They emerged from the warren into the stench of smoke and ashes, and before them, in the growing light of dawn, reared a destroyed city. The three stood unmoving for a time, silent, each seeking to comprehend this vista.

Stormy was the first to speak. ‘Looks like the Imperial Warren’s spilled out here.’

Ash and dead air, the light seeming listless – Kalam was not surprised by the marine’s observation. They had just left a place of death and desolation, only to find themselves in another. ‘I still recognize it,’ the assassin said. ‘Y’Ghatan.’

Stormy coughed, then spat. ‘Some siege.’

‘The army’s moved on,’ Quick Ben observed, studying the tracks and rubbish where the main encampment had been. ‘West.’

Stormy grunted, then said, ‘Look at that gap in the wall. Moranth munitions, a whole damned wagon of ’em, I’d say.’

A viscous river had flowed out through that gap, and, motionless now, it glittered in the morning light. Fused glass and metals. There had been a firestorm, Kalam realized. Yet another one to afflict poor Y’Ghatan. Had the sappers set that off?

‘Olive oil,’ said Quick Ben suddenly. ‘The oil harvest must have been in the city.’ He paused, then added, ‘Makes me wonder if it was an accident.’

Kalam glanced over at the wizard. ‘Seems a little extreme, Quick. Besides, from what I’ve heard of Leoman, he’s not the kind to throw his own life away.’

‘Assuming he stayed around long enough.’

‘We took losses here,’ Stormy said. ‘There’s a grave mound there, under that ash.’ He pointed. ‘Scary big, unless they included rebel dead.’

‘We make separate holes for them,’ Kalam said, knowing that Stormy knew that as well. None of this looked good, and they were reluctant to admit that. Not out loud. ‘The tracks look a few days old, at least. I suppose we should catch up with the Fourteenth.’

‘Let’s circle this first,’ Quick Ben said, squinting at the ruined city. ‘There’s something…some residue…I don’t know. Only…’

‘Sound argument from the High Mage,’ Stormy said. ‘I’m convinced.’

Kalam glanced over at the mass burial mound, and wondered how many of his friends were lying trapped in that earth, unmoving in the eternal dark, the maggots and worms already at work to take away all that had made each of them unique. It wasn’t something he enjoyed thinking about, but if he did not stand here and gift them a few more moments of thought, then who would?

Charred rubbish lay strewn on the road and in the flats to either side. Tent stakes still in place gripped burnt fragments of canvas, and in a trench beyond the road’s bend as it made its way towards what used to be the city’s gate, a dozen bloated horse carcasses had been dumped, legs upthrust like bony tree-stumps in a flyblown swamp. The stench of burnt things hung in the motionless air.

Apsalar reined in on the road as her slow scan of the devastation before her caught movement a hundred paces ahead and to her left. She settled back in the saddle, seeing familiarity in the gaits and demeanours of two of the three figures now walking towards what remained of Y’Ghatan. Telorast and Curdle scampered back to flank her horse.

‘Terrible news, Not-Apsalar!’ Telorast cried. ‘Three terrible men await us, should we continue this course. If you seek to destroy them, well then, that is fine. We wish you well. Otherwise, I suggest we escape. Now.’

‘I agree,’ Curdle added, small skeletal head bobbing as the creature paced, grovelled, then paced again, tail spiking the air.

Her horse lifted a front hoof and the demonic skeletons scattered, having learned that near proximity to the beast was a treacherous thing.

‘I know two of them,’ Apsalar said. ‘Besides, they have seen us.’ She nudged her mount forward, walking it slowly towards the mage, his assassin companion, and the Malazan soldier, all of whom had now shifted direction and approached with a measured pace.

‘They will annihilate us!’ Telorast hissed. ‘I can tell – oh, that mage, he’s not nice, not at all—’

The two small creatures raced for cover.

Annihilation. The possibility existed, Apsalar allowed, given the history she shared with Quick Ben and Kalam Mekhar. Then again, they had known of the possession, and she had since travelled with Kalam for months, first across the Seeker’s Deep, from Darujhistan all the way to Ehrlitan, during which nothing untoward had occurred. This eased her mind somewhat as she waited for them to arrive.

Kalam was the first to speak. ‘Few things in the world make sense, Apsalar.’

She shrugged. ‘We have each had our journeys, Kalam Mekhar. I, for one, am not particularly surprised to find our paths converging once more.’

‘Now that,’ said Quick Ben, ‘is an alarming statement. Unless you’re here to satisfy Shadowthrone’s desire for vengeance, there is no possible reason at all that our paths should converge. Not here. Not now. I certainly haven’t been pushed and pulled by any conniving god—’

‘You have the aura of Hood about you, Quick Ben,’ Apsalar said, an observation that clearly startled Kalam and the soldier. ‘Such residue comes only from long conversations with the Lord of Death, and so, while you might claim freedom for yourself, perhaps your motives for what you do and where you choose to go are less purely your own than you would have others believe. Or, for that matter, than what you yourself would like to believe.’ Her gaze slid across to Kalam. ‘Whilst the assassin has known the presence of Cotillion, only a short while ago. And as for this Falari soldier here, his spirit is bound to a T’lan Imass, and to the Fire of Life that passes for worship among the T’lan Imass. Thus, fire, shadow and death, drawn together even as the forces and gods of such forces find alignment against a single foe. Yet, I feel I should warn you all – that foe is no longer singular and, perhaps, never was. And present alliances may not last.’

‘What is it about all this,’ Quick Ben said, ‘that I’m not enjoying?’

Kalam rounded on the wizard. ‘Maybe, Quick, you’re sensing something of my desire – which I am barely restraining – to plant my fist in your face. The Lord of Death? What in the name of the Abyss happened at Black Coral?’

‘Expedience,’ the wizard snapped, eyes still on Apsalar. ‘That’s what happened. In that whole damned war against the Pannion Domin. That should have been obvious from the outset – Dujek joining forces with Caladan Brood was simply the first and most egregious breaking of the rules.’

‘So now you’re working for Hood?’

‘Not even close, Kalam. To stretch a pun, Hood knows, he was working for me.’

‘Was? And now?’

‘And now,’ he nodded towards Apsalar, ‘as she says, the gods are at war.’ He shrugged, but it was an uneasy shrug. ‘I need to get a sense of the two sides, Kalam. I need to ask questions. I need answers.’

‘And is Hood providing them?’

The glance he shot the assassin was skittish, almost diffident. ‘Slowly.’

‘And what is Hood getting from you?’

The wizard bridled. ‘Ever try twisting a dead man’s arm? It doesn’t work!’ His glare switched between Kalam and Apsalar. ‘Listen. Remember those games Hedge and Fid played? With the Deck of Dragons? Idiots, but never mind that. The point is, they made up the rules as they went along, and that’s what I’m doing, all right? Gods, even a genius like me has limits!’

