The breaths of the horses plumed in the chill morning air. Dawn had but just arrived, the air hinting nothing of the heat the coming day would deliver. Wrapped in the furs of a bhederin, old sweat making the lining of his helm clammy as the touch of a corpse, Fist Gamet sat motionless on his Wickan mount, his gaze fixed on the Adjunct.

The hill just south of Erougimon where Coltaine had died had come to be known as the Fall. Countless humps on the summit and slopes indicated where bodies had been buried, the metal-strewn earth already cloaked in grasses and flowers.

Ants had colonized this entire hill, or so it seemed. The ground swarmed with them, their red and black bodies coated in dust yet glittering none the less as they set about their daily tasks.

Gamet, the Adjunct and Tene Baralta had ridden out from the city before dawn. Outside the gates to the west, the army had begun to stir. The march would begin this day. The journey north, to Raraku, to Sha’ik and the Whirlwind. To vengeance.

Perhaps it was the rumours that had drawn Tavore out here to the Fall, but already Gamet regretted her decision to bring him along. This place showed him nothing he wanted to see. Nor, he suspected, was the Adjunct well pleased with what they had found.

Red-stained braids, woven into chains, draped across the summit, and coiled around the twin stumps of the cross that had once stood there. Dog skulls crowded with indecipherable hieroglyphs looked out along the crest through empty sockets. Crow feathers dangled from upright-thrust broken arrow shafts. Ragged banners lay pinned to the ground on which were painted various representations of a broken Wickan long-knife. Icons, fetishes, a mass of detritus to mark the death of a single man.

And all of it was aswarm in ants. Like mindless keepers of this now hallowed ground.

The three riders sat in their saddles in silence.

Finally, after a long while, Tavore spoke. ‘Tene Baralta.’ Inflectionless.

‘Aye, Adjunct?’

‘Who—who is responsible for…for all of this? Malazans from Aren? Your Red Blades?’

Tene Baralta did not immediately reply. Instead, he dismounted and strode forward, his eyes on the ground. Near one of the dog skulls he halted and crouched down. ‘Adjunct, these skulls—the runes on them are Khundryl.’ He pointed towards the wooden stumps. ‘The woven chains, Kherahn Dhobri.’ A gesture to the slope. ‘The banners…unknown, possibly Bhilard. Crow feathers? The beads at their stems are Semk.’

‘Semk!’ Gamet could not keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘From the other side of Vathar River! Tene, you must be in error…’

The large warrior shrugged. He straightened and gestured towards the rumpled hills directly north of them. ‘The pilgrims only come at night—unseen, which is how they will have it. They’re hiding out there, even now. Waiting for night.’

Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Semk. Bhilard—these tribes fought against him. And now they come to worship. How is this? Explain, please, Tene Baralta.’

‘I cannot, Adjunct.’ He eyed her, then added, ‘But, from what I understand, this is…modest, compared with what lines the Aren Way.’

There was silence once more, though Gamet did not need to hear her speak to know Tavore’s thoughts.

This—this is the path we now take. We must walk, step by step, the legacy. We? No. Tavore. Alone. ‘This is no longer Coltaine’s war!’ she said to Temul. But it seems it remains just that. And she now realizes, down in the depths of her soul, that she will stride that man’s shadow…all the way to Raraku.

‘You will both leave me now,’ the Adjunct said. ‘I shall rejoin you on the Aren Way.’

Gamet hesitated, then said, ‘Adjunct, the Crow Clan still claim the right to ride at the forefront. They will not accept Temul as their commander.’

‘I will see to their disposition,’ she replied. ‘For now, go.’

He watched Tene Baralta swing back onto his horse. They exchanged a glance, then both wheeled their mounts and set off at a canter along the track leading to the west gate.

Gamet scanned the rock-studded ground rolling past beneath his horse’s hoofs. This was where the historian Duiker drove the refugees towards the city—this very sweep of empty ground. Where, at the last, that old man drew rein on his weary, loyal mare—the mare that Temul now rode—and watched as the last of his charge was helped through the gate.

Whereupon, it was said, he finally rode into the city.

Gamet wondered what had gone through the man’s mind at that moment. Knowing that Coltaine and the remnants of the Seventh were still out there, fighting their desperate rearguard action. Knowing that they had achieved the impossible.

Duiker had delivered the refugees.

Only to end up staked to a tree. It was beyond him, Gamet realized, to comprehend the depth of that betrayal.

A body never recovered. No bones laid to rest.

‘There is so much,’ Tene Baralta rumbled at Gamet’s side.

‘So much?’

‘To give answer to, Gamet. Indeed, it takes words from the throat, yet the silence it leaves behind—that silence screams.’

Discomforted by Tene’s admission, Gamet said nothing.

‘Pray remind me,’ the Red Blade went on, ‘that Tavore is equal to this task.’

Is that even possible? ‘She is.’ She must be. Else we are lost.

‘One day, Gamet, you shall have to tell me what she has done, to earn such loyalty as you display.’

Gods, what answer to make to that? Damn you, Tene, can you not see the truth before you? She has done…nothing. I beg you. Leave an old man to his faith.

