A single strand of black sand, four hundred paces long, broke the unrelieved basalt ruin of the coastline. That strip was now obscured beneath ramps, equipment, horses and soldiers; and the broad loader skiffs rocked through the shallows on their heavy draw-lines out to the anchored transports crowding the bay. For three days the Fourteenth Army had been embarking, making their escape from this diseased land.

Fist Keneb watched the seeming chaos down below for a moment longer, then, drawing his cloak tighter about himself against the fierce north sea’s wind, he turned about and made his way back to the skeletal remnants of the encampment.

There were problems – almost too many to consider. The mood among the soldiers was a complex mixture of relief, bitterness, anger and despondency. Keneb had seriously begun to fear mutiny during the wait for the fleet – the embers of frustration fanned by dwindling supplies of food and water. It was likely the lack of options that had kept the army tractable, if sullen – word from every city and settlement west, east and south had been of plague. Bluetongue, ferocious in its virulence, sparing no-one. The only escape was with the fleet.

Keneb could understand something of the soldiers’ sentiments. The Fourteenth’s heart had been cut out at Y’Ghatan. It was extraordinary how a mere handful of veterans could prove the lifeblood of thousands, especially when, to the Fist’s eyes, they had done nothing to earn such regard.

Perhaps survival alone had been sufficiently heroic. Survival, until Y’Ghatan. In any case, there was a palpable absence in the army, a hole at the core, gnawing its way outward.

Compounding all this, the command was growing increasingly divided – for we have our own core of rot. Tene Baralta. The Red Blade…who lusts for his own death. There were no healers in the Fourteenth skilled enough to erase the terrible damage to Baralta’s visage; it would take High Denul to regenerate the man’s lost eye and forearm, and that was a talent growing ever rarer – at least in the Malazan Empire. If only Tene had also lost the capacity for speech. Every word from him was bitter with poison, a burgeoning hatred for all things, beginning with himself.

Approaching the Adjunct’s command tent, Keneb saw Nether exit, her expression dark, bridling. The cattle-dog Bent appeared, lumbering towards her – then, sensing her state of mind, the huge scarred beast halted, ostensibly to scratch itself, and moments later was distracted by the Hengese lapdog Roach. The two trundled off.

Drawing a deep breath, Keneb walked up to the young Wickan witch. ‘I take it,’ he said, ‘the Adjunct was not pleased with your report.’

She glared at him. ‘It is not our fault, Fist. This plague seethes through the warrens. We have lost all contact with Dujek and the Host; ever since they arrived outside G’danisban. And as for Pearl,’ she crossed her arms, ‘we cannot track him – he is gone and that is that. Besides, if the fool wants to brave the warrens it’s not for us to retrieve his bones.’

The only thing worse than a Claw in camp was the sudden, inexplicable vanishing of that selfsame Claw. Not that there was anything that could be done about it. Keneb asked, ‘How many days has it been, then, since you were able to speak with High Fist Dujek?’

The young Wickan looked away, her arms still crossed. ‘Since before Y’Ghatan.’

Keneb’s brows rose. That long? Adjunct, you tell us so little. ‘What of Admiral Nok – have his mages had better luck?’

‘Worse,’ she snapped. ‘At least we’re on land.’

‘For now,’ he said, eyeing her.

Nether scowled. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing, except…a frown like that can become permanent – you’re too young to have such deep creases there—’

Snarling, the witch stalked off.

Keneb stared after her a moment, then, shrugging, he turned and entered the command tent.

The canvas walls still reeked of smoke, a grim reminder of Y’Ghatan. The map-table remained – not yet loaded out onto the transports – and around it, despite the fact that the tabletop was bare – stood the Adjunct, Blistig and Admiral Nok.

‘Fist Keneb,’ Tavore said.

‘Two more days, I should think,’ he replied, unclasping his cloak now that he was out of the wind.

The Admiral had been speaking, it seemed, for he cleared his throat and said, ‘I still believe, Adjunct, that there is nothing untoward to the command. The Empress sees no further need for the Fourteenth’s presence here. There is also the matter of the plague – you have managed to keep it from your troops thus far, true enough, but that will not last. Particularly once your stores run out and you are forced to forage.’

Blistig grunted sourly. ‘No harvest this year. Apart from abandoned livestock there ain’t much to forage – we’d have no choice but to march to a city.’

‘Precisely,’ said the Admiral.

Keneb glanced at Tavore. ‘Forgive me, Adjunct—’

‘After I sent you out to gauge the loading of troops, the subject of command structure was concluded, to the satisfaction of all.’ A certain dryness to that, and Blistig snorted. Tavore continued, ‘Admiral Nok has finally relayed to us the command of the Empress, that we are to return to Unta. The difficulty before us now lies in deciding our return route.’

Keneb blinked. ‘Why, east and then south, of course. The other way would take—’

‘Longer, yes,’ Nok interrupted. ‘Nonetheless, at this time of year, we would be aided by currents and prevailing winds. Granted, the course is less well charted, and most of our maps for the western coast of this continent are derived from foreign sources, making their reliability open to challenge.’ He rubbed at his weathered, lined face. ‘All of that is, alas, not relevant. The issue is the plague. Adjunct, we have sought one port after another on our way to this rendezvous, and not one was safe to enter. Our own supplies are perilously low.’

Blistig asked, ‘So where do you believe we can resupply anywhere west of here, Admiral?’

