CHAPTER SEVEN

‘Awaiting Restitution’

Epigraph on gravestone, Lether

‘IS IT AS I SEE?’ BRYS BEDDICT ASKED. ‘THE FATE OF THE WORLD IN THE hands of three women?’

Atri-Ceda Aranict drew one more time on the stick and then flicked the stub into the fire. Into flames … She held the smoke in her lungs as long as she could, as if in refusing to breathe out she could hold back time itself. I saw caverns. I saw darkness … and the rain, gods below, the rain … Finally, she sighed. If there was any smoke left she didn’t see it. ‘Not three women alone,’ she said. ‘There is one man. You.’

They sat undisturbed before the fire. Soldiers slept. The bawling of animals awaiting slaughter had died down for the night. Cookfires dwindled as the swirling wind ate the last dung, and the air was filled with ashes. Come the dawn … we leave. Broken apart, each our separate ways. Could I have imagined this? Did she know? She must have. By her sword we are shattered.

‘It was necessary,’ said Brys.

‘You sound as if you are trying convince yourself,’ she observed, drawing a taper from her belt sheath and reaching to set one end into the flames. Watched as it caught. Brought the lurid fire closer to her face to light yet another stick.

‘I understood her, I think.’ He grunted. ‘Well, as much as anyone could.’

She nodded. ‘The look on the faces of her officers.’

‘Stunned. Yes.’

She thought of Fist Blistig. ‘Appalled.’

He glanced across at her. ‘I worried for you, my love. Abrastal’s daughter—’

‘A potent child indeed, to find us from so far away.’ She pulled on the stick. ‘I was unprepared. The visions made no sense. They overwhelmed me.’

‘Are you able to make sense of them now?’

‘No.’

‘Will you describe them to me, Aranict?’

She dropped her gaze.

‘Forgive me for asking,’ he said. ‘I did not think – you should not have to relive such trauma. Ah, I am tired and tomorrow will be a long day.’

She heard the invitation in his words, but the flames of the hearth held her in place. Something. A promise. A warning. I need to think on this. ‘I will join you, love, soon.’

‘Of course. If you find me dead to the world …’

She flinched, recovered and said, ‘I shall be careful not to wake you.’

He leaned close and she turned to meet his lips with hers. Saw the tenderness of his smile as he pulled away.

Then she was alone, and her gaze returned again to the flames. A parley. A meeting of minds. Well.

It had begun simply enough. Regal riders reining before the command tent, soldiers appearing to take the horses. Greetings exchanged with the Malazan officers awaiting these distinguished guests. The Adjunct was within, yes. Her wounds? She has recovered, thankfully. We’re afraid there will be little formality in all this, Highness – is it not best that we each make our own introductions? Mortal Sword, Shield Anvil, it is good to see you both …

Fist Faradan Sort had held to her own standard of formality, Aranict supposed. Both comfortable and respectful. Whereas Fists Kindly and Blistig had said nothing, the tension between the two men palpable.

She’d stood close to Commander Brys. It was difficult to know where to look. The Khundryl women, Hanavat and Shelemasa, held back from the others, as if uncertain of their own worth. As words were exchanged between Sort and Krughava and Abrastal on the matter of who should enter first – a clash of deference, of all things – Aranict edged back a step and made her way over to the Khundryl.

They observed her approach with evident trepidation. Aranict stopped, drew out her pouch and counted out three sticks of rustleaf. She held them up with brows raised. Sudden smiles answered her.

She stood and smoked with them, a few paces back from all the others, and Aranict caught Brys’s eye and was pleased by the pride she saw in her lover’s regard.

It was finally determined that Queen Abrastal would be the first to enter, accompanied by the Barghast Warchief Spax, followed by the Perish. When faces turned to the Khundryl women, Hanavat gestured with one hand – clearly, now that she had something to do, she was content to wait. Shelemasa seemed even more relieved.

Brys approached. ‘Atri-Ceda Aranict, if you please, would you escort the Khundryl inside once you are … er, done here.’

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

Moments later the three women were alone apart from the two soldiers flanking the tent’s entrance.

Hanavat was the first to speak. ‘I am tempted to go back to my people. I do not belong in such company.’

‘You stand in your husband’s stead,’ said Aranict.

She grimaced. ‘It is not what I would choose.’

‘No one is blind to that,’ Aranict said, as gently as she could. ‘But, if you like, I can invent an excuse …’

‘No,’ Hanavat said. ‘Even my husband struggled in this particular duty. The Burned Tears are sworn to the field of battle, in the memory of Coltaine of the Crow clan.’ She released a harsh stream of smoke. ‘But it seems failure finds us no matter where we turn.’ She nodded to the tent. ‘I will stand before their disappointment since my husband dares not. My midwives tell me again and again that a woman’s spirit is stronger than a man’s. This day I mean to prove it.’

‘If you like, I shall introduce you, Hanavat.’

‘I expect no such formalities, Atri-Ceda. The Adjunct has more important matters to attend to in there.’

‘My head is spinning,’ said Shelemasa.

‘It passes,’ said Aranict.

A short time later they were done. Hanavat gestured for Aranict to precede them. The Atri-Ceda turned to the tent entrance, but then Hanavat said, ‘Aranict.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

‘My commander spoke from the heart with the words he gave you earlier, Hanavat. The Khundryl have nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, the very opposite is true.’ She led them into the command tent.

In the outer chamber were the two Malazan captains, Raband and Skanarow. Muted voices came from the other side of the curtain.

Skanarow gave them all a strained smile. ‘We decided we didn’t want to crowd the room.’

When Shelemasa hesitated, Hanavat took the younger woman by the arm.

Aranict drew the entrance curtain to one side. The Khundryl women entered the chamber.

Conversation fell away.

As Aranict stepped in she sensed the tension. Mortal Sword Krughava’s face was dark with anger – or shame. A pace behind her was the Shield Anvil, pale, clearly rattled. Brys stood to the right, his back almost brushing the curtain wall. Alarm was writ plain on his face. To the left stood the queen, taut and watchful as her sharp eyes tracked from Krughava to the Adjunct and back again. Who had just been speaking? Aranict wasn’t sure.

The Fists stood to the Adjunct’s left, close to the corner of the chamber. Banaschar leaned against a support pole on the other side, his arms crossed and his eyelids half lowered. Close by, as if ready to catch the ex-priest should he collapse, was Lostara Yil.

Adjunct Tavore looked hale, her expression severe, holding Krughava’s glare unflinchingly.

Upon the arrival of the Khundryl, Fist Faradan Sort cleared her throat and said, ‘Adjunct, it pleases me to introduce—’

‘No need,’ Tavore replied, setting her regard upon Shelemasa. The Adjunct stepped forward, forcing apart the Mortal Sword and the queen. ‘I assume you are Shelemasa, who succeeded in rallying the survivors of the Charge, guiding the retreat and so saving many lives. It is said you were the last to leave the field. Your presence here honours us all.’ She paused, and then turned to Hanavat. ‘Precious mother,’ she said, ‘I grieve for your terrible losses. It grieves me too that, in this time, your husband dwells only upon his own losses. It is my hope that he soon awakens to the gifts remaining in his life.’ Tavore looked at the others. ‘Hanavat and Shelemasa are Khundryl Burned Tears, our longest-standing allies. Their sacrifice on the day of the Nah’ruk saved the lives of thousands. On this day, as upon every other, I value their counsel. Fist Kindly, find a chair for Hanavat – it is not proper that she stand with her child so near.’

Aranict saw Hanavat fighting back tears, welling up behind her astonishment, and if the two women now stood taller than they had a moment earlier … Adjunct Tavore, you continue to surprise us.

Tavore returned to her original position. ‘The Bonehunters,’ she said, ‘have had enough time to lick their wounds. Now we must march in earnest.’

Krughava’s voice was harsh with suppressed emotion. ‘We are sworn to—’

‘Serve me,’ the Adjunct snapped. ‘You have sworn to serve me, and that I need to remind you of this pains me, Mortal Sword.’

‘You do not,’ Krughava said in a tone like honed iron. ‘Your army is damaged, Adjunct. We stand before you – all of us here – and would pledge ourselves to your cause—’

‘Not quite,’ cut in Queen Abrastal, ‘since I don’t yet understand that cause, and by the look on the face of Prince Brys I suspect he shares my unease.’