 

‘Wish whatever you like,’ Gesler growled, ‘but faith is for fools.’

Strings cleared the dust from his throat and spat onto the side of the track. Their pace was torturously slow, the three squads trailing the wagon loaded down with their supplies. ‘What’s your point?’ he asked the sergeant beside him. ‘A soldier knows but one truth, and that truth is, without faith, you are already as good as dead. Faith in the soldier at your side. But even more important—and no matter how delusional it is in truth—there is the faith that you cannot be killed. Those two and those two alone—they are the legs holding up every army.’

The amber-skinned man grunted, then waved at the nearest of the trees lining Aren Way. ‘Look there and tell me what you see—no, not those Hood-damned fetishes—but what’s still visible under all that mess. The spike holes, the dark stains of bile and blood. Ask the ghost of the soldier who was on that tree—ask that soldier about faith.’

‘A faith betrayed does not destroy the notion of faith itself,’ Strings retorted. ‘In fact, it does the very opposite—’

‘Maybe for you, but there are some things you can’t step around with words and lofty ideals, Fid. And that comes down to who is in that vanguard somewhere up ahead. The Adjunct. Who just lost an argument with that pack of hoary Wickans. You’ve been lucky—you had Whiskeyjack, and Dujek. Do you know who my last commander was—before I was sentenced to the coastal guard? Korbolo Dom. I’d swear that man had a shrine to Whiskeyjack in his tent—but not the Whiskeyjack you know. Korbolo saw him differently. Unfulfilled potential, that’s what he saw.’

Strings glanced over at Gesler. Stormy and Tarr were walking in step behind the two sergeants, close enough to hear, though neither had ventured a comment or opinion. ‘Unfulfilled potential? What in Beru’s name are you talking about?’

‘Not me. Korbolo Dom. “If only the bastard had been hard enough,” he used to say, “he could’ve taken the damned throne. Should’ve.” As far as Dom is concerned, Whiskeyjack betrayed him, betrayed us all—and that’s something that renegade Napan won’t forgive.’

‘Too bad for him,’ Strings growled, ‘since there’s a good chance the Empress will send the whole Genabackan army over in time for the final battle. Dom can take his complaints to Whiskeyjack himself.’

‘A pleasant thought,’ Gesler laughed. ‘But my point was, you’ve had commanders worthy of the faith you put in them. Most of the rest of us didn’t have that luxury. So we got a different feeling about it all. That’s it, that’s all I was trying to say.’

The Aren Way marched past on both sides. Transformed into a vast, open-air temple, each tree cluttered with fetishes, cloths braided into chains, figures painted on the rough bark to approximate the soldiers who had once writhed there on spikes driven in by Korbolo Dom’s warriors. Most of the soldiers ahead and behind Strings walked in silence. Despite the vast, empty expanse of blue sky overhead, the road was oppressive.

There had been talk of cutting the trees down, but one of the Adjunct’s first commands upon arriving in Aren had been to forbid it. Strings wondered if she now regretted her decision.

His gaze travelled up to one of the Fourteenth’s new standards, barely visible through clouds of roiling dust up ahead. She had understood the whole thing with the finger bones well enough, understood the turning of the omen. The new standard well attested to that. A grimy, thin-limbed figure holding a bone aloft, the details in shades of dun colours that were barely visible on the yellow ochre field, the border a woven braid of the imperial magenta and dark grey. A defiant figure standing before a sandstorm. That the standard could as easily apply to Sha’ik’s army of the Apocalypse was a curious coincidence. As if Tavore and Sha’ik—the two armies, the forces in opposition—are in some way mirrored reflections of the other.

There were many strange…occurrences in all this, nibbling and squirming beneath Strings’s skin like bot-fly larvae, and it seemed indeed that he was feeling strangely fevered throughout the day. Strains of a barely heard song rose up from the depths of his mind on occasion, a haunting song that made his flesh prickle. And stranger still, the song was entirely unfamiliar.

Mirrored reflections. Perhaps not just Tavore and Sha’ik. What of Tavore and Coltaine? Here we are, reversing the path on that blood-soaked road. And it was that road that proved Coltaine to most of those he led. Will we see the same with our journey? How will we see Tavore the day we stand before the Whirlwind? And what of my own return? To Raraku, the desert that saw me destroyed only to rise once more, mysteriously renewed—a renewal that persists, since for an old man I neither look nor feel old. And so it remains for all of us Bridgeburners, as if Raraku stole something of our mortality, and replaced it with…with something else.

He glanced back to check on his squad. None were lagging, which was a good sign. He doubted any of them were in the shape required for the journey they were now on. The early days would prove the most difficult, before marching in full armour and weapons became second nature—not that it would ever prove a comfortable second nature—this land was murderously hot and dry, and the handful of minor healers in each of the companies would recall this march as a seemingly endless nightmare of fending off heat prostration and dehydration.