‘Sepik, to begin with. The island is remote, sufficiently so that I believe it remains plague-free. South of that, there is Nemil, and a number of lesser kingdoms all the way down to Shal-Morzinn. From the southern tip of the continent the journey down to the northwest coast of Quon Tali is in fact shorter than the Falar lanes. Once we have cleared the risk that is Drift Avalii we will find ourselves in the Genii Straits, with the coast of Dal Hon to our north. At that time the currents will once again be with us.’

‘All very well,’ Blistig said in a growl, ‘but what happens if Nemil and those other “lesser kingdoms” decide they’re not interested in selling us food and fresh water?’

‘We shall have to convince them,’ the Adjunct said, ‘by whatever means necessary.’

‘Let’s hope it’s not by the sword.’

As soon as Blistig said that his regret was obvious – the statement should have sounded reasonable; instead, it simply revealed the man’s lack of confidence in the Adjunct’s army.

She was regarding her Fist now, expressionless, yet a certain chill crept into the chamber, filling the silence.

On Admiral Nok’s face, a look of disappointment. Then he reached for his sealskin cloak. ‘I must return now to my flagship. Thrice on our journey here, the outrider escorts sighted an unknown fleet to the north. No doubt the sightings were mutual but no closer contact occurred, so I believe it poses no threat to us.’

‘A fleet,’ Keneb said. ‘Nemil?’

‘Possibly. There was said to be a Meckros city west of Sepik Sea – that report is a few years old. Then again,’ he glanced over at the Adjunct as he reached the flap, ‘how fast can a floating city move? In any case, Meckros raid and trade, and it may well be that Nemil has dispatched ships to ward them from their coast.’

They watched the Admiral leave.

Blistig said, ‘Your pardon, Adjunct—’

‘Save your apology,’ she cut in, turning away from him. ‘One day I shall call upon you, Blistig, to voice it again. But not to me; rather, to your soldiers. Now, please visit Fist Tene Baralta and relay to him the essence of this meeting.’

‘He has no interest—’

‘His interests do not concern me, Fist Blistig.’

Lips pressed together, the man saluted, then left.

‘A moment,’ the Adjunct said as Keneb prepared to follow suit. ‘How fare the soldiers, Fist?’

He hesitated, then said, ‘For the most part, Adjunct, they are relieved.’

‘I am not surprised,’ she said.

‘Shall I inform them that we are returning home?’

She half-smiled. ‘I have no doubt the rumour is already among them. By all means, Fist. There is no reason to keep it a secret.’

‘Unta,’ Keneb mused, ‘my wife and children are likely there. Of course, it stands to reason that the Fourteenth will not stay long in Unta.’

‘True. Our ranks will be refilled.’

‘And then?’

She shrugged. ‘Korel, I expect. Nok thinks the assault on Theft will be renewed.’

It was a moment before Keneb realized that she did not believe a word she was saying to him. Why not Korel? What might Laseen have in store for us, if not another campaign? What does Tavore suspect? He hid his confusion by fumbling over the cloak’s clasps for a few heartbeats.

When he glanced up again, the Adjunct seemed to be staring at one of the tent’s mottled walls.

Standing, always standing – he could not recall ever having seen her seated, except on a horse. ‘Adjunct?’

She started, then nodded and said, ‘You are dismissed, Keneb.’

He felt like a coward as he made his way outside, angry at his own sense of relief. Still, a new unease now plagued him. Unta. His wife. What was, is no longer. I’m old enough to know the truth of that. Things change. We change—

‘Make it three days.’

Keneb blinked, looked down to see Grub, flanked by Bent and Roach. The huge cattle-dog’s attention was fixed elsewhere – southeastward – while the lapdog sniffed at one of Grub’s worn moccasins, where the child’s big toe protruded from a split in the upper seam. ‘Make what three days, Grub?’

‘Until we leave. Three days.’ The boy wiped his nose.

‘Dig into one of the spare kits,’ Keneb said, ‘and find some warmer clothes, Grub. This sea is a cold one, and it’s going to get colder yet.’

‘I’m fine. My nose runs, but so does Bent’s, so does Roach’s. We’re fine. Three days.’

‘We’ll be gone in two.’

‘No. It has to be three days, or we will never get anywhere. We’ll die in the sea, two days after we leave Sepik Island.’

A chill rippled through the Fist. ‘How did you know we were headed west, Grub?’

The boy looked down, watched as Roach licked clean his big toe. ‘Sepik, but that will be bad. Nemil will be good. Then bad. And after that, we find friends, twice. And then we end up where it all started, and that will be very bad. But that’s when she realizes everything, almost everything, I mean, enough of everything to be enough. And the big man with the cut hands says yes.’ He looked up, eyes bright. ‘I found a bone whistle and I’m keeping it for him because he’ll want it back. We’re off to collect seashells!’

With that all three ran off, down towards the beach.

Three days, not two. Or we all die. ‘Don’t worry, Grub,’ he said in a whisper, ‘not all grown-ups are stupid.’

 

Lieutenant Pores looked down at the soldier’s collection. ‘What in Hood’s name are these?’

‘Bones, sir,’ the woman replied. ‘Bird bones. They was coming out of the cliff – look, they’re hard as rock – we’re going to add them to our collection, us heavies, I mean. Hanfeno, he’s drilling holes in ’em – the others, I mean, we got hundreds. You want us to make you some, sir?’

‘Give me a few,’ he said, reaching out.

She dropped into his hand two leg bones, each the length of his thumb, then another that looked like a knuckle, slightly broader than his own. ‘You idiot. This one’s not from a bird.’