Krughava hissed a curse in her own language, and then tried again. ‘Adjunct. Now is the time to coalesce our respective forces, thus bolstering our strength—’

‘No.’

The word struck like a knife driven into the floor between them.

The colour left Krughava’s face. ‘If you doubt our loyalty or courage—’

‘I do not,’ Tavore replied. ‘In fact, I am depending on it.’

‘But this makes no sense!’

The Adjunct turned to Abrastal. ‘Highness, your presence here is most unexpected, but welcome. Your kingdom, even more than that of King Tehol, has had long-term contact with those territories of Kolanse and the South Kingdoms of the Pelasiar Sea.’

‘That is true, Adjunct.’

‘What can you tell us of the situation there?’

The queen’s brows lifted. ‘I assumed you were entirely aware of where you are headed, Adjunct. If that is not the case, then I am baffled. What manner of war do you seek? What is the cause for this belligerence of yours?’

It seemed that Tavore was unwilling to answer. Silence stretched.

The one who finally spoke startled them all. ‘The Worm will feed.’ Banaschar slowly lifted his head. ‘She will gorge on the slaughter to come.’ His bleary gaze wandered among them, settled on the Bolkando queen. ‘What are you worth? Any of you?’ He nodded to the Adjunct. ‘She thinks … enough. Enough worth to fight an impossible war. For you, Highness. And you, Prince Brys. And,’ he faltered for a moment, as if about to be sick, ‘even me.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Abrastal, ‘but I will let the matter rest for now. To answer you, Adjunct, I must weave a tale. And,’ she added, ‘my throat grows parched.’

Sort walked to the curtain entrance, leaned out and ordered her captains to find some ale.

The queen snorted and then said, ‘Well, I suppose ale better suits a story told than does wine. Very well, I shall begin. They came from the sea. Isn’t that always the way? No matter. There was trouble in the lands long before that day, however. Decades of drought. Uprisings, civil wars, usurpations, a host of once wealthy nations now verging on utter collapse.

‘In such times, prophets are known to rise. Bold revolutions, the heads of kings and queens on spear points, blood in the streets. But against a sky empty of rain no cause triumphs, no great leader from the masses can offer salvation, and before long even their heads adorn spikes.’

Sort arrived with a cask of ale and a dozen or so tin cups. She set about serving drinks, beginning with the queen.

Abrastal swallowed down a quick mouthful, sighed, and resumed, ‘One can imagine how it must have felt. The world was ending. Civilization itself had failed, revealing its terrible fragilities – that clutter of thin sticks holding it all upright. In place of rain, despair settled upon the lands. In Kolanse, only the province of Estobanse thrived. Fed by glacial streams and rivers, sheltered from the hot winds of the south, by this one province all of Kolanse struggled on – but there were too many mouths to feed and the strain was taking its toll. If there was a solution to this strait, it was too cruel to contemplate.

‘The strangers from the sea had no such qualms, and when they cast down the rulers of Kolanse they did what they deemed necessary—’

‘A cull,’ said the Adjunct, and that word seemed to take the life from Tavore’s eyes.

Abrastal regarded Tavore a moment over the rim of her cup, drank, and then nodded. ‘Just so. In the first year, they reduced the population of Kolanse by fifty per cent. The least fit, the elderly, the sickly. Another ten per cent the next year, and then, with more of their own kind coming in great ships, they sent armies into the South Kingdoms. Adjudication, they called it. They titled themselves Inquisitors, in their hands they held the justice of the land itself – and that justice proved harsh indeed.’

Abrastal hesitated, and then shrugged. ‘That was pretty much the end of our trade with the east. As we are people of the land, not the sea, we sent out merchant caravans along the old south routes, but those few that returned told tales of nothing but desolation. The merchant ships we then hired ventured into the Pelasiar Sea, and found silted-in ports and abandoned cities all along the coasts. They could find no one left with whom to trade.’

‘Did they travel onward to Kolanse?’ Tavore asked.

‘Only the first few. With reason. The Inquisitors did not welcome visitors.’ She drained her cup and held it out for a refill. ‘We considered war, Adjunct. Though the ships were not our own, we’d given them royal charter, and we were most displeased by the slaughter of innocents.’ She glanced over at her Barghast Warchief. ‘We even hired ourselves a mercenary army.’

‘Yet you declared no war,’ observed Brys.

‘No. I sent an agent, my Eleventh Daughter. She did not survive, yet was able to send me … a message. These Inquisitors were not human at all.’

‘Justice,’ said Banaschar, pulling a small jug from his cloak, ‘the sweet contradiction they took to, like …’ he regarded the jug, ‘like wine. There is no true justice, they will say, without the most basic right that is retribution. Exploit the world at your peril, dear friends. One day someone will decide to speak for that world. One day, someone will come calling.’ He snorted. ‘But Forkrul Assail? Gods below, even the Liosan would’ve done better.’ He tilted the jug back, drank, and then sighed. ‘There were temples to D’rek once. In Kolanse.’ He grinned at Tavore. ‘Woe to all a priest’s confessions, eh, Adjunct?’

‘Not human,’ repeated Abrastal. ‘Their power was unassailable, and it seemed to be growing. We declared no war,’ and she looked up into the Adjunct’s eyes, ‘but here we are.’

Adjunct Tavore faced Brys Beddict. ‘Prince, I have not had the opportunity to thank you for your intervention on the day of the Nah’ruk. That the Bonehunters still exist is due to your bravery and that of your soldiers. Without you and the Khundryl, we would never have extricated ourselves from that engagement.’

‘I fear, Adjunct,’ said Brys, ‘that we were not enough, and I am sure Warleader Gall, and indeed Hanavat here, feel the same. Your army is hurt. The stand by the heavy infantry and the marines took from you the very soldiers you need the most.’ He glanced at Krughava briefly, and then continued, ‘Adjunct, I share the Mortal Sword’s dismay at what you now propose.’

‘The Bonehunters,’ said Tavore, ‘will march alone.’

‘Do you say then,’ Brys asked, ‘that you have no further need of us?’

‘No, my need for you has never been greater.’

Queen Abrastal held out her cup, and as Sort refilled it she said, ‘Then you have misled me, Adjunct. Clearly, you know more of the enemy – these Forkrul Assail – and their aims than do any of us. Or,’ she corrected, ‘you think you do. I would point out that the Inquisitors no longer appear to hold to expansionist intentions – the Errant knows, they’ve had enough time to prove otherwise.’

Banaschar’s laugh was soft yet grating. ‘The Bonehunters march alone, leaking blood with every step. Fists, captains and cooks all ask the same thing: what does she know? How does she know it? Who speaks to this hard woman with the flat eyes, this Otataral sword stolen from the Empress’s scabbard? Was it Quick Ben, our mysterious High Mage who no longer walks with us? Was it Fist Keneb? Or perhaps the Empress is not the mistress of betrayal as we all believe and the Empire’s High Mage Tayschrenn now creeps in step with us, a shadow no one casts.’ He toasted with his jug. ‘Or has she simply gone mad? But no, none of us think so, do we? She knows. Something. But what? And how?’ He drank, weaved a moment as if about to fall, then steadied himself before Lostara Yil reached him. Noticing her, he offered the woman a loose smile.

‘Or is the ex-priest whispering in her ear?’ The question was asked by Fist Blistig, his tone strained and cold.

Banaschar’s brows lifted. ‘The last priest of D’rek has no time for whispering, my dear boneless Fist Blistig—’

The Fist grunted an oath and would have stepped forward if Kindly had not edged deftly into his path.

Smiling, Banaschar went on. ‘All the chewing deafens him, anyway. Gnawing, on all sides. The dog has wounds – don’t touch!’ He waved with his jug in the Adjunct’s direction. ‘The Bonehunters march alone, oh yes, more alone than anyone could imagine. But look to Tavore now – look carefully, friends. This solitude she insists upon, why, it’s not complicated at all. Are you not all commanders? Friends, this is simple. It’s called … tactics.’

Aranict looked to Brys in the odd silence that followed, and she saw the glint of something awaken in his eyes, as if an unknown language had suddenly become comprehensible. ‘Adjunct,’ he said, ‘against the Lether Empire, you struck both overland and by sea. We reeled from one direction and then another.’

‘You say you need us more than ever,’ said Mortal Sword Krughava then, ‘because we are to invade on more than one front. Adjunct?’