There was no way yet to measure the worth of his squad. Koryk certainly had the look, the nature, of the mailed fist that every squad needed. And the stubborn set to Tarr’s blockish features hinted at a will not easily turned aside. There was something about the lass, Smiles, that reminded Strings all too much of Sorry—the remorseless chill of her eyes belonged to those of a murderer, and he wondered at her past. Bottle had all the diffident bluster of a young mage, probably one versed in a handful of spells from some minor warren. The last soldier in his squad, of course, the sergeant had no worries about. He’d known men like Cuttle all his life. A burlier, more miserable version of Hedge. Having Cuttle there was like…coming home.

The testing would come, and it would probably be brutal, but it would temper those who survived.

They were emerging from the Aren Way, and Gesler gestured to the last tree on their left. ‘That’s where we found him,’ he said in a low tone.

‘Who?’

‘Duiker. We didn’t let on, since the lad—Truth—was so hopeful. Next time we came out, though, the historian’s body was gone. Stolen. You’ve seen the markets in Aren—the withered pieces of flesh the hawkers claim belonged to Coltaine, or Bult, or Duiker. The broken long-knives, the scraps of feathered cape…’

Strings was thoughtful for a moment, then he sighed. ‘I saw Duiker but once, and that at a distance. Just a soldier the Emperor decided was worth schooling.’

‘A soldier indeed. He stood on the front line with all the others. A crusty old bastard with his short-sword and shield.’

‘Clearly, something about him caught Coltaine’s eye—after all, Duiker was the one Coltaine chose to lead the refugees.’

‘I’d guess it wasn’t Duiker’s soldiering that decided Coltaine, Strings. It was that he was the Imperial Historian. He wanted the tale to be told, and told right.’

‘Well, it’s turned out that Coltaine told his own tale—he didn’t need a historian, did he?’

Gesler shrugged. ‘As you say. We weren’t in their company long, just long enough to take on a shipload of wounded. I talked a bit with Duiker, and Captain Lull. And then Coltaine broke his hand punching me in the face—’

‘He what?’ Strings laughed. ‘No doubt you deserved it—’

Stormy spoke behind them. ‘Broke his hand, aye, Gesler. And your nose, too.’

‘My nose has been broke so many times it does it on instinct,’ the sergeant replied. ‘It wasn’t much of a punch.’

Stormy snorted. ‘He dropped you to the ground like a sack of turnips! That punch rivalled Urko’s, the time he—’

‘Not even close,’ Gesler drawled. ‘I once saw Urko punch down the side of a mudbrick house. Three blows, no more than four, anyway, and the whole thing toppled in a cloud of dust. That Napan bastard could punch.’

‘And that’s important to you?’ Strings asked.

Gesler’s nod was serious. ‘The only way any commander will ever earn my respect, Fid.’

‘Planning on testing the Adjunct soon?’

‘Maybe. Of course, I’ll make allowances, she being nobleborn and all.’

Once beyond Aren Way’s battered gate and the abandoned ruins of a small village, they could now see the Seti and Wickan outriders on their flanks—a comforting sight to Strings. The raiding and sniping could begin at any time, now that the army had left the walls of Aren behind. Most of the tribes had, if the rumours were true, conveniently forgotten the truces they had won from the Malazan Empire. The old ways did naught but sleep restless beneath the surface of such peoples.

The landscape ahead and to either side was sun-blasted and broken, a place where even wild goats grew lean and listless. The mounded, flat-topped heaps of rubble that marked long-dead cities were visible on every horizon. Ancient raised roads, now mostly dismantled, stitched the rugged hillsides and ridges.

Strings wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Green as we are, it’s about time she called—’

Horns sounded along the massive train’s length. Motion ceased, and the shouts of the water crews rose into the dusty air as they scrambled for the barrels. Strings swung about and studied his squad—they were already on the ground, sitting or sprawled, their long-sleeved undershirts darkened with sweat.

Among Gesler’s and Borduke’s squads, the reaction to the rest-halt had been identical, and Borduke’s mage, Balgrid—slightly overweight and clearly unused to the armour he was wearing—looked pale and shivering. That squad’s healer, a quiet, small man named Lutes, was already moving towards him.

‘A Seti summer,’ Koryk said, offering Strings a carnivorous smile. ‘When the grasslands are driven to dust by the herds, when the earth underfoot clicks like breaking metal.’

‘Hood take you,’ Smiles snapped. ‘This land’s full of dead things for a reason.’

‘Aye,’ the Seti half-blood replied, ‘only the tough survive. There are tribes aplenty out there—they’ve left enough sign in passing.’

‘You have seen that, have you?’ Strings said. ‘Good. You’re now the squad’s scout.’

Koryk’s white grin broadened. ‘If you insist, Sergeant.’

‘Unless it’s night,’ Strings added. ‘Then it’ll be Smiles. And Bottle, assuming his warren is suitable.’

Bottle scowled, then nodded. ‘Well enough, Sergeant.’

‘So what’s Cuttle’s role, then?’ Smiles demanded. ‘Lying around like a beached porpoise?’

Beached porpoise? Grew up by the sea, did you? Strings glanced over at the veteran soldier. The man was asleep. I used to do that, back in the days when nothing was expected of me, when I wasn’t in charge of a damned thing. I miss those days. ‘Cuttle’s task,’ Strings replied, ‘is keeping the rest of you alive when I’m not close by.’