‘Well I don’t know, sir. Could be a skull?’

‘It’s solid.’

‘A woodpecker?’

‘Go back to your squad, Senny. When are you on the ramp?’

‘Looks like tomorrow now, sir. Fist Keneb’s soldiers got delayed – he pulled half of ’em back off, it was complete chaos! There’s no figuring officers, uh, sir.’

A wave sent the woman scurrying. Lieutenant Pores nestled the small bones into his palm, closing his fingers over to hold them in place, then he walked back to where Captain Kindly stood beside the four trunks that comprised his camp kit. Two retainers were busy repacking one of the trunks, and Pores saw, arranged on a camel-hair blanket, an assortment of combs – two dozen, maybe more, no two alike. Bone, shell, antler, tortoiseshell, ivory, wood, slate, silver, gold and blood-copper. Clearly, they had been collected over years of travel, the captain’s sojourn as a soldier laid out, the succession of cultures, the tribes and peoples he had either befriended or annihilated. Even so…Pores frowned. Combs?

Kindly was mostly bald.

The captain was instructing his retainers on how to pack the items. ‘…those cotton buds, and the goat wool or whatever you call it. Each one, and carefully – if I find a scratch, a nick or a broken tooth I will have no choice but to kill you both. Ah, Lieutenant, I trust you are now fully recovered from your wounds? Good. What’s wrong, man? Are you choking?’

Gagging, his face reddening, Pores waited until Kindly stepped closer, then he let loose a cough, loud and bursting and from his right hand – held before his mouth – three bones were spat out to clunk and bounce on the ground. Pores drew in a deep breath, shook his head and cleared his throat.

‘Apologies, Captain,’ he said in a rasp. ‘Some broken bones still in me, I guess. Been wanting to come out for a while now.’

‘Well,’ Kindly said, ‘are you done?’

‘Yes sir.’

The two retainers were staring at the bones. One reached over and collected the knuckle.

Pores wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. ‘That was some cough, wasn’t it? I’d swear someone punched me in the gut.’

The retainer reached over with the knuckle. ‘He left you this, Lieutenant.’

‘Ah, thank you, soldier.’

‘If you think any of this is amusing, Lieutenant,’ Kindly said. ‘You are mistaken. Now, explain to me this damned delay.’

‘I can’t, Captain. Fist Keneb’s soldiers, some kind of recall. There doesn’t seem to be a reasonable explanation.’

‘Typical. Armies are run by fools. If I had an army you’d see things done differently. I can’t abide lazy soldiers. I’ve personally killed more lazy soldiers than enemies of the empire. If this was my army, Lieutenant, we would have been on those ships in two days flat, and anybody still on shore by then we’d leave behind, stripped naked with only a crust of bread in their hands and the order to march to Quon Tali.’

‘Across the sea.’

‘I’m glad we’re understood. Now, stand here and guard my kit, Lieutenant. I must find my fellow captains Madan’Tul Rada and Ruthan Gudd – they’re complete idiots but I mean to fix that.’

Pores watched his captain walk away, then he looked back down at the retainers and smiled. ‘Now wouldn’t that be something? High Fist Kindly, commanding all the Malazan armies.’

‘Leastways,’ one of the men said, ‘we’d always know what we was up to.’

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. ‘You would like Kindly doing your thinking for you?’

‘I’m a soldier, ain’t I?’

‘And what if I told you Captain Kindly was insane?’

‘You be testing us? Anyway, don’t matter if’n he is or not, so long as he knows what he’s doing and he keeps telling us what we’re supposed to be doing.’ He nudged his companion, ‘Ain’t that right, Thikburd?’

‘Right enough,’ the other mumbled, examining one of the combs.

‘The Malazan soldier is trained to think,’ Pores said. ‘That tradition has been with us since Kellanved and Dassem Ultor. Have you forgotten that?’

‘No, sir, we ain’t. There’s thinkin’ and there’s thinkin’ and that’s jus’ the way it is. Soldiers do one kind and leaders do the other. Ain’t good the two gettin’ mixed up.’

‘Must make life easy for you.’

A nod. ‘Aye, sir, that it does.’

‘If your friend scratches that comb he’s admiring, Captain Kindly will kill you both.’

‘Thikburd! Put that down!’

‘But it’s pretty!’

‘So’s a mouthful of teeth and you want to keep yours, don’t ya?’

And with soldiers like these, we won an empire.

 

The horses were past their prime, but they would have to do. A lone mule would carry the bulk of their supplies, including the wrapped corpse of Heboric Ghost Hands. The beasts stood waiting on the east end of the main street, tails flicking to fend off the flies, already enervated by the heat, although it was but mid-morning.

Barathol Mekhar made one last adjustment to his weapons belt, bemused to find that he’d put on weight in his midriff, then he squinted over as Cutter and Scillara emerged from the inn and made their way towards the horses.

The woman’s conversation with the two Jessas had been an admirable display of brevity, devoid of advice and ending with a most perfunctory thanks. So, the baby was now the youngest resident of this forgotten hamlet. The girl would grow up playing with scorpions, rhizan and meer rats, her horizons seemingly limitless, the sun overhead the harsh, blinding and brutal face of a god. But all in all, she would be safe, and loved.

The blacksmith noted a figure nearby, hovering in the shadow of a doorway. Ah, well, at least someone will miss us. Feeling oddly sad, Barathol made his way over to the others.

‘Your horse will collapse under you,’ Cutter said. ‘It’s too old and you’re too big, Barathol. That axe alone would stagger a mule.’

