on their weathered faces, as if they stood, not at the bottom of an ocean, but upon a desert.

Or upon the broken skin of a barrow.

When Heboric dragged his hands from the silts, one glowed emerald through the billowing clouds, the other the hue of Otataral. The face he now turned to the Elder Gods was filled with sudden fear. ‘Will I be alone there? In that cavern?’

‘No,’ replied Mael of the Seas. ‘Never again.’

‘Who was upon the tree?’

‘We go to her now, Heboric Ghosthands.’

They began walking, and the Crippled God could feel the sorceries of this realm drawing towards them, gathering, conjoining to make this road.

Then, ahead on the path, he saw the glimmer of a lantern – a figure, now guiding them forward, but from a great distance.

The journey seemed to take an eternity. Things sank down from time to time, coming from the darkness above, stirring clouds of silt into the currents. He saw ships of wood, ships of iron. He saw the carcasses of serpentine monsters. He saw a rain of human corpses, shark-gnawed and dragged down boots first to land upon the bottom as if to walk – perhaps even to join this procession – but then their legs folded beneath them, and the silts made for them a soft place to rest.

He thought he saw mounted warriors, glimmering green and blue, tracking them from a distance.

The lantern light was suddenly closer, and the Crippled God saw their guide standing before a cave chewed into the face of a massive cliffside.

When they reached the mouth of that cave, the two Elder Gods paused and both bowed to their guide, but that ghastly figure gave no sign of acknowledgement, only turned away, as if to take its light on to some other path. As if to lead others to their own fates.

They strode down a winding tunnel, and emerged in a vast cavern.

The Elder God who was not Mael of the Seas faced the Crippled God. ‘Long have you wandered the blood I gave to this realm. I am K’rul, the Maker of Warrens. Now it is time for you to leave, to return to your home.’

The Crippled God considered this, and then said, ‘I am flesh and bone. Made in the guise of a human. Where my children call down to me, I cannot go. Would you have me summon them down?’

‘No. That would mean our deaths – all of us.’

‘Yes. It would.’

‘There will be a way,’ K’rul said. ‘It begins with Heboric, but it ends at the hands of another.’

‘This flesh you wear,’ Mael of the Seas added, ‘is unsuited to your return. But it was the best that they could do.’

‘Fallen One,’ said K’rul, ‘will you trust us?’

The Crippled God looked at Heboric, and then he released his grip on the hands of the Elder Gods. Reached for Heboric’s.

But the mortal stepped back, and said, ‘Not yet, and not both of them. Both of them will kill you. I will reach for you, Lord, when the moment arrives. This I promise.’

The Crippled God bowed, and stepped back.

And with his Otataral hand, Heboric, once named Light-Touch, reached through the waters above him. Copper light burst forth, filled the entire cavern.

The vast fingers that erupted from the barrow encompassed the entire mound – but they did not tear the ground. Ghostly, translucent, they arced high overhead, and closed about the Otataral Dragon.

Korabas loosed a deafening scream – but if it was a cry of pain, torment or release Fiddler could not tell.

Beyond the Otataral Dragon, which was even now being drawn closer down above them, the manifestation of T’iam – growing ever more corporeal, forming a multi-headed leviathan – began to tear itself apart once more. Distant shrieks, as dragons pulled away, lunged free.

Most fled as if their tails were on fire. Fiddler stared, now unmindful of the vast, descending form of the Otataral Dragon, as they raced away, while others, too badly damaged, spun earthward, striking the ground with thunderous concussions. It’s fucking raining dragons.

Quick Ben stared upward, praying under his breath, and then his eyes narrowed – he could see through Korabas. He has her – whoever you are, you have her now.

Gods, this is going to work.

I promised, Burn. I promised you, didn’t I?

All right, so maybe I can’t take all the credit.

Maybe.

For modesty’s sake, if I ever talk about it, I mean. But here, in my head … I did it!

Kalam saw the infernal pride burgeoning in the wizard’s face and knew precisely what the scrawny bastard was thinking. The assassin wanted to hit the man. At least ten times.

Crouched, even as the ghostly body of the Otataral Dragon slipped down around them all, Kalam turned to look at the Crippled God. Who stood motionless, eyes shut, hands still raised into the sky.

Maybe a dragon can fly you up there, friend. They’re not all fleeing, are they?

A woman he’d never seen before slumped down beside him, offered him an inviting smile. ‘I like the look of you,’ she said.

Gods, not another one. ‘Who in Hood’s name are you?’

Her smile flashed wider. ‘I am the woman who stole the moon. Oh, I see that you don’t believe me, do you?’

‘It’s not that,’ he replied. ‘Fine, you stole it – but then you broke the fucking thing!’

Fury lit her face most becomingly. ‘I am Apsal’ara, the Mistress of Thieves!’