‘Directly east of us waits the Glass Desert,’ Tavore said. ‘While it offers the shortest route into the territories of the Forkrul Assail, this path is not only reputedly treacherous but by all accounts impossible for an army to traverse.’ She studied the Perish. ‘That is the path the Bonehunters will take. Mortal Sword, you cannot accompany us, because we cannot feed you, nor supply you with water. Beyond the Glass Desert, by Queen Abrastal’s own account, the land scarcely improves.’

‘A moment, please.’ The Bolkando queen was staring at the Adjunct. ‘The only viable overland routes are the southern caravan tracks. The Glass Desert is truly impassable. If you take your army into it you will destroy what’s left of the Bonehunters – not one of you will emerge.’

‘We shall cross the Glass Desert,’ said the Adjunct, ‘emerging to the southwest of Estobanse Province. And we mean to be seen by the enemy at the earliest opportunity. And they shall gather their forces to meet us, and a battle shall be fought. One battle.’

Something in Tavore’s tone made Aranict gasp and she felt herself grow cold with horror.

‘What of the Grey Helms?’ Krughava demanded.

‘In the Bay of Kolanse there rises a natural edifice known as the Spire. Atop this fastness there is a temple. Within this temple something is trapped. Something wounded, something that needs to be freed. The Bonehunters shall be the lodestone to the forces of the Forkrul Assail, Mortal Sword, but it is the Perish who will strike the death blow against the enemy.’

Aranict saw Krughava’s iron eyes narrowing. ‘We are to take the south route.’

‘Yes.’

A battle. One battle. She means to sacrifice herself and her soldiers. Oh, by all the Holds, she cannot—

‘You invite mutiny,’ said Fist Blistig, his face flushed dark. ‘Tavore – you cannot ask this of us.’

And she faced her Fists then, and said in a whisper, ‘But I must.’

‘Unwitnessed,’ said Faradan Sort, ghost-pale, dry-lipped. ‘Adjunct, this battle you seek. If we face an enemy believing only in our own deaths—’

Banaschar spoke, and Aranict was shocked to see tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘To the executioner’s axe there are those who kneel, head bowed, and await their fate. Then there are those who fight, who strain, who cry out their defiance even as the blade descends.’ He pointed a finger at Blistig. ‘Now you will speak true, Fist: which one is Adjunct Tavore?’

‘A drunken fool speaks for our commander?’ Blistig’s voice was vicious. He bared his teeth. ‘How damned appropriate! Will you stand there with us on that day, Banaschar?’

‘I shall.’

‘Drunk.’ The word was a sneer.

The man’s answering smile was terrible. ‘No. Stone sober, Blistig. As befits your one – your only – witness.’

‘Hood take your damned executioner! I will have none of this!’ Blistig appealed to his fellow Fists. ‘Knowing what you now know, will you lead your soldiers to their deaths? If this Glass Desert doesn’t kill us, the Assail will. And all for what? A feint? A fucking feint?’ He spun to the Adjunct. ‘Is that all we’re worth, woman? A rusty dagger for one last thrust and if the blade snaps, what of it?’

Krughava spoke. ‘Adjunct Tavore. This thing that is wounded, this thing in the temple upon the Spire – what is it that you wish freed?’

‘The heart of the Crippled God,’ Tavore replied.

The Mortal Sword seemed visibly rocked by that. Behind her, with eyes shining, Tanakalian asked, ‘Why?’

‘The Forkrul Assail draw upon its blood, Shield Anvil. They seek to open the Gates of Justice upon this world. Akhrast Korvalain. To unleash the fullest measure of power, they intend to drive a blade through that heart when the time is right—’

‘And when is that?’ Abrastal demanded.

‘When the Spears of Jade arrive, Highness. Less than three months from now, if Banaschar’s calculations are correct.’

The ex-priest grunted. ‘D’rek is coiled about time itself, friends.’

Clearing his throat, Brys asked, ‘The Jade Spears, Adjunct. What are they?’

‘The souls of his worshippers, Prince. His beloved believers. They are coming for their god.’

Chills tracked Aranict’s spine.

‘If the heart is freed,’ said Krughava, ‘then … he can return to them.’

‘Yes.’

‘He will leave pieces behind no matter what,’ said Banaschar. ‘Pulling him down tore him apart. But there should be enough. As for the rest, well, “for the rotted flesh, the Worm sings”.’ His laugh was bitter. He stared at Tavore. ‘See her? Look well, all of you. She is the madness of ambition, friends. From beneath the hands of the Forkrul Assail, and those of the gods themselves, she means to steal the Crippled God’s heart.’

Queen Abrastal gusted out a breath. ‘My Fourteenth Daughter is even now approaching the South Kingdoms. She is a sorceress of considerable talent. If we are to continue this discussion of tactics, I will seek to open a path to her—’

The Adjunct cut in. ‘Highness, this is not your war.’

‘Forgive me, Adjunct Tavore, but I believe it is.’ She turned to her Barghast Warchief. ‘Spax, your warriors hunger for a scrap – what say you?’

‘Where you lead, Highness, the White Face Gilk shall follow.’

‘The Otataral sword I wear—’

‘Forgive me again, Adjunct, but the power my daughter is drawing upon now happens to be Elder. Omtose Phellack.’

Tavore blinked. ‘I see.’

Brys Beddict then spoke. ‘Mortal Sword Krughava, if you will accept the alliance of Queen Abrastal, will you accept mine?’

The grey-haired woman bowed. ‘Prince – and Highness – the Perish are honoured. But …’ she hesitated, then continued, ‘I must tell you all, I shall be harsh company. Knowing what the Bonehunters face … knowing that they will face it alone, as wounded as the very heart they would see freed … ah, my mood is grim indeed, and I do not expect that to change. When at last I strike for the Spire, you will be hard pressed to match my determination.’

Brys smiled. ‘A worthy challenge, Mortal Sword.’

The Adjunct walked to stand once more before Hanavat. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘I would ask this of you: will the Khundryl march with the Bonehunters?’

Hanavat seemed to struggle finding her voice. ‘Adjunct, we are few.’

‘Nonetheless.’

‘Then … yes, we shall march with you.’

Queen Abrastal asked, ‘Adjunct? Shall I call upon Felash, my Fourteenth Daughter? There are matters of tactics and logistics awaiting us this day. By your leave, I—’

‘I am done with this!’ Blistig shouted, turning to leave.

‘Stand where you are, Fist,’ Tavore said in a voice like bared steel.

‘I resign—’

‘I forbid it.’

He stared at her, mouth open in shock.

‘Fists Blistig, Kindly and Faradan Sort, our companies need to be readied for tomorrow’s march. I shall call upon you all at dusk to hear reports of our status. Until then, you are dismissed.’

Kindly grasped Blistig by one arm and marched him out, Sort following with a wry smile.

‘Omtose Phellack,’ muttered Banaschar once they’d left. ‘Adjunct, I was chilled enough the last time. Will you excuse me?’

Tavore nodded. ‘Captain Yil, please escort our priest to his tent, lest he get lost.’ She then shot Aranict a glance, as if to ask Are you ready for this? To which Aranict nodded.

Abrastal sighed. ‘Very well, shall we begin?’

Aranict saw that the dung had burned down to dull ashes. She flicked away the gutted butt of her last stick, and then stood, lifting her gaze to the Spears of Jade.

We’ll do what we can. Today, we promised as much. What we can.

One battle. Oh, Tavore …

Sick and shaken as she had been, her hardest journey this day had been back through the Bonehunter camp. The soldiers, their faces, the low conversations and the occasional laugh – each and every scene, each and every sound, struck her heart like a dagger’s point. I am looking upon dead men, dead women. They don’t know it yet. They don’t know what’s awaiting them, what she means to do with them.

Or maybe they do.

Unwitnessed. I’ve heard about this, about what she told them. Unwitnessed … is what happens when nobody survives.

He’d intended to call them all together during the Adjunct’s parley, but re-forming the squads had taken longer than he’d thought it would – a notion which, he decided, had been foolishly optimistic. Even with spaces in each campfire’s circle yawning like silent howls, marines and heavies might as well have been rooted to the ground. They’d needed pulling, kicking, dragging out of their old places.

To fit into a new thing you had to leave the old thing behind, and that wasn’t as easy as it sounded, since it meant accepting that the old thing was dead, for ever gone, no matter where you tried standing or how stubbornly you held fast.