‘Then why isn’t he the corporal?’ Smiles wanted to know, a belligerent set to her petite features.

‘Because he’s a sapper, and you don’t want a sapper for a corporal, lass.’ Of course, I’m a sapper, too. Best keep that to myself…

Three soldiers from the company’s infantry arrived with waterskins.

‘Drink it down slow,’ Strings instructed. Gesler caught his eye from a few paces away, near the wagon, and Strings headed over. Borduke joined them.

‘Well, this is curious,’ Gesler muttered. ‘Borduke’s sickly mage—his warren’s Meanas. And my mage is Tavos Pond, and he’s the same. Now, Strings, your lad, Bottle…’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘He’s also Meanas,’ Borduke growled, pulling at his beard in a habitual gesture Strings knew would come to irritate him. ‘Balgrid’s confirmed it. They’re all Meanas.’

‘Like I said.’ Gesler sighed. ‘Curious.’

‘That could be put to use,’ Strings said. ‘Get all three of them working on rituals—illusions are damned useful, when done right. Quick Ben could pull a few—the key is in the details. We should drag them all together tonight—’

‘Ah,’ said a voice from beyond the wagon, and Lieutenant Ranal strode into view, ‘all my sergeants together in one place. Convenient.’

‘Come to eat dust with the rest of us?’ Gesler asked. ‘Damned generous of you.’

‘Don’t think I haven’t heard about you,’ Ranal sneered.

‘Had it been my choice, you’d be one of the lads carrying those waterskins, Gesler—’

‘You’d go thirsty if I was,’ the sergeant replied.

Ranal’s face darkened. ‘Captain Keneb wants to know if there’s any mages in your squads. The Adjunct needs a tally of what’s available.’

‘None—’

‘Three,’ Strings interrupted, ignoring Gesler’s glare. ‘All minor, as would be expected. Tell the captain we’ll be good for covert actions.’

‘Keep your opinions to yourself, Strings. Three, you said. Very well.’ He wheeled about and marched off.

Gesler rounded on Strings. ‘We could lose those mages—’

‘We won’t. Go easy on the lieutenant, Gesler, at least for now. The lad knows nothing of being an officer in the field. Imagine, telling sergeants to keep their opinions quiet. With Oponn’s luck, Keneb will explain a few things to the lieutenant, eventually.’

‘Assuming Keneb’s any better,’ Borduke muttered. He combed his beard. ‘Rumour has it he was the only one of his company to survive. And you know what that likely means.’

‘Let’s wait and see,’ Strings advised. ‘It’s a bit early to start honing the knives—’

‘Honing the knives,’ Gesler said, ‘now you’re talking a language I understand. I’m prepared to wait and see, as you suggest, Fid. For now. All right, let’s gather the mages tonight, and if they can actually get along without killing each other, then we might find ourselves a step or two ahead.’

Horns sounded to announce the resumption of the march. Soldiers groaned and swore as they clambered upright once more.

 

The first day of travel was done, and to Gamet it seemed they had travelled a paltry, pathetic distance from Aren. To be expected, of course. The army was a long way from finding its feet.

As am I. Saddle sore and light-headed from the heat, the Fist watched from a slight rise alongside the line of march as the camp slowly took shape. Pockets of order amidst a chaotic sea of motion. Seti and Wickan horse warriors continued to range well beyond the outlying pickets, far too few in number, however, to give him much comfort. And those Wickans—grandfathers and grandmothers one and all. Hood knows, I might well have crossed blades with some of those old warriors. Those ancient ones, they were never settled with the idea of being in the Empire. They were here for another reason entirely. For the memory of Coltaine. And the children—well, they were being fed the singular poison of bitter old fighters filled with tales of past glory. And so, ones who’ve never known the terror of war and ones who’ve forgotten. A dreadful pairing…

He stretched to ease the kinks in his spine, then forced himself into motion. Down from the ridge, along the edge of the rubble-filled ditch, to where the Adjunct’s command tent sat, its canvas pristine, Temul’s Wickans standing guard around it.

Temul was not in sight. Gamet pitied the lad. He was already fighting a half-dozen skirmishes, without a blade drawn, and he was losing. And there’s not a damned thing any of us can do about it.

He approached the tent’s entrance, scratched at the flap and waited.

‘Come in, Gamet,’ the Adjunct’s voice called from within.

She was kneeling in the fore-chamber before a long, stone box, and was just settling the lid into place when he stepped through the entrance. A momentary glimpse—her otataral sword—then the lid was in place. ‘There is some softened wax—there in that pot over the brazier. Bring it over, Gamet.’

He did so, and watched as she brushed the inset join between lid and base, until the container was entirely sealed. Then she rose and swept the windblown sand from her knees. ‘I am already weary of this pernicious sand,’ she muttered.

She studied him for a moment, then said, ‘There is watered wine behind you, Gamet. Pour yourself some.’

‘Do I look in need, Adjunct?’

‘You do. Ah, I well know, you sought out a quiet life when you joined our household. And here I have dragged you into a war.’

He felt himself bridling and stood straighter. ‘I am equal to this, Adjunct.’

‘I believe you. None the less, pour yourself some wine. We await news.’