A snort from the Falari soldier, and Apsalar saw him bare his teeth.

The wizard stepped towards him. ‘Enough of that, Stormy! You and your damned stone sword!’ He waved wildly at the city of Y’Ghatan. ‘Does this smell sweet to you?’

‘What would smell even sweeter is the Adjunct’s High Mage all chopped up and served in a stew to Hood himself.’ He reached for the Imass sword, his grin broadening. ‘And I’m just the man to do—’

‘Settle down, you two,’ Kalam said. ‘All right, Apsalar, we’re all here and that’s passing strange but not as strange maybe as it should be. Doesn’t matter.’ He made a gesture that encompassed himself, Quick Ben and Stormy. ‘We’re returning to the Fourteenth Army. Or, we will be, once we’ve circled the city and Quick’s satisfied it’s as dead as it looks—’

‘Oh,’ the wizard cut in, ‘it’s dead all right. Still, we’re circling the ruin.’ He pointed a finger at Apsalar. ‘As for you, woman, you’re not travelling alone, are you? Where are they hiding? And what are they? Familiars?’

‘You could call them that,’ she replied.

‘Where are they hiding?’ Quick Ben demanded again.

‘Not sure. Close by, I suspect. They’re…shy.’ And she added nothing more, for now, satisfied as she was by the wizard’s answering scowl.

‘Where,’ Kalam asked, ‘are you going, Apsalar?’

Her brows rose. ‘Why, with you, of course.’

She could see that this did not please them much, yet they voiced no further objections. As far as she was concerned, this was a perfect conclusion to this part of her journey. For it coincided with her most pressing task – the final target for assassination. The only one that could not be ignored.

She’d always known Cotillion for a most subtle bastard.

 

‘All right, then,’ Sergeant Hellian said, ‘which one of you wants to be my new corporal?’

Touchy and Brethless exchanged glances.

‘What?’ Touchy asked. ‘Us? But you got Balgrid and Tavos Pond, now. Or even—’

‘It’s my new squad and I decide these things.’ She squinted over at the other soldiers. ‘Balgrid’s a mage. So’s Tavos Pond.’ She scowled at the two men. ‘I don’t like mages, they’re always disappearing, right when you want to ask them something.’ Her gaze slid across to the last two soldiers. ‘Maybe’s a sapper and enough said about that, and Lutes is our healer. That leaves…’ Hellian returned her attention to the twins, ‘you two.’

‘Fine,’ said Touchy. ‘I’ll be corporal.’

‘Hold on,’ Brethless said. ‘I want to be corporal! I ain’t taking no orders from him, Sergeant. Not a chance. I got the brains, you know—’

Touchy snorted. ‘Then, since you didn’t know what to do with them, you threw them away.’

‘You’re a big fat liar, Touchy—’

‘Quiet!’ Hellian reached for her sword. But then remembered and drew a knife instead. ‘Another word either of you and I’ll cut myself.’

The squad stared at her.

‘I’m a woman, see, and with women, it’s how we deal with men. You’re all men. Give me trouble and I’ll stick this knife in my arm. Or leg. Or maybe I’ll slice a nipple off. And you bastards will have to live with that. For the rest of your days, you’ll have to live with the fact that you were being such assholes that Hellian went and disfigured herself.’

No-one spoke.

Smiling, Hellian resheathed the knife. ‘Good. Now, Touchy and Brethless, I’ve decided. You’re both corporals. There.’

‘But what if I want to order Brethless—’

‘Well you can’t.’

Brethless raised a finger. ‘Wait, what if we give different orders to the others?’

‘Don’t worry ’bout that,’ Maybe said, ‘we ain’t gonna listen to you anyways. You’re both idiots, but if the sergeant wants to make you corporals, that’s fine. We don’t care. Idiots make good corporals.’

‘All right,’ Hellian said, rising, ‘it’s settled. Now, nobody wander off, since the captain wants us ready to march.’ She walked away, up towards the ridge. Thinking.

The captain had dragged off Urb and made him a sergeant. Madness. That old rule about idiots making good corporals obviously extended to sergeants, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Besides, she might go and kill him and then there’d be trouble. Urb was big, after all, and there wasn’t much in the way of places to hide his body. Not around here, anyway, she concluded, scanning the broken rocks, bricks and potsherds strewn on the slope.

They needed to find a village. She could trade her knife – no, that wouldn’t work, since it would mess up her threat and the squad might mutiny. Unless, next time, she added nails to the possible weapons – scratch her own eyes out, something like that. She glanced down at her nails – oh, mostly gone. What a mess…

 

‘Look at her,’ Maybe said. ‘Tells us not to wander off then what does she do? Wanders off. Finds a ridge to do what? Why, check out her nails. Ooh, they’re chipped! Gods, we’ve got a real woman for our Hood-damned sergeant—’

‘She ain’t a real woman,’ Touchy said. ‘You don’t know her at all, sapper. Now, me and Brethless, we were two of the poor fools who came first to the temple in Kartool, where this whole nightmare started.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Balgrid demanded.

‘Someone went and butchered all the priests in the D’rek temple, and we was the first ones on the scene. Anyway, you know how this goes. That was our quarter, right? Not that we could patrol inside temples, of course, so we weren’t to blame. But since when does common sense count for anything in the empire? So, they had to send us away. Hopefully to get killed, so none of it gets out—’

‘It just did,’ Tavos Pond said, scratching beneath the rough, crusted bandages swathing one side of his face.

‘What are you talking about?’ Balgrid demanded again. ‘And what’s the sergeant doing over there?’

Maybe glared at Lutes. ‘He’s still deaf. Do something!’

‘It’ll come back,’ the healer replied, shrugging. ‘Mostly. It takes time, that’s all.’

‘Anyway,’ Touchy resumed, ‘she ain’t a real woman. She drinks—’

‘Right,’ Brethless cut in, ‘and why does she drink? Why, she’s scared of spiders!’

‘That don’t matter,’ his brother retorted. ‘And now she’s stuck sober and that’s bad. Listen, all of you—’

‘What?’ Balgrid asked.

‘Listen, the rest of you, we just keep her drunk and everything’ll be fine—’

‘Idiot,’ Maybe said. ‘Probably you didn’t catch whoever killed all those priests because your sergeant was drunk. She did good in Y’Ghatan, or have you forgotten? You’re alive ’cause of her.’

‘That’ll wear off, sapper. Just you wait. I mean, look at her – she’s fussing over her nails!’