He grinned at her. ‘Never liked thieves.’ Frustrate them. Works every time.

Hearing the exchange, Quick Ben snorted.

Kalam, you never learn, do you? Or maybe you just can’t help yourself.

The roof of the cavern suddenly glowed white-hot, and Heboric spun to the Crippled God. ‘Now! Open your eyes – you can’t be down here when she arrives. No one can!’

The Crippled God turned. He sensed the two Elder Gods were gone.

Farewell, Mael of the Seas and K’rul Maker of Warrens.

‘Open your eyes!’

And so he did, and in that moment he felt Heboric take his hand.

Koryk had dragged himself behind a tilted standing stone, his eyes fixed upon the Crippled God not five paces away. There was a need inside him, unbearable, savage. It wanted to devour him. It wanted to annihilate the world, the one he lived in, the one that had nothing but the thinnest skin between what hid inside and what lay outside.

There was no answer. None but the obvious one – the one he dared not look at. If he did, he would have to face his own story – not as some nostalgic bravado, but as the succession of hurts that he was not unique in carrying. And he would see all the scars – the ones he bore, the others he had made on those close to him.

He stared at the Crippled God, as if it could somehow save his soul.

And the Fallen One opened his eyes – and stared directly into Koryk’s.

Jade fire lit a whirling pillar round the god, spinning ever faster, the glow brightening, the air howling.

Their gazes were locked together through the emerald flames.

And Koryk saw something – there, awakening, a look … a promise.

He felt his soul reaching forth – closer … closer – reaching to touch.

The Crippled God smiled at him, with such love, such knowing.

The shadow rising behind him was out of place – it could not belong inside those raging fires. Yet Koryk saw it lifting, taking form. He saw two arms rising from that shape, saw the raw, dull gleam of dagger blades.

Shadow.

Koryk’s scream of warning ripped raw his throat – he flung himself forward—

Even as Cotillion’s knives plunged down.

To sink into the Crippled God’s back.

Shock took that otherworldly face – as if the smile had never been – and the head rocked back, the body arching in agony.

Someone slammed into Koryk, dragged him to the ground. He fought, howling.

The green fire ignited, shot spiralling into the sky – so fast it was gone in moments.

Koryk stared after it, one hand stretching upward.

Beside him, too close to bear, he heard Fiddler say, ‘It was the only way, Koryk. It’s for the best. Nothing you can—’

Suddenly sobbing, Koryk pushed the man away, and then curled up, like a child who lived in a world of broken promises.

Hedge pulled Fiddler away from the sobbing soldier. Fiddler shot him a helpless look.

‘He’ll shake out of it,’ Hedge said. ‘Once it all settles and he works it out, he’ll be fine, Fid.’

Quick Ben and Kalam joined the two sappers, and Fiddler fixed his eyes on the wizard. ‘Was it real, Quick? What I saw – did I …’

The wizard gestured and they followed him to one edge of the summit. He pointed down to a lone figure standing some distance away, little more than a silhouette, its back to them. ‘Care to ask him, Fid?’

Ask him? After all we’ve done … how to see this? Ask him? What if he answers me? ‘No,’ he said.

‘Listen, you were right – it had to be this way.’

Yes! It had to – we didn’t do all this for nothing!

Fiddler stepped back, eyed the three men standing before him. ‘Look at us,’ he whispered. ‘I never thought …’

‘Send them down, Fid,’ said Hedge. ‘Your soldiers – get ’em to carry the wounded down off this fucking barrow.’

‘What?’

Quick Ben and Kalam were now eyeing Hedge suspiciously.

The man scowled at the attention. ‘Fid, send them down, will you? This is just for us – don’t you see? What’s coming – it’s just for us.’

When Fiddler turned, he saw his soldiers. And, feeling grief grip his heart, he forced himself to look from one face to the next. In his mind, he spoke their names. Tarr. Koryk. Bottle. Smiles. Balm. Throatslitter. Deadsmell. Widdershins. Hellian. Urb. Limp. Crump. Sinter. Kisswhere. Maybe. Flashwit. Mayfly. Clasp. Nep Furrow. Reliko. Vastly Blank. Masan Gilani. ‘Where’s Nefarias Bredd?’ he demanded.

Sergeant Tarr tilted his head. ‘Captain?’

‘Where is he, damn you?’

‘There is no Nefarias Bredd, sir. We made him up – on the march to Y’Ghatan. Got us a bad loaf of bread. Someone called it nefarious. We thought it was funny – like something Braven Tooth would’ve made up.’ He shrugged.

‘But I—’ Fiddler turned to Hedge, saw the man’s blank look. ‘Oh, never mind,’ he sighed, facing his soldiers again. ‘All of you, go down – take Sweetlard and Rumjugs with you. I’ll … I’ll be down shortly.’