‘Who’s that standing over there?’ Scillara asked.

‘Chaur.’ The blacksmith swung himself onto his horse, the beast side-stepping beneath him as he settled his weight in the saddle. ‘Come to see us off, I expect. Mount up, you two.’

‘This is the hottest part of the day,’ Cutter said. ‘It seems we’re always travelling through the worst this damned land can throw at us.’

‘We will reach a spring by dusk,’ Barathol said, ‘when we’ll all need it most. We lie over there, until the following dusk, because the next leg of the journey will be a long one.’

They set out on the road, that quickly became a track. A short while later, Scillara said, ‘We have company, Barathol.’

Glancing back, they saw Chaur, carrying a canvas bundle against his chest. There was a dogged expression on his sweaty face.

Sighing, the blacksmith halted his horse.

‘Can you convince him to go home?’ Scillara asked.

‘Not likely,’ Barathol admitted. ‘Simple and stubborn – that’s a miserable combination.’ He slipped down to the ground and walked back to the huge young man. ‘Here, Chaur, let’s tie your kit to the mule’s pack.’

Smiling, Chaur handed it over.

‘We have a long way to go, Chaur. And for the next few days at least, you will have to walk – do you understand? Now, let’s see what you’re wearing on your feet – Hood’s breath—’

‘He’s barefoot!’ Cutter said, incredulous.

‘Chaur,’ Barathol tried to explain, ‘this track is nothing but sharp stones and hot sand.’

‘There’s some thick bhederin hide in our kit,’ Scillara said, lighting her pipe, ‘somewhere. Tonight I can make him sandals. Unless you want us to stop right now.’

The blacksmith unslung his axe, then crouched and began pulling at his boots. ‘Since I’ll be riding, he can wear these until then.’

 

Cutter watched as Chaur struggled to pull on Barathol’s boots. Most men, he knew, would have left Chaur to his fate. Just a child in a giant’s body, after all, foolish and mostly useless, a burden. In fact, most men would have beaten the simpleton until he fled back to the hamlet – a beating for Chaur’s own good, and in some ways very nearly justifiable. But this blacksmith…he hardly seemed the mass murderer he was purported to be. The betrayer of Aren, the man who assassinated a Fist. And now, their escort to the coast.

Cutter found himself oddly comforted by that notion. Kalam’s cousin…assassinations must run in the family. That huge double-bladed axe hardly seemed an assassin’s weapon. He considered asking Barathol – getting from him his version of what had happened at Aren all those years ago – but the blacksmith was a reluctant conversationalist, and besides, if he had his secrets he was within his right to hold on to them. The way I hold on to mine.

They set out again, Chaur trailing, stumbling every now and then as if unfamiliar with footwear of any kind. But he was smiling.

‘Damn these leaking tits,’ Scillara said beside him.

Cutter stared over at her, not knowing how he should reply to that particular complaint.

‘And I’m running out of rustleaf, too.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘What have you to be sorry about?’

‘Well, it took me so long to recover from my wounds.’

‘Cutter, you had your guts wrapped round your ankles – how do you feel, by the way?’

‘Uncomfortable, but I never was much of a rider. I grew up in a city, after all. Alleys, rooftops, taverns, estate balconies, that was my world before all this. Gods below, I do miss Darujhistan. You would love it, Scillara—’

‘You must be mad. I don’t remember cities. It’s all desert and dried-up hills for me. Tents and mud-brick hovels.’

‘There are caverns of gas beneath Darujhistan, and that gas is piped up to light the streets with this beautiful blue fire. It’s the most magnificent city in the world, Scillara—’

‘Then why did you ever leave it?’

Cutter fell silent.

‘All right,’ she said after a moment, ‘how about this? We’re taking Heboric’s body…where, precisely?’

‘Otataral Island.’

‘It’s a big island, Cutter. Any place in particular?’

‘Heboric spoke of the desert, four or five days north and west of Dosin Pali. He said there’s a giant temple there, or at least the statue from one.’

‘So you were listening, after all.’

‘Sometimes he got lucid, yes. Something he called the Jade, a power both gift and curse…and he wanted to give it back. Somehow.’

‘Since he’s now dead,’ Scillara asked, ‘how do you expect him to do anything like returning power to some statue? Cutter, how do we find a statue in the middle of a desert? You might want to consider that whatever Heboric wanted doesn’t mean anything any more. The T’lan Imass killed him, and so Treach needs to find a new Destriant, and if Heboric had any other kind of power, it must have dissipated by now, or followed him through Hood’s Gate – either way, there is nothing we can do about it.’

‘His hands are solid now, Scillara.’

She started. ‘What?’

‘Solid jade – not pure, filled with…imperfections. Flaws, particles buried deep inside. Like they were flecked with ash, or dirt.’

‘You examined his corpse?’

Cutter nodded.

‘Why?’

‘Greyfrog came back to life…’

‘So you thought the old man might do the same.’

‘It was a possibility, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. He’s mummifying – and fast.’

Barathol Mekhar spoke: ‘His funeral shroud was soaked in salt water then packed in even more salt, Cutter. Keeps the maggots out. A fist-sized bundle of rags was pushed into the back of his throat, and a few other places besides. The old practice was to remove the intestines, but the locals have since grown lazier – there were arts involved. Skills, mostly forgotten. What’s done is to dry out the corpse as quickly as possible.’

Cutter glanced at Scillara, then shrugged. ‘Heboric was chosen by a god.’