 

Adopting heavies into a squad was never easy, Gesler knew. They didn’t think normally; in fact, the sergeant wasn’t even sure they were human. Somewhere between a flesh-and-blood Imass and a Barghast, maybe. And now he had four of them. Shortnose, Flashwit, Uru Hela and Mayfly. Flashwit could probably out-pull an ox, and she was Napan besides, though those stunning green eyes came from somewhere else; and Shortnose seemed in the habit of losing body parts, and there was no telling how far that had gone beyond the missing nose and ear. Uru was a damned Korelri who’d probably been destined for the Stormwall before stowing aboard a Jakatakan merchanter, meaning she felt she didn’t owe anybody anything. Mayfly was just easily confused, but clearly as tough as they came.

And Heavies came tough. He’d have to adjust his thinking on how to work the squad. But if he ever shows up, Stormy will love these ones.

Maybe in one way it made sense to reorganize the squads, but Gesler wasn’t sure of the captain’s timing. It was Fist Keneb’s responsibility, anyway, and he’d likely prefer splitting up soldiers who were, one and all now, veterans. Well, that was for the damned officers to chew over. What concerned him the most at the moment, was the fact that they were mostly unarmed and unarmoured. A score of raiders or even bandits happening upon them and there’d be more Malazan bones bleaching in the sun. They needed to get moving, catch up with the damned army.

He fixed his gaze on the west road, up on the ridge. Hellian was there already, he saw. Lit up by the rising sun. Odd woman, but she must have done something right, to have led her soldiers through that mess. Gesler would not look back at Y’Ghatan. Every time he had done that before, the images returned: Truth shouldering the munitions packs, running into the smoke and flames. Fiddler and Cuttle racing back, away from what was coming. No, it wasn’t worth any last looks back at that cursed city.

What could you take from it that was worth a damned thing, anyway? Leoman had drawn them right in, made the city a web from which there was no escape – only…we made it, didn’t we? But, how many didn’t? The captain had told them. Upwards of two thousand, wasn’t it? All to kill a few hundred fanatics who would probably have been just as satisfied killing themselves and no-one else, to make whatever mad, futile point they felt worth dying for. It was how fanatics thought, after all. Killing Malazans simply sweetened an already sweet final meal. All to make some god’s eyes shine.

Mind you, polish anything long enough and it’ll start to shine.

The sun lifted its blistered eye above the horizon, and it was almost time to begin the march.

 

Ten, maybe more pups, all pink, wrinkled and squirming inside an old martin’s nest that had dislodged from an exploding wall. Bottle peered down at them, the nest in his hands. Their mother clung to his left shoulder, nose twitching as if she was contemplating a sudden leap – either towards her helpless brood or towards Bottle’s neck.

‘Relax, my dear,’ he whispered. ‘They’re as much mine as they are yours.’

A half-choking sound nearby, then a burst of laughter.

Bottle glared over at Smiles. ‘You don’t understand a thing, you miserable cow.’

‘I can’t believe you want to take that filthy thing with you. All right, it got us out, so now leave it be. Besides, there’s no way you can keep them alive – she’s got to feed ’em, right, meaning she has to scrounge. When’s she gonna be able to do that? We’re about to march, you fool.’

‘We can manage,’ he replied. ‘They’re tribal creatures, rats. Besides, we’ve already scrounged enough food – it’s only Y’Ghatan who needs to eat lots, for now. The pups just suckle.’

‘Stop, you’re making me sick. There’s enough rats in the world already, Bottle. Take the big one, sure, but leave the others for the birds.’

‘She’d never forgive me.’

 

Sitting nearby, Koryk studied the two bickering soldiers a moment longer, then he rose.

‘Don’t go far,’ Strings said.

The half-Seti grunted a wordless reply, then headed towards the far, northern end of the flats, where broad, deep pits pockmarked the ground. He arrived at the edge of one and looked down. Long ago, these pits had yielded clay for the potters, back when there had been water close to the surface. When that had dried up, they had proved useful for the disposal of refuse, including the bodies of paupers.

The pits nearest the city’s walls held only bones, bleached heaps, sun-cracked amidst tattered strips of burial cloth.

He stood above the remains for a moment longer, then descended the crumbling side.

The soldiers had lost most of the bones affixed to their armour and uniforms. It seemed only fitting, Koryk thought, that these long-dead citizens of Y’Ghatan offer up their own. After all, we crawled through the city’s own bones. And we can’t even measure what we left behind.

Knee-deep in bones, he looked round. No shortage of fetishes here. Satisfied, he began collecting.

‘You look damn near naked without all that armour.’

Corporal Tarr grimaced. ‘I am damn near naked without all my armour, Sergeant.’

Smiling, Strings looked away, searching until he found Koryk, who was in the process of climbing into the ground. At least, it looked that way from here. Strange, secretive man. Then again, if he wanted to crawl into the earth, that was his business. So long as he showed up for the call to march.

Cuttle was near the fire, pouring out the last of the tea, a brew concocted from a half-dozen local plants Bottle had identified as palatable, although he’d been a little cagey on toxicity.

After a moment surveying his squad, the sergeant returned to shaving off his beard, hacking at the foul-smelling, singed hair with his camp knife – the only weapon left to him.

One of the foundling children had attached herself to him and sat opposite, watching with wide eyes, her round face smeared with ash and two wet, dirty streaks running down from her nose. She had licked her lips raw.

Strings paused, squinted at her, then raised one eyebrow. ‘You need a bath, lass. We’ll have to toss you into the first stream we run across.’

She made a face.

‘Can’t be helped,’ he went on. ‘Malazan soldiers in the Fourteenth are required to maintain a certain level of cleanliness. So far, the captain’s been easy about it, but trust me, that won’t last…’ He trailed off when he saw that she wasn’t listening any more. Nor was she looking at him, but at something beyond his left shoulder. Strings twisted round to follow her gaze.

And saw a rider, and three figures on foot. Coming down from the road that encircled Y’Ghatan. Coming towards them.

From a short distance to the sergeant’s right, he heard Gesler say, ‘That’s Stormy – I’d recognize that bludgeon walk anywhere. And Kalam and Quick. Don’t know the woman on the horse, though…’

But I do. Strings rose. Walked up the slope to meet them. He heard Gesler behind him, following.

‘Hood take us,’ Strings said, studying first Apsalar, then Kalam and Quick Ben, ‘half the old squad. All here.’

Quick Ben was squinting at Fiddler. ‘You shaved,’ he said. ‘Reminds me just how young you are – that beard turned you into an old man.’

He paused, then added, ‘Be nice to have Mallet here with us.’

‘Forget it,’ Strings said, ‘he’s getting fat in Darujhistan and the last thing he’d want to do is see our ugly faces again.’ He coughed. ‘And I suppose Paran’s there, too, feet up and sipping chilled Saltoan wine.’