He swung about in search of the clay jug, found it and strode over. ‘News, Adjunct?’

She nodded, and he saw the concern on her plain features, a momentary revelation that he turned away from as he poured out a cup of wine. Show me no seams, lass. I need to hold on to my certainty.

‘Come stand beside me,’ she instructed, a sudden urgency in her tone.

He joined her. They faced the clear space in the centre of the chamber.

Where a portal flowered, spreading outward like liquid staining a sheet of gauze, murky grey, sighing out a breath of stale, dead air. A tall, green-clad figure emerged. Strange, angular features, skin the shade of coal-dust marble; the man’s broad mouth had the look of displaying a perpetual half-smile, but he was not smiling now.

He paused to brush grey dust from his cloak and leggings, then lifted his head and met Tavore’s gaze. ‘Adjunct, greetings from the Empress. And myself, of course.’

‘Topper. I sense your mission here will be an unpleasant one. Fist Gamet, will you kindly pour our guest some wine?’

‘Of course.’ Gods below, the damned master of the Claw. He glanced down at his own cup, then offered it to Topper. ‘I have yet to sip. Here.’

The tall man tilted his head in thanks and accepted the cup.

Gamet went to where the jug waited.

‘You have come directly from the Empress?’ Tavore asked the Clawmaster.

‘I have, and before that, from across the ocean…from Genabackis, where I spent a most glum evening in the company of High Mage Tayschrenn. Would it shock you to know that he and I got drunk that night?’

Gamet’s head turned at that. It seemed such an unlikely image in his mind that he was indeed shocked.

The Adjunct looked equally startled, then she visibly steeled herself. ‘What news have you to tell me?’

Topper swallowed down a large mouthful of wine, then scowled. ‘Watered. Ah well. Losses, Adjunct. On Genabackis. Terrible losses…’

 

Lying motionless in a grassy depression thirty paces beyond the squad’s fire, Bottle closed his eyes. He could hear his name being called. Strings—who was called Fid by Gesler—wanted him, but the mage was not ready. Not yet. He had a different conversation to listen to, and managing that—without being detected—was no easy task.

His grandmother back in Malaz City would have been proud. ‘Never mind those damned warrens, child, the deep magic is far older. Remember, seek out the roots and tendrils, the roots and tendrils. The paths through the ground, the invisible web woven from creature to creature. Every creature—on the land, in the land, in the air, in the water—they are all linked. And it is within you, if you have been awakened, and spirits below, you’ve been awakened, child! Within you, then, to ride those tendrils…’

And ride them he did, though he would not surrender his private fascination with warrens, with Meanas in particular. Illusions…playing with those tendrils, with those roots of being, twisting and tying them into deceptive knots that tricked the eye, the touch, that deceived every sense, now that was a game worth playing…

But for the moment, he had immersed himself in the old ways, the undetectable ways—if one were careful, that is. Riding the life-sparks of capemoths, of rhizan, of crickets and chigger fleas, of roving bloodflies. Mindless creatures dancing on the tent’s wall, hearing but not comprehending the sound shivers of the words coming from the other side of that tent wall.

Comprehension was Bottle’s task. And so he listened. As the newcomer spoke, interrupted by neither the Adjunct nor Fist Gamet. Listened, and comprehended.

 

Strings glared down at the two seated mages. ‘You can’t sense him?’

Balgrid’s shrug was sheepish. ‘He’s out there, hiding in the dark somewhere.’

‘And he’s up to something,’ Tavos Pond added. ‘But we can’t tell what.’

‘It’s strange,’ Balgrid muttered.

Strings snorted and strode back to Gesler and Borduke. The other squad members were brewing tea at the small fire they had built to one side of the path. Cuttle’s snores were loud from the tent beyond. ‘The bastard’s vanished,’ Strings said.

Gesler grunted. ‘Maybe he’s deserted, and if that’s the case the Wickans will hunt him down and come back with his head on a spear. There won’t be—’

‘He’s here!’

They turned to see Bottle settling down by the fire. Strings stamped over. ‘Where in Hood’s name have you been?’ he demanded.

Bottle looked up, his brows slowly lifting. ‘Nobody else felt it?’ He glanced over at Balgrid and Tavos Pond, who were both approaching. ‘That portal? The one that opened in the Adjunct’s tent?’ He frowned at the blank expressions on the faces of the two other mages, then asked in a deadpan voice, ‘Have you two mastered hiding pebbles yet? Making coins disappear?’

Strings lowered himself opposite Bottle. ‘What was all that about a portal?’

‘Bad news, Sergeant,’ the young man replied. ‘It all went foul on Genabackis. Dujek’s army mostly wiped out. The Bridgeburners annihilated. Whiskeyjack’s dead—’

‘Dead!’

‘Hood take us!’

‘Whiskeyjack? Gods below!’

The curses grew more elaborate, along with postulations of disbelief, but Strings no longer heard them. His mind was numb, as if a wildfire had ripped through his inner landscape, scorching the ground barren. He felt a heavy hand settle on his shoulder and vaguely heard Gesler murmuring something, but after a moment he shook the man off, rose and walked into the darkness beyond the camp.