‘But he failed that god,’ she replied.

‘They were T’lan Imass!’

A flow of smoke accompanied Scillara’s words as she said, ‘Next time we get swarmed by flies, we’ll know what’s coming.’ She met his eyes. ‘Look, Cutter, there’s just us, now. You and me, and until the coast, Barathol. If you want to drop Heboric’s body off on the island, that’s fine. If those jade hands are still alive, they can crawl back to their master on their own. We just bury the body above the tideline and leave it at that.’

‘And then?’

‘Darujhistan. I think I want to see this magnificent city of yours. You said rooftops and alleys – what were you there? A thief? Must have been. Who else knows alleys and rooftops? So, you can teach me the ways of a thief, Cutter. I’ll follow in your shadow. Hood knows, stealing what we can from this insane world makes as much sense as anything else.’

Cutter looked away. ‘It’s not good,’ he said, ‘following anyone’s shadow. There’s better people there…for you to get along with. Murillio, maybe, or even Coll.’

‘Will I one day discover,’ she asked, ‘that you’ve just insulted me?’

‘No! Of course not. I like Murillio! And Coll’s a Councilman. He owns an estate and everything.’

Barathol said, ‘Ever seen an animal led to slaughter, Cutter?’

‘What do you mean?’

But the big man simply shook his head.

 

After repacking her pipe, Scillara settled back in her saddle, a small measure of mercy silencing, for the moment at least, her baiting of Cutter. Mercy and, she admitted, Barathol’s subtle warning to ease up on the young man.

That old killer was a sharp one.

It wasn’t that she held anything against Cutter. The very opposite, in fact. That small glimmer of enthusiasm – when he spoke of Darujhistan – had surprised her. Cutter was reaching out to the comfort of old memories, suggesting to her that he was suffering from loneliness. That woman who left him. The one for whom he departed Darujhistan in the first place, I suspect. Loneliness, then, and a certain loss of purpose, now that Heboric was dead and Felisin Younger stolen away. Maybe there was some guilt thrown in – he’d failed in protecting Felisin, after all, failed in protecting Scillara too, for that matter – not that she was the kind to hold such a thing against him. They’d been T’lan Imass, for Hood’s sake.

But Cutter, being young and being a man, would see it differently. A multitude of swords that he would happily fall on, with a nudge from the wrong person. A person who mattered to him. Better to keep him away from such notions, and a little flirtation on her part, yielding charming confusion on his, should suffice.

She hoped he would consider her advice on burying Heboric. She’d had enough of deserts. Thoughts of a city lit by blue fire, a place filled with people, none of whom expected anything of her, and the possibility of new friends – with Cutter at her side – were in truth rather enticing. A new adventure, and a civilized one at that. Exotic foods, plenty of rustleaf…

She had wondered, briefly, if the absence of regret or sorrow within her at the surrendering of the child she had carried inside all those months was truly indicative of some essential lack of morality in her soul, some kind of flaw that would bring horror into the eyes of mothers, grandmothers and even little girls as they looked upon her. But such thoughts had not lasted long. The truth of the matter was, she didn’t care what other people thought, and if most of them saw that as a threat to…whatever…to their view on how things should be…well, that was just too bad, wasn’t it? As if her very existence could lure others into a life of acts without consequence.

Now that’s a laugh, isn’t it? The most deadly seducers are the ones encouraging conformity. If you can only feel safe when everybody else feels, thinks and looks the same as you, then you’re a Hood-damned coward…not to mention a vicious tyrant in the making.

‘So, Barathol Mekhar, what awaits you on the coast?’

‘Probably plague,’ he said.

‘Oh now that’s a pleasant thought. And if you survive that?’

He shrugged. ‘A ship, going somewhere else. I’ve never been to Genabackis. Nor Falar.’

‘If you go to Falar,’ Scillara said, ‘or empire-held Genabackis, your old crimes might catch up with you.’

‘They’ve caught up with me before.’

‘So, either you’re indifferent to your own death, Barathol, or your confidence is supreme and unassailable. Which is it?’

‘Take your pick.’

A sharp one. I won’t get any rise from him, no point in trying. ‘What do you think it will be like, crossing an ocean?’

‘Like a desert,’ Cutter said, ‘only wetter.’

She probably should have glared at him for that, but she had to admit, it was a good answer. All right, so maybe they’re both sharp, in their own ways. I think I’m going to enjoy this journey.

They rode the track, the heat and sunlight burgeoning into a conflagration, and in their wake clumped Chaur, still smiling.

 

The Jaghut Ganath stood looking into the chasm. The sorcerous weaving she had set upon this…intrusion had shattered. She did not need to descend that vast fissure, nor enter the buried sky keep itself, to know the cause of that shattering. Draconean blood had been spilled, although that in itself was not enough. The chaos between the warrens had also been unleashed, and it had devoured Omtose Phellack as boiling water does ice.

Yet her sense of the sequence of events necessary for such a thing to happen remained clouded, as if time itself had been twisted within that once-floating fortress. There was outrage locked in the very bedrock, and now, a most peculiar imposition of…order.

She wished for companions here, at her side. Cynnigig, especially. And Phyrlis. As it was, in this place, alone as she was, she felt oddly vulnerable.

Perhaps most of all, would that Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck, was with me. A surprisingly formidable human. A little too prone to take risks, however, and there was something here that invited a certain caution. She would need to heal this – there could be no doubt of that. Still…

Ganath pulled her unhuman gaze from the dark fissure – in time to see, flowing across the flat rock to either side, and behind her, a swarm of shadows – and now figures, huge, reptilian, all closing in on where she stood.