‘Turned out to be a good captain,’ the wizard said after a moment. ‘Who’d have thought it, huh?’

Strings nodded up at the woman on the horse. ‘Apsalar. So where’s Crokus Younghand?’

She shrugged. ‘He goes by the name of Cutter, now, Fiddler.’

Oh.

‘In any case,’ she continued, ‘we parted ways some time ago.’

Stormy stepped closer to Gesler. ‘We lost him?’ he asked.

Gesler looked away, then nodded.

‘What happened?’

Strings spoke in answer: ‘Truth saved all our skins, Stormy. He did what we couldn’t do, when it needed to be done. And not a word of complaint. Anyway, he gave up his life for us. I wish it could have been otherwise…’ He shook his head. ‘I know, it’s hard when they’re so young.’

There were tears now, running down the huge man’s sun-burnt face. Saying nothing, he walked past them all, down onto the slope towards the encamped Malazans. Gesler watched, then followed.

No-one spoke.

‘I had a feeling,’ Quick Ben said after a time. ‘You made it out of Y’Ghatan – but the Fourteenth’s marched already.’

Fiddler nodded. ‘They had to. Plague’s coming from the east. Besides, it must’ve seemed impossible – anyone trapped in the city surviving the firestorm.’

‘How did you pull it off?’ Kalam demanded.

‘We’re about to march,’ Fiddler said as Faradan Sort appeared, clambering onto the road. ‘I’ll tell you along the way. And Quick, I’ve got a mage in my squad I want you to meet – he saved us all.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ the wizard asked. ‘Shake his hand?’

‘Not unless you want to get bit.’ Hah, look at his face. That was worth it.

 

The bridge was made of black stones, each one roughly carved yet perfectly fitted. Wide enough to accommodate two wagons side by side, although there were no barriers flanking the span and the edges looked worn, crumbly, enough to make Paran uneasy. Especially since there was nothing beneath the bridge. Nothing at all. Grey mists in a depthless sea below. Grey mists swallowing the bridge itself twenty paces distant; grey mists refuting the sky overhead.

A realm half-born, dead in still-birth, the air was cold, clammy, smelling of tidal pools. Paran drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders. ‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘it’s pretty much how I saw it.’

The ghostly form of Hedge, standing at the very edge of the massive bridge, slowly turned. ‘You’ve been here before, Captain?’

‘Visions,’ he replied. ‘That’s all. We need to cross this—’

‘Aye,’ the sapper said. ‘Into a long forgotten world. Does it belong to Hood? Hard to say.’ The ghost’s hooded eyes seemed to shift, fixing on Ganath. ‘You should’ve changed your mind, Jaghut.’

Paran glanced over at her. Impossible to read her expression, but there was a stiffness to her stance, a certain febrility to the hands she lifted to draw up the hood of the cape she had conjured.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I should have.’

‘This is older than the Holds, isn’t it?’ Paran asked her. ‘And you recognize it, don’t you, Ganath?’

‘Yes, in answer to both your questions. This place belongs to the Jaghut – to our own myths. This is our vision of the underworld, Master of the Deck. Verdith’anath, the Bridge of Death. You must find another path, Ganoes Paran, to find those whom you seek.’

He shook his head. ‘No, this is the one, I’m afraid.’

‘It cannot be.’

‘Why?’

She did not reply.

Paran hesitated, then said, ‘This is the place in my visions. Where I have to begin. But…well, those dreams never proceeded from here – I could not see what lay ahead, on this bridge. So, I had this, what you see before us, and the knowledge that only a ghost could guide me across.’ He studied the mists engulfing the stone path. ‘There’s two ways of seeing it, I eventually concluded.’

‘Of seeing what?’ Ganath asked.

‘Well, the paucity of those visions, and my hunches on how to proceed. I could discard all else and attempt to appease them with precision, never once straying – for fear that it would prove disastrous. Or, I could see all those uncertainties as opportunities, and so allow my imagination fullest rein.’

Hedge made a motion something like spitting, although nothing left his mouth. ‘I take it you chose the latter, Captain.’

Paran nodded, then faced the Jaghut again. ‘In your myths, Ganath, who or what guards this bridge?’

She shook her head. ‘This place lies beneath the ground beneath Hood’s feet. He may well know of this realm, but would not presume to claim dominance over it…or its inhabitants. This is a primal place, Master of the Deck, as are those forces that call it home. It is a conceit to believe that death has but a single manifestation. As with all things, layer settles upon layer, and in time the deepest, darkest ones become forgotten – yet they have shaped all that lies above.’ She seemed to study Paran for a moment, then said, ‘You carry an otataral sword.’

‘Reluctantly,’ he admitted. ‘Most of the time I keep it buried by the back wall of Coll’s estate, in Darujhistan. I am surprised you sensed it – the scabbard is made of iron and bronze and that negates its effect.’

The Jaghut shrugged. ‘The barrier is imperfect. The denizens in this realm – if the myths hold truth and they always do – prefer brute force over sorcery. The sword will be just a sword.’

‘Well, I wasn’t planning on using it, anyway.’

‘So,’ Hedge said, ‘we just start on our way, across this bridge, and see what comes for us? Captain, I may be a sapper, and a dead one at that, but even I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Of course not,’ Paran said. ‘I have planned for something else.’ He drew out from his pack a small object, spoked and circular, which he then tossed on the ground. ‘Shouldn’t be long,’ he said. ‘They were told to stay close.’

A moment later sounds came through the mists behind them, the thunder of hoofs, the heavy clatter of massive wheels. A train of horses appeared, heads tossing, froth-flecked and wild-eyed, and behind them a six-wheeled carriage. Guards were clinging to various ornate projections on the carriage’s flanks, some of them strapped in place by leather harnesses. Their weapons were out, and they glared fiercely into the mists on all sides.

The driver leaned back on the reins, voicing a weird cry. Hoofs stamping, the train reared back, slewing the huge carriage round to a stone-snapping, skidding halt.

The guards unhitched themselves and swarmed off, establishing a perimeter with crossbows out and cocked. On the bench the driver set the brake, looped the reins about the handle, then pulled out a flask and downed its contents in seven successive swallows. Belched, restoppered the flask, pocketed it, then clambered down the carriage side. He unlatched the side door even as Paran caught movement through its barred window.

The man pushing his way through was huge, dressed in sodden silks, his pudgy hands and round face sheathed in sweat.

Paran spoke: ‘You must be Karpolan Demesand. I am Ganoes Paran. Thank you for arriving so quickly. Knowing the reputation of the Trygalle Trade Guild, of course, I am not at all surprised.’