He did not know how long, or how far he walked. Each step was senseless, the world outside his body not reaching through to him, remaining beyond the withered oblivion of his mind. It was only when a sudden weakness took his legs that he sank down onto the wiry, colourless grasses.

The sound of weeping, coming from somewhere ahead, a sound of sheer despair that pierced through the fog and thrummed in his chest. He listened to the ragged cries, winced to hear how they seemed torn from a constricted throat, like a dam finally sundered by a flood of grief.

He shook himself, growing mindful once more of his surroundings. The ground beneath the thin skein of grasses was hard and warm beneath his knees. Insects buzzed and flitted through the dark. Only starlight illuminated the wastes stretching out to all sides. The encamped army was easily a thousand or more paces behind him.

Strings drew a deep breath, then rose. He walked slowly towards the sound of the weeping.

A lad, lean—no, damn near scrawny, crouched down with arms wrapped about his knees, head sunk low. A single crow feather hung from a plain leather head-band. A few paces beyond stood a mare, bearing a Wickan saddle, a tattered vellum scroll hanging from the horn. The horse was placidly tugging at the grass, her reins dangling.

Strings recognized the youth, though for the moment he could not recall his name. But Tavore had placed him in command of the Wickans.

After a long moment, the sergeant moved forward, making no effort to stay quiet, and sat down on a boulder a half-dozen paces from the lad.

The Wickan’s head snapped up. Tear-streaked warpaint made a twisted net of his narrow face. Venom flared in his dark eyes and he hissed, a hand unsheathing his long-knife as he staggered upright.

‘Relax,’ Strings muttered. ‘I’m in grief’s arms this night myself, though likely for an entirely different reason. Neither of us expected company, but here we are.’

The Wickan hesitated, then snapped the weapon back into its sheath and made to walk away.

‘Hold a moment, Horsewarrior. There’s no need to flee.’

The youth spun round, mouth twisting into a snarl.

‘Face me. I will be your witness this night, and we alone will know of it. Give me your words of sorrow, Wickan, and I will listen. Hood knows, it would serve me well right now.’

‘I flee no-one,’ the warrior rasped.

‘I know. I just wanted to get your attention.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Nobody. And that is how I will stay, if you like. Nor will I ask for your name—’

‘I am Temul.’

‘Ah, well. So your bravery puts me in my place. My name is Fiddler.’

‘Tell me,’ Temul’s voice was suddenly harsh, and he wiped angrily at his face, ‘did you think my grief a noble thing? Did I weep for Coltaine? For my fallen kin? I did not. My pity was for myself! And now you may go. Proclaim me—I am done with commanding, for I cannot command myself—’

‘Easy there, I’ve no intention of proclaiming anything, Temul. But I can guess at your reasons. Those wrinkled Wickans of the Crow, is my guess. Them and the survivors who walked off Gesler’s ship of wounded. They won’t accept you as their leader, will they? And so, like children, they blunt you at every turn. Defy you, displaying a mocking regard to your face then whispering behind your back. And where does that leave you? You can’t challenge them all, after all—’

‘Perhaps I can! I shall!’

‘Well, that will please them no end. Numbers alone will defeat your martial prowess. So you will die, sooner or later, and they will win.’

‘You tell me nothing I do not know, Fiddler.’

‘I know. I’m just reminding you that you’ve good reason to rail at the injustice, at the stupidity of those you would lead. I had a commander once, Temul, who was faced with the same thing you’re facing. He was in charge of a bunch of children. Nasty children at that.’

‘And what did he do?’

‘Not much, and ended up with a knife in his back.’

There was a moment of silence, then Temul barked a laugh.

Fiddler nodded. ‘Aye, I’m not one for stories with lessons in life, Temul. My mind bends to more practical choices.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, I would imagine that the Adjunct shares your frustration. She wants you to lead, and would help you do so—but not so you lose face. She’s too clever for that. No, the key here is deflection. Tell me, where are their horses right now?’

Temul frowned. ‘Their horses?’

‘Aye. I would think the Seti outriders could do without the Crow Clan for a day, don’t you think? I’m sure the Adjunct would agree—those Seti are young, by and large, and untested. They need the room to find themselves. There’s good reason, then, militarily, to keep the Wickans from their horses come tomorrow. Let them walk with the rest of us. Barring your loyal retinue, of course. And who knows, a day might not be enough. Could end up being three, or even four.’

Temul spoke softly, thoughtfully. ‘To get to their horses, we would need to be quiet…’

‘Another challenge for the Seti, or so I’m sure the Adjunct would note. If children your kin must be, then take away their favoured playthings—their horses. Hard to look tall and imperious when you’re spitting dust behind a wagon. In any case, you’d best hurry, so as not to awaken the Adjunct—’

‘She may already be asleep—’

‘No, she isn’t, Temul. I am certain of it. Now, before you leave, answer me a question, please. You’ve a scroll hanging from your mare’s saddle. Why? What is written on it?’

‘The horse belonged to Duiker,’ Temul answered, turning to the animal. ‘He was a man who knew how to read and write. I rode with him, Fiddler.’ He spun back with a glare. ‘I rode with him!’