Fiddler knew he’d been no different. As bad as Hedge in that regard, in fact. The heavies and the marines were a chewed-up mess. Standing over them, like some cutter above a mauled patient, trying to work out exactly what he was looking at – desperate for something even remotely recognizable – he’d watched them trickle slowly into the basin he’d chosen for this meeting. As the sun waned in the sky, as pairs of squad-mates set out to find some missing comrade, eventually returning with a scowling companion in tow – aye, this was a rough scene, resentment thickening in the dusty air.

He’d waited, weathering their impatience, until at last, with dusk fast rushing in, the final recalcitrant soldier walked into the crowd – Koryk.

Well. You can try all the browbeating you want, when the skull’s turned into a solid stone wall there’s no getting in.

‘So,’ Fiddler said, ‘I’m captain to you lot now.’ He stared at the faces – only half of which seemed to be paying him any attention. ‘If Whiskeyjack could see me right now, he’d probably choke – I was never cut out for anything more than what I was in the beginning. A sapper—’

‘So what is it,’ a voice called out, ‘you want us to feel sorry for you?’

‘No, Gaunt-Eye. With you all feeling so sorry for yourselves I wouldn’t stand a chance, would I? I look out at you now and you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking: you ain’t Bridgeburners. You ain’t even close.’

Even the gloom wasn’t enough to hide the hard hostility fixed on him now. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘You see, it was back in Blackdog that it finally clunked home that we were the walking dead. Someone wanted us in the ground, and damn if we didn’t mostly end up there. In the tunnels of Pale, the tombs of the Bridgeburners. Tombs they dug for themselves. Heard a few stragglers hung on until Black Coral, and those bodies ended up in Moon’s Spawn the day it was abandoned by the Tiste Andii. An end to the tale, but like I said, we saw that end coming from a long way off.’

He fell silent then, momentarily lost in his own memories, the million losses that added up to what he felt now. Then he shook himself and looked up once more. ‘But you lot.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re too stupid to know what’s been beating you on the heads ever since Y’Ghatan. Wide-eyed stupid.’

Cuttle spoke up. ‘We’re the walking dead.’

‘Thanks for the good news, Fid,’ someone said, his voice muffled.

A few laughs, but they were bitter.

Fiddler continued. ‘Those lizards took a nasty bite out of us. In fact, they pretty much did us in. Look around. We’re what’s left. The smoke over Pale’s thinning, and here we are. Aye, it’s my past pulling me right round till I’m facing the wrong way. You think you feel like shits – try standing in my boots, boys and girls.’

‘Thought we were going to decide what to do.’

Fiddler found Gaunt-Eye in the crowd. ‘Is that what you thought, Sergeant? Is that really what you thought we’d be doing here? What, we gonna vote on something? We gonna stick up our little hands after arguing ourselves blue? After digging our little holes and crouching in ’em like mummy’s womb? Tell me, Sergeant, exactly what have we got to argue about?’

‘Pulling out.’

‘Someone rustle up a burial detail, we got us a sergeant to plant.’

‘You called this damned meeting, Captain—’

‘Aye, I did. But not to hold hands. The Adjunct wants something special from us. Once we get t’other side of the Glass Desert. And here I am letting you know, we’re going to be our own little army. Nobody wanders off, is that understood? On the march, you all stay tight. Keep your weapons, keep sharp, and wait for my word.’

‘You call this an army, Captain?’

‘It’ll have to do, won’t it?’

‘So what is it we’re supposed to do?’

‘You’ll find out, I’m sure.’

A few more laughs.

‘More lizards waiting for us, Cap’n?’

‘No, Reliko, we took care of them already, remember?’

‘Damn me, I miss something?’

‘No lizards,’ Fiddler said. ‘Something even uglier and nastier, in fact.’

‘All right then,’ said Reliko, ‘s’long as it’s not lizards.’

‘Hold on,’ said Corporal Rib. ‘Captain, y’had us sitting here all afternoon? Just to tell us that?’

‘Not my fault we had stragglers, Corporal. I need some lessons from Sort, or maybe Kindly. A captain orders, soldiers obey. At least it’s supposed to work that way. But then, you’re all different now … special cases, right? You’ll follow an order only if you feel like it. You earned that, or something. How? By living when your buddies died. Why’d they die? Right. They were following orders – whether they liked ’em or not. Fancy that. Deciding whether or not to show up here, what was that? Must’ve been honouring your fallen comrades, I suppose, the ones who died in your place.’

‘Maybe we’re broken.’

Again, that voice he couldn’t quite place. Fiddler scratched his beard and shook his head. ‘You’re not broken. The walking dead don’t break. Still waiting for that to clunk home, are ya? We’re going to be the Adjunct’s little army. But too little – anyone can see that. Now, it’s not that she wants us dead. She doesn’t. In fact, it might even be that she’s trying to save our lives – after all, where’s she taking the regulars? Chances are, wherever that is, you don’t want to be there.

‘So maybe she thinks we’ve earned a break. Or maybe not. Who knows what the Adjunct thinks, about anything. She wants what’s left of the heavies and the marines in one company. Simple enough.’

‘You know more than you’re saying, Fiddler.’

‘Do I, Koryk?’

‘Aye. You’ve got the Deck of Dragons.’

‘What I know is this. Next time I give you all an order, I don’t expect to have to wait all day to see you follow it. Next soldier tries that with me gets tossed to the regulars. Outa the special club, for good.’

‘We dismissed, Captain?’

‘I ain’t decided yet. In fact, I’m tempted to make you sit here all night. Just to make a point, right? The one about discipline, the one your friends died for.’

‘We took that point the first time, Captain.’

‘Maybe you did, Cuttle. Ready to say the same for the rest of ’em?’

‘No.’

Fiddler sat down on a boulder at the edge of the basin and settled until he was comfortable. He looked into the night sky. ‘Ain’t that jade light pretty?’

Things were simple, really. There’s only so much a soldier can do, only so much a soldier needs to think about at any one time. Pile on too much and their knees start shaking, their eyes glaze over, and they start looking around for something to kill. Because killing simplifies. It’s called an elimination of distractions.

Her horse was content, watered and fed enough to send the occasional stream down and plant an island or two in their wake. Happy horse, happy Masan Gilani. Simple. Her companions were once more nowhere to be seen. Sour company besides; she hardly missed them.

And she herself wasn’t feeling as saggy and slack as she’d been only a day earlier. Who knew where the T’lan Imass had found the smoked antelope meat, the tanned bladders filled to bursting with clean, cold water, the loaves of hard bread and the rancid jar of buttery cheese. Probably the same place as the forage for her horse. And wherever that was, it was a hundred leagues away from here – oh, speak it plain, Masan. It was through some infernal warren. Aye, I seen them fall into dust, but maybe that’s not what it seems. Maybe they just step into another place.

Somewhere nice. Where at the point of a stone sword farmers hand over victuals with a beaming smile and good hale to you all.

Dusk was darkening the sky. She’d have to stop soon.

They must have heard her coming, for the two men stood waiting at the far end of the slope, staring up at her the instant she’d cleared the rise. Masan reined in, squinted for a moment, and then nudged her mount forward.

‘You’re not all that’s left,’ she said as she drew nearer. ‘You can’t be.’

Captain Ruthan Gudd shook his head. ‘We’re not far from them. A league or two, I’d wager.’

‘We’d thought to just push on,’ added Bottle.

‘Do you know how bad it was?’

‘Not yet,’ said the captain, eyeing her horse. ‘That beast looks too fit, Masan Gilani.’

‘No such thing,’ she replied, dismounting, ‘as a too-fit horse, sir.’

He made a face. ‘Meaning you’re not going to explain yourself.’

‘Didn’t you desert?’ Bottle asked. ‘If you did, Masan, you’re riding the wrong way, unless you’re happy with being strung up.’

‘She didn’t desert,’ Ruthan Gudd said, turning to resume walking. ‘Special mission for the Adjunct.’

‘How do you know anything about it, sir?’ Masan asked, falling in step with the two men.

‘I don’t. I’m just guessing.’ He combed at his beard. ‘I have a talent for that.’

‘Has plenty of talents does our captain here,’ Bottle muttered.

Whatever was going on between these two, she had to admit to herself that she was happy to see them. ‘So how did you two get separated from the army?’ she asked. ‘By the way, you both look a mess. Bottle, you bathe in blood or something? I barely recognized you.’