‘Nor should you be!’ the huge man replied with a broad smile that revealed gold-capped, diamond-studded teeth. The smile slowly faded as his gaze found the bridge. ‘Oh dear.’ He gestured to two of the nearest guards, both Pardu women, both badly scarred. ‘Nisstar, Artara, to the edge of the mists on that bridge, if you please. Examine the edges carefully – without a retaining wall we face a treacherous path indeed.’ The small, bright eyes fixed on Paran once more. ‘Master of the Deck, forgive me, I am fraught with exhaustion! Oh, how this dread land taxes poor old Karpolan Demesand! After this, we shall hasten our return to our most cherished native continent of Genabackis! Naught but tragedy haunts Seven Cities – see how I have lost weight! The stress! The misery! The bad food!’ He snapped his fingers and a servant emerged from the carriage behind him, somehow managing to balance a tray crowded with goblets and a crystal decanter in one hand while navigating his egress with the other. ‘Gather, my friends! Not you, damned shareholders! Keep a watch out, fools! There are things out there and you know what happens when things arrive! Nay, I spoke to my guests! Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck, his ghostly companion and the Jaghut sorceress – join me, fretful three, in this one peaceable toast…before the mayhem begins!’

‘Thanks for the invitation,’ Hedge said, ‘but since I’m a ghost—’

‘Not at all,’ Karpolan Demesand cut in, ‘know that in close proximity to my contrivance here, you are not cursed insubstantial – not at all! So,’ he passed a goblet to the sapper, ‘drink, my friend! And revel once more in the delicious sensation of taste, not to mention alcohol!’

‘If you say so,’ Hedge said, accepting the goblet. He swallowed a mouthful, and his hazy expression somehow brightened. ‘Gods below! You’ve done it now, merchant! I think I’ll end up haunting this carriage for all time!’

‘Alas, my friend, the effect wears off, eventually. Else we face an impossible burden, as you might imagine! Now you, Jaghut, please, the significance of the myriad flavours in this wine shall not be lost on you, I’m sure.’ Beaming, he handed her a goblet.

She drank, then bared her tusks in what Paran took to be a smile. ‘Bik’trara – ice flowers – you must have crossed a Jaghut glacier some time in the past, to have harvested such rare plants.’

‘Indeed, my dear! Jaghut glaciers, and much more besides, I assure you! To explain, the Trygalle Trade Guild travels the warrens – a claim no other merchants in this world dare make. Accordingly, we are very expensive.’ He gave Paran a broad wink. ‘Very, as the Master of the Deck well knows. Speaking of which, I trust you have your payment with you?’

Paran nodded.

Karpolan proffered the third goblet to Paran. ‘I note you have brought your horse, Master of the Deck. Do you intend to ride alongside us, then?’

‘I think so. Is that a problem?’

‘Hard to say – we do not yet know what we shall encounter on this fell bridge. In any case, you must ride close, unless you mean to assert your own protection – in which case, why hire us at all?’

‘No, your protection I shall need, I’m sure,’ Paran said. ‘And yes, that is why I contracted with your guild in Darujhistan.’ He sipped at the wine, and found his head swimming. ‘Although,’ he added, eyeing the golden liquid, ‘if I drink any more of this, I might have trouble staying in the saddle.’

‘You must strap yourself tightly, Ganoes Paran. In the stirrups, and to the saddle. Trust me in this, such a journey is best managed drunk – or filled with the fumes of durhang. Or both. Now, I must begin preparations – although I have never before visited this warren, I am beginning to suspect we will be sorely tested on this dread bridge.’

‘If you are amenable,’ Ganath said, ‘I would ride with you within.’

‘Delightful, and I suggest you ready yourself to access your warren, Jaghut, should the need arise.’

Paran watched as the two climbed back into the carriage, then he turned to regard Hedge.

The sapper finished the wine in his goblet and set it back down on the tray, which was being held still by the servant – an old man with red-rimmed eyes and grey hair that looked singed at its ends. ‘How many of these journeys have you made?’ Hedge asked him.

‘More’n I can count, sir.’

‘I take it Karpolan Demesand is a High Mage.’

‘That he be, sir. An’ for that, us shareholders bless ’im every day.’

‘No doubt,’ Hedge said, then turned to Paran. ‘If you ain’t gonna drink that, Captain, put it down. You and me need to talk.’

Paran risked another mouthful then replaced the goblet, following as, with a gesture, Hedge set off towards the foot of the bridge.

‘Something on your ghostly mind, sapper?’

‘Plenty, Captain, but first things first. You know, when I tossed that cusser back in Coral, I figured that was it. Hood knows, I didn’t have a choice, so I’d do the same thing if I had to do it over again. Anyway –’ he paused, then said, ‘for a time there was, well, just darkness. The occasional flicker of something like light, something like awareness.’ He shook his head. ‘It was like, well,’ he met Paran’s eyes, ‘like I had nowhere to go. My soul, I mean. Nowhere at all. And trust me on this, that ain’t a good feeling.’

‘But then you did,’ Paran said. ‘Have somewhere to go, I mean.’

Hedge nodded, eyes once more on the mists engulfing the way ahead. ‘Heard voices, at first. Then…old friends, coming outa the dark. Faces I knew, and sure, like I said, friends. But some who weren’t. You got to understand, Captain, before your time, a lot of Bridgeburners were plain bastards. When a soldier goes through what we went through, in Raraku, at Black Dog, you come out one of two kinds of people. Either you’re damned humbled, or you start believing the Empress worships what slides outa your ass, and not just the Empress, but everyone else besides. Now, I never had time for those bastards when I was alive – now I’m looking at spending an eternity with ’em.’

Paran was silent for a moment, thoughtful, then he said, ‘Go on.’

‘Us Bridgeburners, we got work ahead of us, and some of us don’t like it. I mean, we’re dead, right? And sure, it’s good helping friends who are still alive, and maybe helping all of humanity if it comes to that and I’m sorry to say, it will come to that. Still, you end up with questions, questions that can’t be answered.’

‘Such as?’

The sapper’s expression twisted. ‘Damn, sounds awful, but…what’s in it for us? We find ourselves in an army of the dead in a damned sea where there used to be desert. We’re all done with our wars, the fighting’s over, and now it looks like we’re having to march – and it’s a long march, longer than you’d think possible. But it’s our road, now, isn’t it?’

‘And where does it lead, Hedge?’

He shook his head again. ‘What’s it mean to die? What’s it mean to ascend? It’s not like we’re gonna gather ten thousand worshippers among the living, is it? I mean, the only thing us dead soldiers got in common is that none of us was good enough or lucky enough to survive the fight. We’re a host of failures.’ He barked a laugh. ‘I better remember that one for the bastards. Just to get under their skins.’