‘And the scroll?’

The young Wickan waved a hand. ‘Men such as Duiker carried such things! Indeed, I believe it once belonged to him, was once in his very hands.’

‘And the feather you wear…to honour Coltaine?’

‘To honour Coltaine, yes. But that is because I must. Coltaine did what he was expected to do. He did nothing that was beyond his abilities. I honour him, yes, but Duiker…Duiker was different.’ He scowled and shook his head. ‘He was old, older than you. Yet he fought. When fighting was not even expected of him—I know this to be true, for I knew Coltaine and Bult and I heard them speak of it, of the historian. I was there when Coltaine drew the others together, all but Duiker. Lull, Bult, Chenned, Mincer. And all spoke true and with certainty. Duiker would lead the refugees. Coltaine even gave him the stone the traders brought—’

‘The stone? What stone?’

‘To wear about his neck, a saving stone, Nil called it. A soul trapper, delivered from afar. Duiker wore it, though he liked it not, for it was meant for Coltaine, so that he would not be lost. Of course, we Wickans knew he would not be lost. We knew the crows would come for his soul. The elders who have come, who hound me so, they speak of a child born to the tribe, a child once empty, then filled, for the crows came. They came.’

‘Coltaine has been reborn?’

‘He has been reborn.’

‘And Duiker’s body disappeared,’ Strings muttered. ‘From the tree.’

‘Yes! And so I keep his horse for him, for when he returns. I rode with him, Fiddler!’

‘And he looked to you and your handful of warriors to guard the refugees. To you, Temul—not just Nil and Nether.’

Temul’s dark eyes hardened as he studied Strings, then he nodded. ‘I go now to the Adjunct.’

‘The Lady’s pull on you, Commander.’

Temul hesitated, then said, ‘This night…you saw…’

‘I saw nothing,’ Strings replied.

A sharp nod, then the lad was swinging onto the mare, the reins in one long-fingered, knife-scarred hand.

Strings watched him ride into the darkness. He sat motionless on the boulder for a time, then slowly lowered his head into his hands.

 

The three were seated now, in the lantern-glow of the tent’s chamber. Topper’s tale was done, and it seemed that all that remained was silence. Gamet stared down at his cup, saw that it was empty, and reached for the jug. Only to find that it too was empty.

Even as exhaustion tugged at him, Gamet knew he would not leave, not yet. Tavore had been told of, first, her brother’s heroism, then his death. Not a single Bridgeburner left alive. Tayschrenn himself saw their bodies, witnessed their interment in Moon’s Spawn. But lass, Ganoes redeemed himself—redeemed the family name. He did that much at least. But that was where the knife probably dug deepest. She had made harrowing sacrifices, after all, to resurrect the family’s honour. Yet all along, Ganoes was no renegade; nor had he been responsible for Lorn’s death. Like Dujek, like Whiskeyjack, his outlawry was nothing but a deception. There had been no dishonour. Thus, the sacrifice of young Felisin might have, in the end, proved…unnecessary.

And there was more. Jarring revelations. It had, Topper explained, been the hope of the Empress to land Onearm’s Host on the north coast, in time to deliver a double blow to the Army of the Apocalypse. Indeed, the expectation all along had been for Dujek to assume overall command. Gamet could understand Laseen’s thinking—to place the fate of the imperial presence on Seven Cities in the hands of a new, young and untested Adjunct was far too long a reach of faith.

Though Tavore had believed the Empress had done just that. Now, to find this measure of confidence so lacking…gods, this had been a Hood-damned night indeed.

Dujek Onearm was still coming, with a scant three thousand remaining in his Host, but he would arrive late, and, by both Topper’s and Tayschrenn’s unforgiving assessments, the man’s spirit was broken. By the death of his oldest friend. Gamet wondered what else had happened in that distant land, in that nightmarish empire called the Pannion.

Was it worth it, Empress? Was it worth the devastating loss?

Topper had said too much, Gamet decided. Details of Laseen’s plans should have been filtered through a more circumspect, less emotionally damaged agent. If the truth was so important, after all, then it should have been laid out for the Adjunct long before now—when it actually mattered. To tell Tavore that the Empress had no confidence in her, then follow that with the brutal assertion that she was now the empire’s last hope for Seven Cities…well, few were the men or women who would not be rocked to their knees by that.

The Adjunct’s expression revealed nothing. She cleared her throat. ‘Very well, Topper. Is there more?’

The Clawmaster’s oddly shaped eyes widened momentarily, then he shook his head and rose. ‘No. Do you wish me to convey a message to the Empress?’

Tavore frowned. ‘A message? No, there is no message. We have begun our march to the Holy Desert. Nothing more need be said.’

Gamet saw Topper hesitate, then the Clawmaster said, ‘There is one more thing, Adjunct. There are probably worshippers of Fener among your army. I do not think the truth of the god’s…fall…can be hidden. It seems the Tiger of Summer is the lord of war, now. It does an army little good to mourn; indeed, grief is anathema to an army as we all well know. There may prove some period of difficult adjustment—it would be well to anticipate and prepare for desertions—’

‘There will be no desertions,’ Tavore said, the flat assertion silencing Topper. ‘The portal is weakening, Clawmaster—even a box of basalt cannot entirely block the effects of my sword. If you would leave this night, I suggest you do so now.’