She cried out, her warren of Omtose Phellack rising within her, an instinctive response to panic, as the creatures closed.

There was no escape – no time—

Heavy mattocks slashed down, chopping through flesh, then bone. The blows drove her to the ground amidst gushes of her own blood. She saw before her the edge of the chasm, sought to reach out towards it. To drag herself over it, and fall – a better death—

Massive clawed feet, scaled, wrapped in strips of thick hide, kicking up dust close to her face. Unable to move, feeling her life drain away, she watched as that dust settled in a dull patina over the pool of her blood, coating it like the thinnest skin. Too much dirt, the blood wouldn’t like that, it would sicken with all that dirt.

She needed to clean it. She needed to gather it up, somehow pour it back into her body, back in through these gaping wounds, and hope that her heart would burn clean every drop.

But now even her heart was failing, and blood was sputtering, filled with froth, from her nose and mouth.

She understood, suddenly, that strange sense of order. K’Chain Che’Malle, a recollection stirred to life once more, after all this time. They had returned, then. But not the truly chaotic ones. No, not the Long-Tails. These were the others, servants of machines, of order in all its brutality. Nah’Ruk.

They had returned. Why?

The pool of blood was sinking down into the white, chalky dust where furrows had been carved by talons, and into these furrows the rest of the blood drained in turgid rivulets. The inexorable laws of erosion, writ small, and yet…yes, I suppose, most poignant.

She was cold, and that felt good. Comforting. She was, after all, a Jaghut.

And now I leave.

 

The woman stood facing landwards, strangely alert. Mappo Runt rubbed at his face, driven to exhaustion by Iskaral Pust’s manic tirade at the crew of the broad-beamed caravel as they scurried about with what seemed a complete absence of reason: through the rigging, bounding wild over the deck and clinging – with frantic screams – to various precarious perches here and there. Yet somehow the small but seaworthy trader craft was full before the wind, cutting clean on a northeasterly course.

A crew – an entire crew – of bhok’arala. It should have been impossible. It most certainly was absurd. Yet these creatures had been awaiting them in their no-doubt purloined craft, anchored offshore, when Mappo, Iskaral, his mule, and the woman named Spite pushed through the last of the brush and reached the broken rocks of the coast.

And not just some random collection of the ape-like, pointy-eared beasts, but – as Iskaral’s shriek of fury announced – the High Priest’s very own menagerie, the once-residents of his cliff-side fastness league upon league eastward, at the rim of the distant Raraku Sea. How they had come to be here, with this caravel, was a mystery, and one unlikely to be resolved any time soon.

Heaps of fruit and shellfish had crowded the midship deck, fussed over like votive offerings when the three travellers drew the dinghy – rowed ashore to greet them by a half-dozen bhok’arala – alongside the ship and clambered aboard. To find – adding to Mappo’s bemusement – that Iskaral Pust’s black-eyed mule had somehow preceded them.

Since then there had been chaos.

If bhok’arala could possess faith in a god, then their god had just arrived, in the dubious personage of Iskaral Pust, and the endless mewling, chittering, dancing about the High Priest was clearly driving Pust mad. Or, madder than he already was.

Spite had watched in amusement for a time, ignoring Mappo’s questions – How did this come to be here? Where will they be taking us? Are we in truth still pursuing Icarium? No answers.

And now, as the coastline crawled past, pitching and rolling on their right, the tall woman stood, her balance impressive, and stared with narrowed eyes to the south.

‘What is wrong?’ Mappo asked, not expecting an answer.

She surprised him. ‘A murder. There are godless ones walking the sands of Seven Cities once again. I believe I understand the nature of this alliance. Complexities abound, of course, and you are but a Trell, a hut-dwelling herder.’

‘Who understands nothing of complexities, aye. Even so, explain. What alliance? Who are the godless ones?’

‘That hardly matters, and serves little by way of explanation. It falls to the nature of gods, Mappo Runt. And of faith.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘If one asserts a distinction between the gifts from a god and the mortal, mundane world in which exists the believer,’ she said, ‘then this is as an open door to true godlessness. To the religion of disbelief, if you will.’ She glanced over, sauntered closer. ‘Ah, already I see you frowning in confusion—’

‘I frown at the implications of such a distinction, Spite.’

‘Truly? Well, I am surprised. Pleasantly so. Very well. You must understand this, then. To speak of war among the gods, it is not simply a matter of, say, this goddess here scratching out the eyes of that god over there. Nor, even, of an army of acolytes from this temple marching upon an army from the temple across the street. A war among the gods is not fought with thunderbolts and earthquakes, although of course it is possible – but improbable – that it could come to that. The war in question, then, is messy, the battle-lines muddied, unclear, and even the central combatants struggle to comprehend what constitutes a weapon, what wounds and what is harmless. And worse still, to wield such weapons proves as likely to harm the wielder as the foe.’

‘Fanaticism breeds fanaticism, aye,’ Mappo said, nodding. ‘“In proclamation, one defines his enemy for his enemy”.’

She smiled her dazzling smile. ‘A quote? From whom?’

‘Kellanved, the founding emperor of the Malazan Empire.’

‘Indeed, you grasp the essence of my meaning. Now, the nature of fanaticism can be likened to that of a tree – many branches, but one tap-root.’

‘Inequity.’