‘You’d look the same,’ he retorted, ‘buried under fifty corpses for half a day.’

‘Not quite that long,’ the captain corrected.

Her breath caught. ‘So you were at the battle,’ she said. ‘What battle? What in Hood’s name happened?’

‘Bits are missing,’ Bottle replied, shrugging.

‘Bits?’

He seemed ready to say something, changed his mind and instead said, ‘I didn’t quite catch it all. Especially the, er, second half. But you know, Masan, all the stories about high attrition among officers in the Malazan military?’ He jerked a thumb at Ruthan Gudd. ‘It ain’t so with him.’

The captain said, ‘If you hear a certain resentment in his tone, it’s because I saved his life.’

‘And as for the smugness in the captain’s tone—’

‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘Aye, the Adjunct sent me to find some people.’

‘Which you evidently failed to do,’ observed Bottle.

‘No she didn’t,’ said Ruthan Gudd.

‘So all this crawling skin I’m feeling isn’t fleas?’

Ruthan Gudd bared his teeth in a hard grin. ‘Well no, it probably is, soldier. Frankly, I’d be surprised if you did feel something – oh, I know, you’re a mage. Fid’s shaved knuckle, right? Even so, these bastards know how to hide.’

‘Let me guess: they’re inside the horse. Isn’t there some legend about—’

‘The moral of which,’ Rudd interjected, ‘is consistently misapprehended. It’s nothing to do with what you think it’s to do with. The fact is, that tale’s moral is “don’t trust horses”. Sometimes people look way too hard into such things. Other times, of course, they don’t look hard enough. But most of the time by far, they don’t look at all.’

‘If you want,’ said Masan Gilani, ‘I can ask them to show themselves.’

‘I’ve absolutely no interest in—’

‘I do,’ Bottle cut him off. ‘Your pardon, sir, for interrupting.’

‘An apology I’m not prepared to accept, soldier. As for these guests, Masan Gilani, your offer is categorically—’

Swirls of dust on all sides.

Moments later five T’lan Imass encircled them.

‘Gods below,’ Ruthan Gudd muttered.

As one, the undead warriors bowed to the captain. One spoke. ‘We greet you, Elder.’

Gudd’s second curse was in a language Masan Gilani had never heard before.

‘It’s not what you think,’ he’d said with those hoary things bowing before him. And he’d not said much else. The T’lan Imass vanished again a short time later and the three soldiers continued on as the night deepened around them.

Bottle wanted to scream. The captain’s company over the past few days had been an exercise in patience and frustration. He wasn’t a man for words. Ruthan Gudd. Or whatever your name really is. It’s not what I think? How do you know what I think? Besides, it’s exactly what I think. Fid has his shaved knuckle, and it seems the Adjunct has one, too.

A Hood-damned Elder God – after all, what other kind of ‘Elder’ would T’lan Imass bow before? And since when did they bow before anything?

Masan Gilani’s barrage of questions had withered the T’lan Imass to dust with, Bottle thought, a harried haste. But things from the past had a way of refusing illumination. As bad as standing stones, they held all their secrets buried deep inside. It wasn’t even a question of irritating coyness. They just don’t give a shit. Explanations? What’s the point? Who cares what you think you need to know, anyway? If I’m a stone, lean against me. If I’m a ruin, rest your weary arse on the rubble. And if I’m an Elder God, well, Abyss take you, don’t look to me for anything.

But he’d ridden out against the Nah’ruk, when he could have ridden the other way. He went and made a stand. Which made him what? Another one in mysterious service to Adjunct Tavore Paran of Unta? But why? Even the Empress didn’t want her in the end. T’amber, Quick Ben, even Fiddler – they stood with her, even when it cost them their lives.

Soldiers muttered she didn’t inspire a damned thing in them. Soldiers grumbled that she was no Dujek Onearm, no Coltaine, no Crust, no Dassem Ultor. They didn’t know what she was. None of us do, come to that. But look at us, right here, right now, walking back to her. A Dal Honese horsewoman who can ride like the wind – well, a heavy wind, then. An Elder God … and me. Gods below, I’ve lost my mind.

Not quite. I tore it apart. Only to have Quick Ben make sure most of it came back. Do I feel different? Am I changed? How would I even know?

But I miss the Bonehunters. I miss my miserable squad. I miss the damned Adjunct.

We’re nothing but the sword in her hand, but we’re a comfortable grip. Use us, then. Just do it in style.

‘Camp glow ahead,’ said Masan Gilani, who once more rode her horse. ‘Looks damned big.’

‘Her allies have arrived,’ said Ruthan Gudd, then added, ‘I expect.’

Bottle snorted. ‘Does she know you’re alive, Captain?’

‘Why should she?’

‘Well, because …’

‘I’m a captain, soldier.’

‘Who rode alone into the face of a Nah’ruk legion! Armoured in ice! With a sword of ice! A horse—’

‘Oh, enough, Bottle. You have no idea how much I regret doing what I did. It’s nice not being noticed. Maybe one day you humans will finally understand that, and do away with all your mad ambitions, your insipid self-delusional megalomania. You weren’t shat out by some god on high. You weren’t painted in the flesh of the divine – at least, not any more than anyone or anything else. What’s with you all, anyway? You jam a stick up your own arse then preen at how tall and straight you’re standing. Soldier, you think you put your crawling days behind the day you left your mother’s tit? Take it from me – you’re still crawling, lad. Probably always will.’

Bludgeoned by the tirade, Bottle was silent.

‘You two go on,’ said Masan Gilani. ‘I need to piss.’

‘That last time was the horse then?’ Rudd asked.

‘Oh, funny man – or whatever.’ She reined in.

‘So they bowed to you,’ Bottle said as he and the captain continued on. ‘Why take it out on me?’

‘I didn’t – ah, never mind. To answer you, no, the Adjunct knows nothing about me. But as you say, my precious anonymity is over – or it is assuming the moment we’re in camp you go running off to your sergeant.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ Bottle replied. ‘But not, if you like, to babble about you being an Elder God.’

‘God? Not a god, Bottle. I told you: it’s not what you think.’

‘I’ll keep your ugly little secret, sir, if that’s how you want it. But that won’t change what we all saw that day, will it?’

‘Stormrider magic, yes. That.’

‘That.’

‘I borrowed it.’

‘Borrowed?’

‘Yes,’ he snapped in reply. ‘I don’t steal, Bottle.’

‘Of course not, sir. Why would you need to?’

‘Exactly.’

Bottle nodded in the gloom, listening as Masan rode back up to them. ‘Borrowed.’

‘A misunderstood people, the Stormriders.’

‘No doubt. Abject terror leaves little room for much else.’

‘Interestingly,’ Ruthan Gudd said in a murmur, ‘needs have converged somewhat. And I’m too old to believe in coincidence. No matter. We do what we do and that’s that.’

‘Sounds like something Fiddler would say.’

‘Fiddler’s a wise man, Bottle. He’s also the best of you, though I doubt many would see that, at least not as clearly as I do.’

‘Fiddler, is it? Not the Adjunct, Captain?’

He heard Ruthan Gudd’s sigh, and it was a sound filled with sorrow. ‘I see pickets.’

‘So do I,’ said Masan Gilani. ‘Not Malazan. Perish.’

‘Our allies,’ said Bottle, glaring at Ruthan Gudd, but of course it was too dark for him to see that. Then again, what’s darkness to a Hood-cursed ice-wielding Imass-kneeling Elder God?

Who then spoke. ‘It was a guess, Bottle. Truly.’

‘You took my anger.’

The voice came out of the shadows. Blinking, Lostara Yil slowly sat up, the furs sliding down, the chill air sweeping around her bared breasts, back and belly. A figure was sitting on the tent’s lone camp stool to her left, cloaked, hooded in grey wool. The two hands, hanging down past the bend of his knees, were pale as bone.

Lostara’s heart thudded hard in her chest. ‘I felt it,’ she said. ‘Rising like a flood.’ She shivered, whispered, ‘And I drowned.’

‘Your love summoned me, Lostara Yil.’

She scowled. ‘I have no love for you, Cotillion.’

The hooded head dipped slightly. ‘The man you chose to defend.’

His tone startled her. Weary, yes, but more than that. Lonely. This god is lonely.

‘You danced for him and none other,’ Cotillion went on. ‘Not even the Adjunct.’