Paran glanced back at the carriage. Still no activity there, although the servant had disappeared back inside. He sighed. ‘Ascendants, Hedge. Not an easy role to explain – in fact, I’ve yet to find a worthwhile explanation for what ascendancy is – among all the scholarly tracts I’ve pored through in Darujhistan’s libraries and archives. So, I’ve had to come up with my own theory.’

‘Let’s hear it, Captain.’

‘All right, we’ll start with this. Ascendants who find worshippers become gods, and that binding goes both ways. Ascendants without worshippers are, in a sense, unchained. Unaligned, in the language of the Deck of Dragons. Now, gods who once had worshippers but don’t have them any more are still ascendant, but effectively emasculated, and they remain so unless the worship is somehow renewed. For the Elder Gods, that means the spilling of blood on hallowed or once-hallowed ground. For the more primitive spirits and the like, it could be as simple as the recollection or rediscovery of their name, or some other form of awakening. Mind you, none of that matters if the ascendant in question has been well and truly annihilated.

‘So, to backtrack slightly, ascendants, whether gods or not, seem to possess some form of power. Maybe sorcery, maybe personality, maybe something else. And what that seems to mean is, they possess an unusual degree of efficacy—’

‘Of what?’

‘They’re trouble if you mess with them, is what I’m saying. A mortal man punches someone and maybe breaks the victim’s nose. An ascendant punches someone and they go through a wall. Now, I don’t mean that literally – although that’s sometimes the case. Not necessarily physical strength, but strength of will. When an ascendant acts, ripples run through…everything. And that’s what makes them so dangerous. For example, before Fener’s expulsion, Treach was a First Hero, an old name for an ascendant, and that’s all he was. Spent most of his time either battling other First Heroes, or, towards the end, wandering around in his Soletaken form. If nothing untoward had happened to Treach in that form, his ascendancy would have eventually vanished, lost in the primitive bestial mind of an oversized tiger. But something untoward did happen – actually, two things. Fener’s expulsion, and Treach’s unusual death. And with those two events, everything changed.’

‘All right,’ Hedge said, ‘that’s all just fine. When are you getting to your theory, Captain?’

‘Every mountain has a peak, Hedge, and throughout history there have been mountains and mountains – more than we could imagine, I suspect – mountains of humanity, of Jaghut, of T’lan Imass, of Eres’al, Barghast, Trell, and so on. Not just mountains, but whole ranges. I believe ascendancy is a natural phenomenon, an inevitable law of probability. Take a mass of people, anywhere, any kind, and eventually enough pressure will build and a mountain will rise, and it will have a peak. Which is why so many ascendants become gods – after the passing of generations, the great hero’s name becomes sacred, representative of some long-lost golden age, and so it goes.’

‘So if I understand you, Captain – and I admit, it’s not easy and it’s never been easy – there’s too much pressure these days and because of that there’s too many ascendants, and things are getting hairy.’

Paran shrugged. ‘It might feel that way. It probably always does. But these things shake themselves out, eventually. Mountains collide, peaks fall, are forgotten, crumble to dust.’

‘Captain, are you planning to make a new card in the Deck of Dragons?’

Paran studied the ghost for a long time, then he said, ‘In many of the Houses, the role of Soldier already exists—’

‘But not unaligned soldiers, Captain. Not…us.’

‘You say you have a long road ahead, sapper. How do you know that? Who is guiding you?’

‘I got no answer to that one, Captain. That’s why we figured – our payment for this bargain – that you constructing a card for us would, well, be like shaking a handful of wheat flour over an invisible web.’

‘Part of the bargain? You might have mentioned that at the start, Hedge.’

‘No, better when it’s too late.’

‘For you, yes. All right, I’ll think on it. I admit, you’ve made me curious, especially since I don’t think you and your ghostly army are being directly manipulated. I suspect that what calls to you is something far more ephemeral, more primal. A force of nature, as if some long lost law was being reasserted, and you’re the ones who will deliver it. Eventually.’

‘An interesting thought, Captain. I always knew you had brains, now I’m finally getting a hint of what they’re good for.’

‘Now let me ask you a question, Hedge.’

‘If you must.’

‘That long road ahead of you. Your march – it’s to war, isn’t it? Against whom?’

‘More like what—’

Commotion behind them, the shareholders rushing back to the carriage, the snap of leather and the clunk of buckles as the dozen or so men and women began strapping themselves in place. The horses, suddenly agitated, tossed their heads and stamped, nostrils flaring. The driver had the traces in his hands once more.

‘You two!’ he said in a growl. ‘It’s time.’

‘Think I’ll sit beside the driver,’ Hedge said. ‘Captain, like the High Mage said, be sure you ride close. I knew how to get us here, but I ain’t got a clue what’s coming.’

Nodding, Paran headed towards his horse, whilst Hedge clambered up the side of the carriage. The two Pardu women returned from their stations on the bridge and climbed up to take flanking positions on the roof, both checking their heavy crossbows and supply of broad-headed quarrels.

Paran swung himself into the saddle.

A shutter in the side door was opened and the captain could make out Karpolan’s round, shiny face. ‘We travel perilously fast, Ganoes Paran. If some transformation occurs on the horse you ride, consider abandoning it.’

‘And if some transformation besets me?’

‘Well, we shall do our best not to abandon you.’

‘That’s reassuring, Karpolan Demesand.’

A brief smile, then the shutter snapped shut once more.

Another weird cry from the driver and a snap of the traces. The horses lunged forward, carriage slewing straight behind them. Rolling forward. Onto the stone bridge.

Paran rode up alongside it, opposite one of the shareholders. The man threw him a wild, half-mad grin, gloved hands gripping a massive Malazan-made crossbow.

Climbing the slope, then into the mists.

That closed like soft walls round them.

A dozen heartbeats, then chaos. Ochre-skinned creatures swarmed in from both sides, as if they had been clinging beneath the bridge. Long arms, clawed at the ends, short, ape-like legs, small heads that seemed filled with fangs. They flung themselves at the carriage, seeking to drag off the shareholders.

Screams, the thud of quarrels striking bodies, hissing pain from the creatures. Paran’s horse reared, forelegs kicking at a beast scrambling beneath it. Sword out, Paran slashed the blade into the back of the creature clinging and biting fierce chunks of meat from the nearest shareholder’s left thigh. He saw the flesh and muscle part, revealing ribs. Then blood sluiced out. Squealing, the beast fell away.

More had reached the carriage, and Paran saw one shareholder torn from her perch, swearing as she was dragged down onto the stones, then vanishing beneath seething, smooth-skinned bodies.