‘Or at least the comprehension of and the faith in, whether such inequity is but imagined or exists in truth. More often than not, of course, such inequity does exist, and it is the poison that breeds the darkest fruit. Mundane wealth is usually built upon bones, piled high and packed deep. Alas, the holders of that wealth misapprehend the nature of their reward, and so are often blithely indifferent in their ostentatious display of their wealth. The misapprehension is this: that those who do not possess wealth all yearn to, and so seek likeness, and this yearning occludes all feelings of resentment, exploitation and, most relevantly, injustice. To some extent they are right, but mostly they are woefully wrong. When wealth ascends to a point where the majority of the poor finally comprehend that it is, for each of them, unattainable, then all civility collapses, and anarchy prevails. Now, I was speaking of war among the gods. Do you grasp the connection, Mappo Runt?’

‘Not entirely.’

‘I appreciate your honesty, Trell. Consider this: when inequity burgeons into violent conflagration, the gods themselves are helpless. The gods cease to lead – they can but follow, dragged by the will of their worshippers. Now, suppose gods to be essentially moral entities – that is, possessing and indeed manifestly representing a particular ethos – well, then, such moral considerations become the first victim in the war. Unless that god chooses to defend him or herself from his or her own believers. Allies, enemies? What relevance such primitive, simplistic notions in that scenario, Mappo Runt?’

The Trell gazed out at the heaving waves, this tireless succession born of distant convulsions, the broken tug of tides, hard and bitter winds and all that moved in the world. And yet, staring long enough, this simple undulating motion…mesmerizing. ‘We are,’ he said, ‘as the soil and the sea.’

‘Another quote?’

He shrugged. ‘Driven by unseen forces, forever in motion, even when we stand still.’ He struggled against a surge of despair. ‘For all that the contestants proclaim that they are but soldiers of their god…’

‘All that they do in that god’s name is at its core profoundly godless.’

‘And the truly godless – such as you spoke of earlier – cannot but see such blasphemers as allies.’

She studied him until he grew uneasy, then she said, ‘What drives Icarium to fight?’

‘When under control, it is…inequity. Injustice.’

‘And when out of control?’

‘Then…nothing.’

‘And the difference between the two is one of magnitude.’

He glanced away once more. ‘And of motivation.’

‘Are you sure? Even if inequity, in triggering his violence, then ascends, crossing no obvious threshold, into all-destroying annihilation? Mappo Trell, I believe motivations prove, ultimately, irrelevant. Slaughter is slaughter. Upon either side of the battlefield the face grins with blunt stupidity, even as smoke fills the sky from horizon to horizon, even as crops wither and die, even as sweet land turns to salt. Inequity ends, Trell, when no-one and no thing is left standing. Perhaps,’ she added, ‘this is Icarium’s true purpose, why the Nameless Ones seek to unleash him. It is, after all, one sure way to end this war.’

Mappo Trell stared at her, then said, ‘Next time we speak like this, Spite, you can tell me your reasons for opposing the Nameless Ones. For helping me.’

She smiled at him. ‘Ah, you begin to doubt our alliance?’

‘How can I not?’

‘Such is war among the gods, Trell.’

‘We are not gods.’

‘We are their hands, their feet, wayward and wilful. We fight for reasons that are, for the most part, essentially nonsensical, even when the justification seems plain and straightforward. Two kingdoms, one upriver, one downriver. The kingdom downriver sees the water arrive befouled and sickly, filled with silts and sewage. The kingdom upriver, being on higher land, sees its desperate efforts at irrigation failing, as the topsoil is swept away each time the rains come to the highlands beyond. The two kingdoms quarrel, until there is war. The downriver kingdom marches, terrible battles are fought, cities are burned to the ground, citizens enslaved, fields salted and made barren. Ditches and dykes are broken. In the end, only the downriver kingdom remains. But the erosion does not cease. Indeed, now that there is no irrigation occurring upriver, the waters rush down in full flood, distempered and wild, and they carry lime and salt that settles on the fields and poisons the remaining soil. There is starvation, disease, and the desert closes in on all sides. The once victorious leaders are cast down. Estates are looted. Brigands rove unchecked, and within a single generation there are no kingdoms, neither upriver nor downriver. Was the justification valid? Of course. Did that validity defend the victors against their own annihilation? Of course not.

‘A civilization at war chooses only the most obvious enemy, and often also the one perceived, at first, to be the most easily defeatable. But that enemy is not the true enemy, nor is it the gravest threat to that civilization. Thus, a civilization at war often chooses the wrong enemy. Tell me, Mappo Runt, for my two hypothetical kingdoms, where hid the truest threat?’

He shook his head.

‘Yes, difficult to answer, because the threats were many, seemingly disconnected, and they appeared, disappeared then reappeared over a long period of time. The game that was hunted to extinction, the forests that were cut down, the goats that were loosed into the hills, the very irrigation ditches that were dug. And yet more: the surplus of food, the burgeoning population and its accumulating wastes. And then diseases, soils blown or washed away; and kings – one after another – who could or would do nothing, or indeed saw nothing untoward beyond their fanatical focus upon the ones they sought to blame.

‘Alas,’ she said, leaning now on the rail, her face to the wind, ‘there is nothing simple in seeking to oppose such a host of threats. First, one must recognize them, and to achieve that one must think in the long term; and then one must discern the intricate linkages that exist between all things, the manner in which one problem feeds into another. From there, one must devise solutions and finally, one must motivate the population into concerted effort, and not just one’s own population, but that of the neighbouring kingdoms, all of whom are participating in the slow self-destruction. Tell me, can you imagine such a leader ever coming to power? Or staying there for long? Me neither. The hoarders of wealth will band together to destroy such a man or woman. Besides, it is much easier to create an enemy and wage war, although why such hoarders of wealth actually believe that they would survive such a war is beyond me. But they do, again and again. Indeed, it seems they believe they will outlive civilization itself.’