‘I expected to die.’

‘I know.’

She waited. Faint voices from the camp beyond the flimsy walls, the occasional glow of a hooded lantern swinging past, the thud of boots.

The silence stretched.

‘You saved us,’ she finally said. ‘For that, I suppose I have to thank you.’

‘No, Lostara Yil, you do not. I possessed you, after all. You didn’t ask for that, but then, even all those years ago, the grace of your dance was … breathtaking.’

Her breath caught. Something was happening here. She didn’t understand it. ‘If you did not wish my gratitude, Cotillion, why are you here?’ Even as she spoke, she flinched at her own tone’s harshness. That came out all wrong—

His face remained hidden. ‘Those were early days, weren’t they. Our flesh was real, our breaths … real. It was all there, in reach, and we took it without a moment’s thought as to how precious it all was. Our youth, the brightness of the sun, the heat that seemed to stretch ahead for ever.’

She realized then that he was weeping. Felt helpless before it. What is this about? ‘I took your anger, you said.’ And yes, she could remember it, the way the power filled her. The skill with the swords was entirely her own, but the swiftness – the profound awareness – that had belonged to him. ‘I took your anger. Cotillion, what did you take from me?’

He seemed to shake his head. ‘I think I’m done with possessing women.’

‘What did you take? You took that love, didn’t you? It drowned you, just as your anger drowned me.’

He sighed. ‘Always an even exchange.’

‘Can a god not love?’

‘A god … forgets.’

She was appalled. ‘But then, what keeps you going? Cotillion, why do you fight on?’

Abruptly he stood. ‘You are chilled. I have disturbed your rest—’

‘Possess me again.’

‘What?’

‘The love that I feel. You need it, Cotillion. That need is what brought you here, wasn’t it? You want to … to drown again.’

His reply was a frail whisper. ‘I cannot.’

‘Why not? I offer this to you. As a true measure of my gratitude. When a mortal communes with her god, is not the language love itself?’

‘My worshippers love me not, Lostara Yil. Besides, I have nothing worthy to give in exchange. I appreciate your offer—’

‘Listen, you shit, I’m trying to give you some of your humanity back. You’re a damned god – if you lose your passion where does that leave us?’

The question clearly rocked him. ‘I do not doubt the path awaiting me, Lostara Yil. I am strong enough for it, right to the bitter end—’

‘I don’t doubt any of that. I felt you, remember? Listen, whatever that end you see coming … what I’m offering is to take away some of its bitterness. Don’t you see that?’

He was shaking his head. ‘You don’t understand. The blood on my hands—’

‘Is now on my hands, too, or have you forgotten that?’

‘No. I possessed you—’

‘You think that makes a difference?’

‘I should not have come here.’

‘Probably not, but here you are, and that hood doesn’t hide everything. Very well, refuse my offer, but do you really think it’s just women who feel love? If you decide never again to feel … anything, then best you swear off possession entirely, Cotillion. Steal into us mortals and we’ll take what we need from you, and we’ll give in return whatever we own. If you’re lucky, it’ll be love. If you’re not lucky, well, Hood knows what you’ll get.’

‘I am aware of this.’

‘Yes, you must be. I’m sorry. But, Cotillion, you gave me more than your anger. Don’t you see that? The man I love does not now grieve for me. His love is not for a ghost, a brief moment in his life that he can never recapture. You gave us both a chance to live, and to love – it doesn’t matter for how much longer.’

‘I also spared the Adjunct, and by extension this entire army.’

She cocked her head, momentarily disoriented. ‘Do you regret that?’

He hesitated, and that silence rippled like ice-water through Lostara Yil.

‘While she lives,’ he said, ‘the path awaiting you, and this beleaguered, half-damned army, is as bitter as my own. To the suffering to come … ah, there are no gifts in any of this.’

‘There must be, Cotillion. They exist. They always do.’

‘Will you all die in the name of love?’ The question seemed torn from something inside him.

‘If die we must, what better reason?’

He studied her for a dozen heartbeats, and then said, ‘I have been considering … amends.’

‘Amends? I don’t understand.’

‘Our youth,’ he murmured, as if he had not heard her, ‘the brightness of the sun. She chose to leave him. Because, I fear, of me, of what I did to her. It was wrong. All of it, so terribly wrong. Love … I’d forgotten.’

The shadows deepened, and a moment later she was alone in her tent. She? Cotillion, listen to my prayer. For all your fears, love is not something you can forget. But you can turn your back on it. Do not do that. A god had sought her out. A god suffering desperate need. But she couldn’t give him what he desired – perhaps, she saw now, he’d been wise in rejecting what she’d offered. The first time, it was anger for love. But I saw no anger left in him.

Always an even exchange. If I opened my love to him … whatever he had left inside himself, he didn’t want to give it to me. And that, she now comprehended, had been an act of mercy.

The things said and the things not said. In the space in between, a thousand worlds. A thousand worlds.

The Perish escort of two armoured, helmed and taciturn soldiers halted. The one on the left pointed and said to Bottle, ‘There, marine, you will find your comrades. They have gathered at the summons of their captain.’ To Masan Gilani and Ruthan Gudd, the soldier continued, ‘The Adjunct’s command tent lies elsewhere, but as we have come to the edge of the Bonehunter encampment, I expect you will have little difficulty in finding your own way.’

‘Much as we will miss your company,’ Ruthan Gudd said, ‘I am sure you are correct. Thank you for guiding us this far, sirs.’

The figures – Bottle wasn’t even sure if they were men or women, and the voice of the one who’d spoken gave no hint whatsoever – bowed, and then turned about to retrace their routes.

Bottle faced his companions. ‘We part here, then. Masan, I expect I’ll see you soon enough. Captain.’ He saluted smartly.

The man scowled in reply. Gesturing to Masan, he set off for the heart of the camp.

Bottle faced the direction the guard had indicated. What’s Sort got to say to them, then? Guess I’m about to find out.

They’d set no pickets. A small mass of soldiers were seated or standing in a basin, and at the far end, hunched down on a boulder … is that Fiddler? Gods below, don’t tell me this is all that’s left! Tentatively, he approached.

They made their own way through a relatively quiet camp. It was late, and Masan was not looking forward to rousing the Adjunct, but she knew Tavore would not abide any delays to any of this. Though my report probably won’t impress her. Five beat-up T’lan Imass is all I’ve got to show. No, it was Ruthan Gudd who was marching into a serious mess. She hoped she’d be witness to at least some of that exchange, if only to revel in the captain’s discomfort.

Elder! Well, I won’t tell. But all the rest you did, Captain, now that sounded interesting. Too bad I missed it.

They passed through a few groups here and there, and Masan sensed a heightening attention from those faces turned their way, but no one accosted them. No one said a damned thing. Strange and stranger still.

They came to within sight of the command tent. Two guards were stationed at the flap, and the glow of lantern light painted the canvas walls.

‘Does she ever sleep?’ Ruthan Gudd wondered in a drawl.

‘In her boots,’ Masan replied, ‘I doubt I would.’

The eyes of the guards were now on them, and both slowly straightened, their shadowed gazes clearly fixing on the captain. Both saluted when he halted before them.

‘She probably wants to see us,’ Ruthan said.

‘You have leave to enter, sir,’ one of them said.

As the captain moved to the entrance the same guard said, ‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘Welcome back.’

Masan followed him inside.

‘Of all the luck,’ muttered Ruthan Gudd upon seeing a dozing Skanarow. He held a hand to stay Masan. ‘Please,’ he whispered, ‘don’t wake her.’

‘Coward,’ she mouthed in reply.

Grimacing, he edged past the sleeping woman. As she neared, Masan’s gaze fell to one wayward booted foot, and she gave it a kick.

Skanarow bolted upright. ‘Adj— Gods below!’

That shout rang loud as a hammered cauldron.

At the very threshold to the inner chamber, Ruthan Gudd wheeled. Whatever he intended to say, he had no chance, as Skanarow was upon him in an instant. Such was the force of her lunge and embrace that he staggered back, splitting the curtain, into the Adjunct’s presence.

Skanarow held her kiss as if glued to the captain’s mouth.

Grinning, Masan Gilani edged in behind them, caught the Adjunct’s astonished gaze.