The captain swung his horse round and closed on the writhing mass.

No skill involved – it was simply lean down and hack and slash, until the last bleeding body fell away.

The woman lying on the bloody stones looked as though she had been chewed by a shark, then spat out. Yet she lived. Paran sheathed his sword, dismounted and threw the dazed, bleeding woman over a shoulder.

Heavier than she’d looked. He managed to settle her down over the back of his horse, then vaulted once more into the saddle.

The carriage already vanishing into the mists, ochre bodies tumbling from it. The back wheels both rose and thumped as they rolled over flopping corpses.

And between Paran and the carriage, half a hundred or more of the creatures, now wheeling towards him, claws raised and clicking. He drew out his sword again, and drove his heels into the horse’s flanks. The animal voiced an indignant grunt, then charged forward. Legs and chest battering bodies aside, Paran slashing right and left, seeing limbs lopped off, skulls opened wide. Hands closed on the shareholder and sought to pull her off. Twisting round, Paran cut at them until they fell away.

A beast landed in his lap.

Hot breath, smelling distinctly of over-ripe peaches. Hinged fangs spreading wide – the damned thing was moments from biting off Paran’s face.

He head-butted it, the rim of his helm smashing nose and teeth, blood gushing into Paran’s eyes, nose and mouth.

The creature reeled back.

Paran swung his weapon from above, hammering the sword’s pommel into the top of the creature’s skull. Punching through with twin sprays of blood from its tiny ears. Tugging his weapon free, he shoved the dead beast to the side.

His horse was still pushing forward, squealing as talons and fangs slashed its neck and chest. Paran leant over his mount’s neck, flailing with his sword in its defence.

Then they were through, the horse lunging into a canter, then a gallop. All at once, the carriage’s battered, swaying and pitching back reared up before them. Free of attackers. Paran dragged on his reins until the horse slowed, and came up alongside. He gestured at the nearest shareholder. ‘She’s still alive – take her—’

‘Is she now?’ the man replied, then turned his head and spat out a gleaming red stream.

Paran now saw that blood was spurting from the ragged holes in the man’s left leg, and those spurts were slowing down. ‘You need a healer and fast—’

‘Too late,’ the man replied, leaning out to drag the unconscious woman from the back of Paran’s horse. More hands reached down from above and took her weight, then pulled her upwards. The dying shareholder sagged back against the carriage, then gave Paran a red-stained smile. ‘The spike,’ he said. ‘Doubles my worth – hope the damned wife’s grateful.’ As he spoke he fumbled with the harness buckle, then finally pulled it loose. With a final nod at Paran, he let go, and fell.

A tumble and a roll, then…nothing.

Paran looked back, stared at the motionless body on the bridge. Beasts were swarming towards it. Gods, these people have all lost their minds.

‘Stebar’s earned the spike!’ someone said from the carriage roof. ‘Who’s got one of his chips?’

Another voice said, ‘Here, down the slot – how bad is Thyrss?’

‘She’ll make it, poor girl, ain’t gonna be pretty no more.’

‘Knowing her, she’d have been happier with the spike—’

‘Not a chance, got no kin, Ephras. What’s the point of a spike with no kin?’

‘Funny man, Yorad, and I bet you don’t even know it.’

‘What did I say now?’

The carriage’s wild careening had slowed as more and more detritus appeared on the bridge’s road. Pieces of corroding armour, broken weapons, bundles of nondescript clothing.

Looking down, Paran saw a slab of wood that looked to have once been a Troughs game-board, now splintered and gnawed down one side as if some creature had tried to eat it. So, here in this deathly underworld, there are things that still need food. Meaning, they’re alive. Meaning, I suppose, they don’t belong. Intruders, like us. He wondered at all those other visitors to this realm, those who’d fallen to the horde of ochre-hued beast-men. How had they come to be here? An accident, or, like Paran, seeking to cross this damned bridge for a reason?

‘Hedge!’

The ghost, perched beside the driver, leaned forward. ‘Captain?’

‘This realm – how did you know of it?’

‘Well, you came to us, didn’t you? Figured you was the one who knew about it.’

‘That makes no sense. You led, I followed, remember?’

‘You wanted to go where the ancient things went, so here we are.’

‘But where is here?’

Shrugging, the sapper leaned back.

It was the one bad thing about following gut-feelings, Paran reflected. Where they came from and what fed them was anybody’s guess.

After perhaps a third of a league, the slope still perceptibly climbing, the road’s surface cleared, and although the mists remained thick, they seemed to have lightened around them, as if some hidden sun of white fire had lifted clear of the horizon. Assuming there was such a horizon. Not every warren played by the same rules, Paran knew.

The driver cursed suddenly and sawed back on the traces, one foot pushing the brake lever. Paran reined in alongside as the train lurched to a halt.

Wreckage ahead, a single, large heap surrounded by scattered pieces.

A carriage.

Everyone was silent for a moment, then Karpolan Demesand’s voice emerged from a speak-tube near the roof. ‘Nisstar, Artara, if you will, examine yon barricade.’

Paran dismounted, his sword still out, and joined the two Pardu women as they crept cautiously towards the destroyed carriage.

‘That’s Trygalle Trade Guild,’ Paran said in low tones, ‘isn’t it?’

‘Shhh.’

They reached the scene. Paran held back as the shareholders, exchanging gestures, each went to one side, crossbows held at the ready. In moments, they moved out of his line of sight.

The carriage was lying on its side, the roof facing Paran. One back wheel was missing. The copper sheets of the roof looked battered, peeled away in places, cut and gouged in others. On two of the visible iron attachment loops, strips of leather remained.

One of the Pardu women appeared on top, perching on the frame of the side door, then crouching to look straight down, inside the carriage. A moment later, she disappeared inside. The other shareholder came from around the wreck. Paran studied her. Her nose had been shattered, not long ago, he judged, as the remnant of bruises marred the area beneath her eyes with faint crescents. The eyes above those bruises were now filled with fear.

Behind them, Karpolan Demesand emerged and, the Jaghut at his side and Hedge trailing, they slowly approached.

Paran turned, studied the pale, expressionless visage of the High Mage. ‘Do you recognize this particular carriage, Karpolan?’

A nod. ‘Trade Mistress Darpareth Vayd. Missing, with all her shareholders, for two years. Ganoes Paran, I must think on this, for she was my superior in the sorcerous arts. I am deeply saddened by this discovery, for she was my friend. Saddened, and alarmed.’

‘Do you recall the details of her last mission?’