He watched them walk away. He knew their thoughts – the emptiness now overtaking them. Which would in the days and nights ahead slowly fill with grief, until they were all drowning. Fiddler looked back up at the sky. The Jade Strangers looked farther away. He knew that was impossible. Too soon for that. Still …

A faint wind swept across the summit, cool and dry.

‘Now,’ said Hedge.

Fiddler thought he heard horses, drawing up, and then three figures were climbing into view. Ghostly, barely visible to his eyes – he could see through them all.

Whiskeyjack. Trotts. Mallet.

‘Aw, shit,’ said Kalam, kicking at a discarded helm. It spun, rolled down the hillside.

Whiskeyjack regarded him. ‘Got something to say, Assassin?’

And the man suddenly grinned. ‘It stinks, sir, from here to the throne.’

The ghost nodded, and then squinted westward for a moment before turning to Hedge. ‘Well done, soldier. It was a long way back. You ready for us now?’

Fiddler felt something crumble inside him.

Hedge drew off his tattered leather cap, scratched at the few hairs left on his mottled scalp. ‘That depends, sir.’

‘On what?’ Whiskeyjack demanded, eyes fixing hard on the sapper.

Hedge glanced over at Fiddler. ‘On him, sir.’

And Fiddler knew what he had to say. ‘I let you go long ago, Hedge.’

‘Aye. But that was then and this isn’t. You want me to stay? A few more years, maybe? Till it’s your time, I mean?’

If he spoke at all, Fiddler knew that he would lose control. So he simply nodded.

Hedge faced Whiskeyjack. ‘Not yet, sir. Besides, I was talking with my sergeants just the other day. About buying us a bar, back in Malaz City. Maybe even Smiley’s.’

Fiddler shot the man a glare. ‘But no one can find it, Hedge. Kellanved went and hid it.’

‘Kitty-corner to the Deadhouse, that’s where it is. Everyone knows, Fid.’

‘But they can’t find it, Hedge!’

The man shrugged. ‘I will.’

‘Fiddler,’ Whiskeyjack said. ‘Pay attention now. Our time is almost done here – sun’s soon to rise, and when it does, we will have left this world for the last time.’ He gestured and Mallet stepped forward, carrying a satchel. He crouched down and removed the straps, and then drew out a fiddle. Its body was carved in swirling Barghast patterns. Seeing that, Fiddler looked up at Trotts. The warrior grinned, showing his filed teeth.

‘I did that, Fid. And that mistake there, up near the neck, that was Hedge’s fault. He tugged my braid. Blame him. I do.’

Mallet carefully set the instrument down, placing the bow beside it. The healer glanced up, almost shyly. ‘We all had a hand in its making, Fid. Us Bridgeburners.’

‘Take it,’ ordered Whiskeyjack. ‘Fiddler, you were the best of us all. You still are.’

Fiddler looked over at Quick Ben and Kalam, saw their nods, and then at Hedge, who hesitated, as if to object, and then simply shrugged. Fiddler met Whiskeyjack’s ethereal eyes. ‘Thank you, sir.’

The ghost then surprised him by stepping forward, reaching down and touching the fiddle. Straightening, he walked past them, to stand facing the lowland to the west.

Fiddler stared after him, frowning.

Sighing, Hedge spoke low at his side. ‘She’s out there, sembled now – they’re keeping their distance. They’re not sure what’s happened here. By the time she comes, it’ll be too late.’

‘Who? By the time who comes?’

‘The woman he loves, Fid. Korlat. A Tiste Andii.’

Tiste Andii. Oh … no.

Hedge’s grunt was strained with emotion. ‘Aye, the sergeant’s luck ain’t never been good. He’s got a long wait.’

But wait he will.

Then he caught a blur of motion from a nearby jumble of boulders. A woman, watching them.

Fiddler hugged himself, looked over once more at Mallet and Trotts. ‘Take care of him,’ he whispered.

They nodded.

And then Whiskeyjack was marching past. ‘Time to leave, you two.’

Mallet reached down and touched the fiddle before turning away. Trotts stepped past him, squatted and did the same.

Then they were down over the edge of the hill.

Moments later, Fiddler heard horses – but in the gloom he could not see his friends riding away.

A voice spoke beside Cotillion. ‘Well done.’

The patron god of assassins looked down at the knives still in his hands. ‘I don’t like failure. Never did, Shadowthrone.’

‘Then,’ and the ethereal form at his side giggled, ‘we’re not quite finished, are we?’

‘Ah. You knew, then.’

‘Of course. And this may well shock you, but I approve.’

Cotillion turned to him in surprise. ‘I knew you had a heart in there somewhere.’

‘Don’t be an idiot. I just appreciate … symmetry.’

Together they turned back to face the barrow once again, but now the ghosts were gone.