Tavore was standing beside a small folding map table. She was otherwise alone, accounting for her half-dressed state – only the quilted undergarment of her armour covered her torso, and below that nothing but loose linen trousers, the knees so stained they’d have embarrassed a farmer. Her face was strangely streaked in the half-light of a single oil lamp.

‘Adjunct,’ Masan Gilani said, saluting. ‘On my return journey, I happened upon the captain here, and a marine named Bottle, from Fiddler’s squad—’

‘Skanarow!’ The word was sharp as a blade. ‘Disengage yourself from the captain. I believe he has come here to speak to me – as for the rest, it will have to wait.’

Skanarow pulled herself from Ruthan Gudd. ‘M-my apologies, Adjunct. I – with your leave, I will wait outside—’

‘You will not. You will return to your tent and wait there. I trust the captain will find it without much trouble?’

Skanarow blinked, and then, fighting a smile, she saluted a second time and, with one last glance at Ruthan – a look that was either a glare or a dark promise – she was gone.

Ruthan Gudd straightened before the Adjunct and cleared his throat. ‘Adjunct.’

‘Your act, Captain, on the day of the Nah’ruk, broke enough military conventions to warrant a court-martial. You abandoned your soldiers and disobeyed orders.’

‘Yes, Adjunct.’

‘And quite possibly saved all our lives.’ She seemed to become cognizant of her attire, for she turned to the tent’s centre pole, where a robe hung from a hook. Shrugging into the woollen garment she faced Ruthan again. ‘Entire tomes have been devoted to a discussion of these particular incidents in military campaigns. Disobedience on the one hand and extraordinary valour on the other. What is to be done with such a soldier?’

‘Rank and discipline must ever take precedence, Adjunct.’

Her gaze sharpened on him. ‘Is that your learned opinion on the matter, Captain? Content, are you, with distilling all those tomes in a handful of words?’

‘Frankly, Adjunct? Yes.’

‘I see. Then what do you suggest I do with you?’

‘At the very least, Adjunct, reduce my rank. For you are accurate and proper in noting my dereliction of responsibility regarding the soldiers under my command.’

‘Of course I am, you fool.’ She ran a hand through her short hair, and caught Masan’s gaze. The Dal Honese could not help but see the faint gleam in those unremarkable – and clearly tired – eyes. ‘Very well, Ruthan Gudd. You have lost your command. Your rank, however, shall remain unchanged, but from this day forward you are attached to my staff. And if you imagine this to be some sort of promotion, well, I suggest you sit down with Lostara Yil some time soon.’ She paused, eyes narrowing on Ruthan Gudd. ‘Why, Captain, you seem displeased. Good. Now, as to other matters that we should discuss, perhaps they can wait. There is one woman in this camp, however, who cannot. Dismissed.’

His salute was somewhat shaky.

When he was gone, the Adjunct sighed and sat down by her map table. ‘Forgive me, marine, for my improper state. It has been a long day.’

‘No need to apologize, Adjunct.’

Tavore’s eyes travelled up and down Masan, sending a faint tremor through her spine – oh, I know that kind of look. ‘You look surprisingly hale, soldier.’

‘Modest gifts from our new allies, Adjunct.’

Brows lifted. ‘Indeed?’

‘Alas, there’re only five of them.’

‘Five?’

‘T’lan Imass, Adjunct. I don’t know if they were the allies you sought. In fact, they found me, not the other way round, and it is their opinion that my bringing them here was the right thing to do.’

The Adjunct continued studying her. Masan felt trickles of sweat wending down the small of her back. I don’t know. She’s a damned skinny one …

‘Summon them.’

The figures rose from the dirt floor. Dust to bones, dust to withered flesh, dust to chipped weapons of stone. The T’lan Imass bowed to the Adjunct.

The one named Beroke then spoke. ‘Adjunct Tavore Paran, we are the Unbound. We bring you greeting, Adjunct, from the Crippled God.’

And at that something seemed to crumple inside Tavore, for she leaned forward, set her hands to her face, and said, ‘Thank you. I thought … out of time … too late. Oh gods, thank you.’

He’d stood unnoticed for some time, just one more marine, there on the edge of the crowd. Holding back, unsure of what he was witnessing here. Fiddler wasn’t saying anything. In fact, the bastard might well be sleeping, with his head sunk down like that. As for the soldiers in the basin, some muttered back and forth, a few tried to sleep but were kicked awake by their companions.

When Fiddler lifted his gaze, the marines and heavies fell silent, suddenly attentive. The sergeant was rummaging in his kit bag. He drew something out but it was impossible to see what. Peered at it for a long moment, and then returned it to his satchel. ‘Cuttle!’

‘Aye?’

‘He’s here. Go find him.’

The sapper rose and slowly turned. ‘All right, then,’ he growled, ‘I ain’t got the eyes of a rat. So show yourself, damn you.’

A slow heat prickled through Bottle. He looked round.

Fiddler said, ‘Aye, Bottle. You. Don’t be so thick.’

‘Here,’ Bottle said.

Figures close to him swung round then. A few muffled curses, and all at once a space opened around him. Cuttle was making his way over, and even in the gloom his expression was severe.

‘I think Smiles sold off your kit, Bottle,’ he said as he arrived to stand before him. ‘At least you scrounged up some weapons, which is saying something.’

‘You all knew?’

‘Knew what? That you survived? Gods no. We all figured you dead and gone. You think Smiles would’ve sold off your stuff if we didn’t?’

He could see the rest of the squad drawing up behind Cuttle. ‘Well, yes.’

The sapper grunted. ‘Got a point there, soldier. Anyway, we didn’t know a damned thing. He just made us sit here and wait, is what he did—’

‘I thought this was Faradan Sort’s meeting—’

‘Fid’s cap’n now, Bottle.’

‘Oh.’

‘And since he’s now a captain, official and everything, he’s got decorum t’follow.’

‘Right. Of course. I mean—’

‘So instead of him doing this, it’s me.’ And with that the veteran stepped close and embraced him, hard enough to make Bottle’s bones ache. Cuttle’s breath was harsh in his ear. ‘Kept looking at a card, y’see? Kept looking at it. Welcome back, Bottle. Gods below, welcome home.’

Stormy halted the Ve’Gath. Grainy-eyed, aching, he stared at the massed army seething in motion on the flats below as the dawn sliced open the eastern horizon. Bonehunter standards to the left, companies jostling to form up for the march – far too few companies for Stormy’s liking. Already assembled and facing southeast, the Letherii legions, and with them Perish ranks, and the gilt standards of some other army. Scowling, he swung his gaze back to the Bonehunters. Positioned to march due east. ‘Gods below.’

A scattering of Khundryl outriders had spotted him, two setting off back to the vanguard while a half-dozen, bows drawn and arrows nocked, rode swiftly in his direction. Seeing their growing confusion as they approached, Stormy grinned. He lifted one hand in greeting. They pulled up thirty paces away.

The ranks of the Bonehunters were all halted now, facing in his direction. He saw the Adjunct and a handful of officers emerging from the swirling dust near the column’s head to ride towards him.

He considered meeting them halfway, decided not to. Twisting round, he looked back at his K’ell Hunter escort and the drones. Weapon points were buried in the hard ground. The drones had settled on their tails, tiny birds dancing on their hides and feeding on ticks and mites. From them all, a scent of calm repose. ‘Good. Stay there, all of you. And don’t do anything … unnerving.’

Horses shied on the approach, and it was quickly apparent that none of the mounts would draw within twenty long strides of the Ve’Gath. Across the gap, Stormy met the Adjunct’s eyes. ‘I’d dismount,’ he said, ‘but I think my legs died some time in the night. Adjunct, I bring greetings from Mortal Sword Gesler, Destriant Kalyth, and the Gunthan K’Chain Che’Malle.’

She slipped down from her mount and walked towards him, slowly drawing off her leather gloves. ‘The Nah’ruk, Corporal, were seeking their kin, correct?’

‘Aye. Estranged kin, I’d say. Saw no hugs when we all met.’

‘If Sergeant Gesler is now Mortal Sword, Corporal, what does that make you?’

‘Shield Anvil.’

‘I see. And the god you serve?’

‘Damned if I know, Adjunct.’

Tucking the gloves in her belt, she drew off her helm and ran a hand through her hair. ‘Your battle with the Nah’ruk …’

‘Malazan tactics, Adjunct, along with these beasts, gave us the upper hand. We annihilated the bastards.’