‘Ah, a prescient question. Generally,’ he paused, folding his hands on his lap, ‘such details remain the property of the Trygalle Trade Guild, for as you must realize, confidentiality is a quality our clients pay for, in fullest trust that we reveal nothing. In this instance, however, two things are clear that mitigate such secrecy. One: it seems, if we continue on, we shall face what Darpareth faced. Two: in this, her last mission, she failed. And presumably, we do not wish to share her fate. Accordingly, we shall here and now pool our talents, first, to determine what destroyed her mission, and secondly, to effect a reasonable defence against the enemy responsible.’

The other Pardu clambered once more into view. Seeing Karpolan she paused, then shook her head.

‘No bodies,’ Paran said. ‘Of course, those hungry beasts we ran into may well have cleaned up afterwards—’

‘I think not,’ said Ganath. ‘I suspect they too fear what lies ahead, and would not venture this far along the bridge. In any case, the damage on that carriage came from something far larger, stronger. If this bridge has a true guardian, then I suspect these poor travellers met it.’

Paran frowned. ‘Guardian. Why would there be a guardian? That kind of stuff belongs to fairy tales. How often does someone or something try to cross this bridge? It’s got to be rare, meaning there’s some guardian with a lot of spare time on its hands. Why not just wander off? Unless the thing has no brain at all, such a geas would drive it mad—’

‘Mad enough to tear apart whatever shows up,’ Hedge said.

‘More like desperate for a scratch behind the ear,’ Paran retorted. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Creatures need to eat, need company—’

‘And if the guardian has a master?’ Ganath asked.

‘This isn’t a Hold,’ Paran said. ‘It has no ruler, no master.’

Karpolan grunted, then said, ‘You are sure of this, Ganoes Paran?’

‘I am. More or less. This realm is buried, forgotten.’

‘It may be, then,’ Karpolan mused, ‘that someone needs to inform the guardian that such is the case – that its task is no longer relevant. In other words, we must release it from its geas.’

‘Assuming such a guardian exists,’ Paran said, ‘rather than some chance meeting of two forces, both heading the same way.’

The Trygalle master’s small eyes narrowed. ‘You know more of this, Ganoes Paran?’

‘What was Darpareth Vayd’s mission here?’

‘Ah, we are to exchange secrets, then. Very well. As I recall, the client was from Darujhistan. Specifically, the House of Orr. The contact was a woman, niece of the late Turban Orr. Lady Sedara.’

‘And the mission?’

‘It seems this realm is home to numerous entities, powers long forgotten, buried in antiquity. The mission involved an assay of such creatures. Since Lady Sedara was accompanying the mission, no other details were available. Presumably, she knew what she was looking for. Now, Ganoes Paran, it is your turn.’

His frown deepening, Paran walked closer to the destroyed carriage. He studied the tears and gouges in the copper sheathing on the roof. ‘I’d always wondered where they went,’ he said, ‘and, eventually, I realized where they were going.’ He faced Karpolan Demesand. ‘I don’t think there’s a guardian here. I think the travellers met on this bridge, all headed the same way, and the misfortune was with Darpareth and Sedara Orr. This carriage was destroyed by two Hounds of Shadow.’

‘You are certain?’

I am. I can smell them. My…kin. ‘We’ll need to get this moved to one side, over the edge, I suppose.’

‘One question,’ Karpolan Demesand said. ‘What happened to the bodies?’

‘Hounds are in the habit of dragging and throwing their victims. Occasionally, they feed, but for the most part they take pleasure in the killing – and they would, at that time, have been both enraged and exuberant. For they had just been freed from Dragnipur, the sword of Anomander Rake.’

‘Impossible,’ the High Mage snapped.

‘No, just exceedingly difficult.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Karpolan demanded.

‘Because I freed them.’

‘Then…you are responsible for this.’

Paran faced the huge man, his now hard, dangerous eyes. ‘Much to my regret. You see, they should never have been there in the first place. In Dragnipur. I shouldn’t have been, either. And, at the time, I didn’t know where they would escape to, or even that they would escape at all. It looked, in fact, as though I’d sent them to oblivion – to the Abyss itself. As it turned out,’ he added as he faced the wreckage once more, ‘I needed them to do precisely this – I needed them to blaze the trail. Of course, it would have been better if they’d met no-one on the way. It’s easy to forget just how nasty they are…

Karpolan Demesand turned to his shareholders. ‘Down, all of you! We must clear the road!’

‘Captain,’ Hedge muttered, ‘you’re really starting to make me nervous.’

 

The wreckage groaned, then slid over the edge, vanishing into the mists. The shareholders, gathered at the side of the bridge, all waited for a sound from below, but there was none. At a command from Karpolan, they returned to their positions on the Trygalle carriage.

It seemed the High Mage was in no mood to conduct idle conversation with Paran, and he caught the Jaghut sorceress eyeing him sidelong a moment before she climbed into the carriage. He sighed. Delivering unpleasant news usually did this – he suspected if trouble arrived there wouldn’t be many helping hands reaching down for him. He climbed into the saddle once more and gathered the reins.

They resumed their journey. Eventually, they began on the downslope – the bridge was at least a league long. There was no way to tell, unless one sought to climb beneath the span, whether pillars or buttressing held up this massive edifice; or if it simply hung, suspended and unanchored, above a vast expanse of nothing.

Ahead, something took shape in the mists, and as they drew closer, they could make out a vast gateway that marked the bridge’s end, the flanking uprights thick at the base and tapering as they angled inward to take – precariously, it seemed – the weight of a huge lintel stone. The entire structure was covered with moss.

Karpolan halted the carriage in front of it and, as was his custom, sent the two Pardu shareholders through that gateway. When nothing untoward happened to them and they returned to report that the way beyond was clear – as much as they could make out, anyway – the carriage was driven through.

Only to halt just beyond, as the lead horses splashed into the silty water of a lake or sea.

Paran rode his horse down to the water’s edge. Frowning, he looked right, then left, eyes tracking the shoreline.

From the carriage, Hedge spoke: ‘Something wrong, Captain?’

‘Yes. This lake is what’s wrong.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s not supposed to be here.’

‘How do you know?’

Dismounting, Paran crouched by the water. No waves – perfect calm. He cupped his hand and dipped it into the cool, silty liquid. Raised it up, sniffed. ‘Smells like rot. This is flood water—’

He was interrupted by an eerie, wailing cry, coming from somewhere downshore.

‘Hood’s breath!’ Hedge hissed. ‘The lungs that punched that out are huge.’

Straightening, Paran squinted into the vague mists where it seemed the sound had come from. Then he pulled himself into the saddle once more. ‘I think I was wrong about there being no guardian,’ he said.

Dull thunder, rising up from the ground beneath them. Whatever it was was on its way. ‘Let’s get going,’ Paran said. ‘Up the shoreline, and fast.’