Topper stared down at her. ‘We are badly hurt, Adjunct. And hurting. It is the hope of the Empress that you will exercise due caution, and make no precipitous actions. Suffer no distraction on your march to Raraku—there will be attempts to draw you from the trail, to wear you down with skirmishes and pursuits—’

‘You are a Clawmaster,’ Tavore said, sudden iron in her tone. ‘Dujek’s advice I will listen to, for he is a soldier, a commander. Until such time as he arrives, I shall follow my own instincts. If the Empress is dissatisfied, she is welcome to replace me. Now, that is all. Goodbye, Topper.’

Scowling, the Clawmaster swung about and strode without ceremony into the Imperial Warren. The gate collapsed behind him, leaving only a sour smell of dust.

Gamet let out a long sigh, pushed himself gingerly from the rickety camp chair. ‘You have my sorrow, Adjunct, on the loss of your brother.’

‘Thank you, Gamet. Now, get some sleep. And stop by—’

‘T’amber’s tent, aye, Adjunct.’

She quirked an eyebrow. ‘Is that disapproval I hear?’

‘It is. I’m not the only one in need of sleep. Hood take us, we’ve not even eaten this night.’

‘Until tomorrow, Fist.’

He nodded. ‘Aye. Goodnight, Adjunct.’

 

There was but one figure seated at the ebbing fire when Strings returned.

‘What are you doing up, Cuttle?’

‘I’ve done my sleep. You’ll be dragging your feet tomorrow, Sergeant.’

‘I don’t think rest will come to me this night,’ Strings muttered, sitting down cross-legged opposite the burly sapper.

‘It’s all far away,’ Cuttle rumbled, tossing a last scrap of dung onto the flames.

‘But it feels close.’

‘At least you’re not walking in the footprints of your fallen companions, Fiddler. But even so, it’s all far away.’

‘Well, I’m not sure what you mean but I’ll take your word for it.’

‘Thanks for the munitions, by the way.’

Strings grunted. ‘It’s the damnedest thing, Cuttle. We always find more, and they’re meant to be used, but instead we hoard them, tell no-one we have them—in case they order us to put them to use—’

‘The bastards.’

‘Aye, the bastards.’

‘I’ll use the ones you’ve given me,’ Cuttle avowed. ‘Once I’ve crawled under Korbolo Dom’s feet. I don’t mind going to Hood at the same time, either.’

‘Something tells me that’s what Hedge did, in his last moment. He always threw them too close—that man had so many pieces of clay in him you could’ve made a row of pots from his insides.’ He slowly shook his head, eyes on the dying fire. ‘I wish I could have been there. That’s all. Whiskeyjack, Trotts, Mallet, Picker, Quick Ben—’

‘Quick’s not dead,’ Cuttle said. ‘There was more after you’d left—I heard from my tent. Tayschrenn’s made your wizard a High Mage.’

‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me, actually. That he’d survive, somehow. I wonder if Paran was still the company’s captain—’

‘He was. Died with them.’

‘The Adjunct’s brother. I wonder if she grieves this night.’

‘Wondering’s a waste of time, Fiddler. We got lads and lasses that need taking care of, right here. Korbolo Dom’s warriors know how to fight. My guess is, we’ll get whipped and sent back with our tails between our legs—and it’ll be another chain, as we stagger back to Aren, only this time we won’t get even close.’

‘Well, that’s a cheering prediction, Cuttle.’

‘It don’t matter. So long as I kill that Napan traitor—and his mage, too, if possible.’

‘And what if you can’t get close?’

‘Then I take as many of them with me as I can. I ain’t walking back, Fid, not again.’

‘I’ll remember that if the moment arrives. But what about taking care of these recruits of ours, Cuttle?’

‘Well, that’s the walk, isn’t it? This march. We deliver them to that battle, we do that much, if we can. Then we see what kind of iron they’re holding.’

‘Iron,’ Strings smiled. ‘It’s been a long time since I last heard that saying. Since we’re looking for revenge, you’ll want it hot, I expect.’

‘You expect wrong. Look at Tavore—there won’t be any heat from her. In that she’s just like Coltaine. It’s obvious, Fiddler. The iron needs to be cold. Cold. We get it cold enough, who knows, we might earn ourselves a name.’

Strings reached across the fire and tapped the finger bone hanging from Cuttle’s belt. ‘We’ve made a start, I think.’

‘We might have at that, Sergeant. Them and the standards. A start. She knows what’s in her, give her that. She knows what’s in her.’

‘And it’s for us to bring it out into view.’

‘Aye, Fid, it is at that. Now, go away. These are the hours I spend alone.’

Nodding, the sergeant climbed to his feet. ‘Seems I might be able to sleep after all.’

‘It’s my scintillating conversation what’s done you in.’

‘So it was.’

As Strings made his way to his small tent, something of Cuttle’s words came back to him. Iron. Cold iron. Yes, it’s in her. And now I’d better search and search hard…to find it in me.