Something changed in her face, but nothing he could work out. She glanced back at her officers, or perhaps the army waiting beyond, and then once more fixed her gaze upon him. ‘Shield Anvil Stormy, this creature you ride—’

‘Ve’Gath Soldier, Adjunct. Only three bear these … saddles.’

‘And your K’Chain Che’Malle army – I see Hunters behind you as well. There are more of these Ve’Gath?’

My K’Chain Che’Malle army. ‘Aye, lots. We got a bit mauled, to be sure. Those sky keeps gave us trouble, but some unexpected allies arrived to take ’em down. That’s what I’m here to tell you, Adjunct. Sinn and Grub found us. There was someone else, too. Never figured out who, but no matter, nobody climbed down out of the Azath when it was all done with, so I doubt they made it.’

He’d just thrown enough at her to confuse a damned ascendant. Instead, she simply studied him, and then asked, ‘Shield Anvil, you now command an army of K’Chain Che’Malle?’

‘Aye, and our two runts are saying they have to stay with us, unless you order ’em back to you—’

‘No.’

Stormy cursed under his breath. ‘You sure? They’re handy, don’t eat much, clean up after themselves … mostly – well, occasionally – but with plenty of back-of-the-hand training, why, they’d shape up—’

‘Fist Keneb is dead,’ she cut in. ‘We have also lost Quick Ben, and most of the marines and the heavies.’

He winced. ‘Them Short-Tails was bleeding when they found us. But what you’re saying tells me you could do with the runts—’

‘No. You will need them more than we will.’

‘We will? Adjunct, where do you think we’re going?’

‘To war.’

‘Against who?’

‘“Whom”, Shield Anvil. You intend to wage war against the Forkrul Assail.’

He grimaced, glanced at the Fist and captains positioned behind the Adjunct. Blistig, Lostara Yil, Ruthan Gudd. That miserable ex-priest, half slumped over his saddle. His attention returned to the Adjunct. ‘Now, why would we declare war on the Forkrul Assail?’

‘Ask the runts.’

Stormy sagged. ‘We did that. They ain’t good on explanations, those two. Grub’s the only one between ’em who’ll say anything to us at all. Oh, Sinn talks just fine, when it suits her. Me and Ges, we was hoping you’d be more … uh, forthcoming.’

A snort from Blistig.

Tavore said, ‘Shield Anvil, inform Mortal Sword Gesler of the following. The Perish, Letherii and Bolkando armies are marching on the Spire. It is my fear that even such a formidable force … will not be enough. The sorcery of the Assail is powerful and insidious, especially on the field of battle—’

‘Is it now, Adjunct?’

She blinked, and then said, ‘I have spent three years amidst the archives of Unta, Stormy. Reading the oldest and obscurest histories drawn to the capital from the further reaches of the Malazan Empire. I have interviewed the finest scholars I could find, including Heboric Light-Touch, on matters of fragmented references to the Forkrul Assail.’ She hesitated, and then continued. ‘I know what awaits us all, Shield Anvil. The three human armies you now see marching into the southeast are … vulnerable.’

‘Where the K’Chain Che’Malle are not.’

She shrugged. ‘Could we conjure before us, here and now, a Forkrul Assail, do you imagine it could command your Ve’Gath to surrender its weapons? To kneel?’

Stormy grunted. ‘I’d like to see it try. But what of the runts?’

‘Safer in your company than in ours.’

He narrowed his gaze on her. ‘What is it you mean to do with your Bonehunters, Adjunct?’

‘Split the enemy forces, Shield Anvil.’

‘You have taken a savaging, Adjunct—’

‘And have been avenged by you and your Che’Malle.’ She took a step closer, dropping her voice. ‘Stormy, when news of your victory spreads through my army, much that haunts it now will fall silent. There will be no cheers – I am not such a fool as to expect anything like that. But, at the very least, there will be satisfaction. Do you understand me?’

‘Is Fiddler—’

‘He lives.’

‘Good.’ He squinted at her. ‘You’ve a way of gathering allies, haven’t you, Adjunct?’

‘It is not me, Stormy, it is the cause itself.’

‘I’d agree if I could figure out what that cause is all about.’

‘You mentioned a Destriant—’

‘Aye, I did.’

‘Then ask that one.’

‘We did, but she knows even less than we do.’

Tavore cocked her head. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, she gets little sleep. Nightmares every night.’ He clawed fingers through his beard, ‘Aw, Hood take me …’

‘She sees the fate awaiting us all should we fail, Shield Anvil.’

He was silent, thinking back, crossing a thousand leagues of memory and time. Days in Aren, ranks milling, recalcitrant faces, a desperate need for cohesion. Armies are unruly beasts. You took ’us, you made ’us into something, but none of us knows what, or even what for. And now here she stood, a thin, plain woman. Not tall. Not imposing in any way at all. Except for the cold iron in her bones. ‘Why did you take this on, Adjunct?’

She settled the helm back on her head and fixed the clasps. ‘That’s my business.’

‘This path of yours,’ he asked, resisting her dismissal, ‘where did it start? That first step, when was it? You can answer me that one, at least.’

She regarded him. ‘Can I?’

‘I’m about to ride back to Gesler, Adjunct. And I got to make a report. I got to tell him what I think about all this. So … give me something.’

She looked away, studied the formed-up ranks of her army. ‘My first step? Very well.’

He waited.

She stood as if carved from flawed marble, a thing in profile weeping dust – but no, that sense was emerging from deep inside his own soul, as if he’d found a mirror’s reflection of the nondescript woman standing before him, and in that reflection a thousand hidden truths.

She faced him again, her eyes swallowed by the shadow of the helm’s rim. ‘The day, Adjunct, the Paran family lost its only son.’

The answer was so unexpected, so jarring, that Stormy could say nothing. Gods below, Tavore. He struggled to find words, any words. ‘I – I did not know your brother had died, Adjunct—’

‘He hasn’t,’ she snapped, turning away.

Stormy silently cursed. He’d said the wrong thing. He’d shown his own stupidity, his own lack of understanding. Fine! Maybe I’m not Gesler! Maybe I don’t get it— A gelid breath seemed to flow through him then. ‘Adjunct!’ His shout drew her round.

‘What is it?’

He drew a deep breath, and then said, ‘When we join up with the Perish and the others, who’s in overall command?’

She studied him briefly before replying, ‘There will be a Prince of Lether. A Mortal Sword of the Grey Helms, and the queen of Bolkando.’

‘Hood’s breath! I don’t—’

‘Who will be in command, Shield Anvil? You and Gesler.’

He stared at her, aghast, and then bellowed, ‘Don’t you think his head’s swelled big enough yet? You ain’t had to live with him!’

Her tone was hard and cold. ‘Bear in mind what I said about vulnerability, Shield Anvil, and be sure to guard your own back.’

‘Guard – what?’

‘One last thing, Stormy. Extend my condolences to Grub. Inform him, if you think it will help, that Fist Keneb’s death was one of … singular heroism.’

He thought he heard a careful choosing of words in that statement. No matter. Might help, as much as such shit can, with that stuff. Worth a try, I suppose. ‘Adjunct?’

She had gathered the reins of her horse and had one foot in the stirrup. ‘Yes?’

‘Shall we meet again?’

Tavore Paran hesitated, and what might have been a faint smile curved her thin lips. She swung astride her horse. ‘Fare you well, Shield Anvil.’ A pause, and then, ‘Stormy, should you one day meet my brother … no, never mind.’ With that she drew her horse round and set off for the head of the column.

Blistig wheeled in behind her, as did Ruthan Gudd and then the ex-priest – although perhaps with him it was more a matter of a mount content to follow the others. Leaving only Lostara Yil.

‘Stormy.’

‘Lostara.’

‘Quick Ben was sure you and Gesler lived.’

‘Was he now?’

‘But now we’ve lost him.’

He thought about that, and then grinned. ‘Take this for what it’s worth, Lostara Yil. He figured we were alive and well. He was right. Now, I’ve got this feeling he ain’t so lost as you might think. He’s a snake. Always was, always will be.’

The smile she flashed him almost made him hesitate, but before he could call out something inviting and possibly improper she was riding after the others.

Damn! Smiles like that don’t land on me every day.

Scowling, he ordered his Ve’Gath round and then set off on the back trail.

The Hunters and drones fell into his wake.

One of the tiny birds tried landing in Stormy’s beard. His curse sent it screeching away.