Shadowthrone thumped his cane on the ground. ‘Among all the gods,’ he said, ‘who do you think now hates us the most?’

‘The ones still alive, I should imagine.’

‘We’re not done with them either.’

Cotillion nodded towards the barrow. ‘They were something, weren’t they?’

‘With them we won an empire.’

‘I sometimes wonder if we should ever have given it up.’

‘Bloody idealist. We needed to walk away. Sooner or later, no matter how much you put into what you’ve made, you have to turn and walk away.’

‘Shall we, then?’

And the two gods set out, fading shadows as the dawn began to awaken.

Toc Younger had waited astride his horse, halfway between the motionless ranks of the Guardians and Whiskeyjack and his two soldiers. He had watched the distant figures gathering on the barrow’s gnarled summit. And now the three ghostly riders were returning the way they had come.

When they reached him, Whiskeyjack waved Mallet and Trotts on and then reined in.

He drew his mount round, to face the barrow one last time.

Toc spoke. ‘That was some squad you had yourself there, sir.’

‘My life was blessed with fortune. It’s time,’ he said, drawing his horse round. He glanced across at Toc. ‘Ready, Bridgeburner?’

They set out side by side.

And then Toc shot Whiskeyjack a startled look. ‘But I’m not a—’

‘You say something, soldier?’

Mute, Toc shook his head.

Gods below, I made it.

In the luminescent sky high above the plain, Gu’Rull sailed on the currents, wings almost motionless. The Shi’gal Assassin studied the world far below. Scores of dragon carcasses were strewn round the barrow, and there, leading off into the west as far as Gu’Rull’s eyes could see, a road of devastation almost a league wide, upon which were littered the bodies of Eleint. Hundreds upon hundreds.

The Shi’gal struggled to comprehend the Otataral Dragon’s ordeal. The flavours that rose within him threatened to overwhelm him.

I still taste the echoes of her pain.

What is it in a life that can prove so defiant, so resilient in the face of such wilful rage? Korabas, do you crouch now in your cave – gift of a god wounded near unto death – closing about your wounds, your sorrow, as if in the folding of wings you could make the world beyond vanish? And with it all the hate and venom, and all that so assailed you in your so-few moments of freedom?

Are you alone once more, Korabas?

If to draw close to you would not kill me – if I could have helped you in those blood-filled skies, upon that death-strewn road – I would join you now. To bring to an end your loneliness.

But all I can do is circle these skies. Above the ones who summoned you, who fought to free a god, and to save your own life.

Those ones, too, I do not understand.

These humans have much to teach the K’Chain Che’Malle.

I, Gu’Rull, Shi’gal Assassin of Gunth’an Wandering, am humbled by all that I have witnessed. And this feeling, so strange, so new, now comes to me in the sweetest flavours imaginable.

I did not know.

Settling the last stone down on the elongated pile, Icarium brushed dust from his hands and slowly straightened.

Ublala – with Ralata sitting nearby – watched the warrior walk to the edge of the hill, watched as Icarium dislodged a small rock and sent it rolling down the slope. And then he looked back at the barrow, and then at Ublala. The morning was bright but there were clouds building to the east and the wind carried the promise of rain.

‘It is as you said, friend?’

Ublala nodded.

Icarium wiped at the tears still streaming down his face from when he’d wept over the grave. But the look on his face wasn’t filled with grief any more. Just empty now. Lost. ‘Ublala, is this all there is of me?’ He gestured vaguely. ‘Is this all there is to any of us?’

The Toblakai shrugged. ‘I am Ublala Pung and that is all I ever am, or was. I don’t know if there’s more. I never do.’

Icarium studied the grave again. ‘He died defending me.’

‘Yes.’

‘But I don’t know who he was!’

Ublala shrugged again. There was no shame in weeping for the death of a stranger. Ublala had done it many times. He reached down, picked up a potsherd, examined the sky-blue glaze. ‘Pretty,’ he said under his breath, tucking it behind his belt.

Icarium collected up his weapons, and then faced north. ‘I feel close this time, Ublala.’

Ublala thought to ask close to what, but already he was confused, and so he put the question away. He didn’t think he’d ever go back to find it. It was where all the other troubling things went, never to be gone back to, ever.

‘I am glad you found a woman to love, friend,’ Icarium said.

The giant warrior smiled over at Ralata and received a stony stare in return, reminding him how she’d said she liked it better when it was just the two of them. But she was a woman and once he sexed her again, everything would be all right. That’s how it worked.

When Icarium set out, Ublala collected up the useful sack he’d found, shouldered it, and went to join the warrior.

Ralata caught up a short time later, just before Icarium happened to glance at the pottery fragment Ublala had taken out to admire again, and then halted to face one last time the low hill they’d left behind. Icarium frowned and was silent.

Ublala was ready to turn away when Icarium said, ‘Friend, I have remembered something.’