‘You propose little hope for civilization, Spite.’

‘Oh, my lack of hope extends far beyond mere civilization. The Trell were pastoralists, yes? You managed the half-wild bhederin herds of the Masal Plains. Actually, a fairly successful way of living, all things considered.’

‘Until the traders and settlers came.’

‘Yes, those who coveted your land, driven as they were by enterprise or the wasting of their own lands, or the poverty in their cities. Each and all sought a new source of wealth. To achieve it, alas, they first had to destroy your people.’

Iskaral Pust scrambled to the Trell’s side. ‘Listen to you two! Poets and philosophers! What do you know? You go on and on whilst I am hounded unto exhaustion by these horrible squirming things!’

‘Your acolytes, High Priest,’ Spite said. ‘You are their god. Indicative, I might add, of at least two kinds of absurdity.’

‘I’m not impressed by you, woman. If I am their god, why don’t they listen to anything I say?’

‘Maybe,’ Mappo replied, ‘they are but waiting for you to say the right thing.’

‘Really? And what would that be, you fat oaf?’

‘Well, whatever it is they want to hear, of course.’

‘She’s poisoned you!’ The High Priest backed away, eyes wide. He clutched and pulled at what remained of his hair, then whirled about and rushed off towards the cabin. Three bhok’arala – who had been attending him – raced after him, chittering and making tugging gestures above their ears.

Mappo turned back to Spite. ‘Where are we going, by the way?’

She smiled at him. ‘To start, the Otataral Sea.’

‘Why?’

‘Isn’t this breeze enlivening?’

‘It’s damned chilly.’

‘Yes. Lovely, isn’t it?’

 

A vast oblong pit, lined with slabs of limestone, then walls of brick, rising to form a domed roof, the single entrance ramped and framed in limestone, including a massive lintel stone on which the imperial symbol had been etched above the name Dujek Onearm, and his title, High Fist. Within the barrow lanterns had been set out to aid in drying the freshly plastered walls.

Just outside, in a broad, shallow bowl half-filled with slimy clay, basked a large toad, blinking sleepy eyes as it watched its companion, the imperial artist, Ormulogun, mixing paints. Oils by the dozen, each with specific qualities; and pigments culled from crushed minerals, duck eggs, dried inks from sea-creatures, leaves and roots and berries; and jars of other mediums: egg whites from turtles, snakes, vultures; masticated grubs, gull brains, cat urine, dog drool, the snot of pimps—

All right, the toad reflected, perhaps not the snot of pimps, although given the baffling arcanum of artists, one could never be certain. It was enough to know that people who delved into such materials were mostly mad, if not to start with, then invariably so after years spent handling such toxins.

And yet, this fool Ormulogun, somehow he persisted, with his stained hands, his stained lips from pointing the brushes, his stained beard from that bizarre sputtering technique when the pigments were chewed in a mouthful of spit and Hood knew what else, his stained nose from when paint-smeared fingers prodded, scratched and explored, his stained breeches from—

‘I know what you’re thinking, Gumble,’ Ormulogun said.

‘Indeed? Please proceed, then, in describing my present thoughts.’

‘The earwax of whores and stained this and stained that, the commentary swiftly descending into the absurd as befits your inability to think without exaggeration and puerile hyperbole. Now, startled as you no doubt are, shift that puny, predictable brain of yours and tell me in turn what I’m thinking. Can you? Hah, I thought not!’

‘I tell you, you grubber of pastes, my thoughts were not in the least as you just described in that pathetic paucity of pastiche you dare call communication, such failure being quite unsurprising, since I am the master of language whilst you are little more than an ever-failing student of portraiture bereft of both cogent instruction of craft and, alas, talent.’

‘You seek to communicate to the intellectually deaf, do you?’

‘Whilst you paint to enlighten the blind. Yes yes,’ Gumble sighed, the effort proving alarmingly deflating – alarming even to himself. He quickly drew in another breath. ‘We wage our ceaseless war, you and I. What will adorn the walls of the great man’s barrow? Why, from you, the usual. Propagandistic pageantry, the politically aligned reaffirmation of the status quo. Heroic deeds in service of the empire, and an even more heroic death, for in this age as in every other, we are in need of our heroes – dead ones, that is. We do not believe in living ones, after all, thanks to you—’

‘To me? To me!?’

‘The rendition of flaws is your forte, Ormulogun. Oh, consider that statement! I impress even myself with such perfectly resonating irony. Anyway, such flaws in the subject are as poison darts flung into heroism. Your avid attention destroys as it always must—’

‘No no, fool, not always. And with me, with Ormulogun the Great, never. Why? Well, it is simple, although not so simple you will ever grasp it – even so, it is this: great art is not simply rendition. Great art is transformation. Great art is exaltation and exaltation is spiritual in the purest, most spiritual sense—’

‘As noted earlier,’ Gumble drawled, ‘comprehensive erudition and brevity eludes the poor man. Besides which, I am certain I have heard that definition of great art before. In some other context, likely accompanied by a pounding of the fist on table- or skull-top, or at the very least a knee in the kidneys. No matter, it all sounds very well. Too bad you so consistently fail to translate it into actuality.’

‘I have a mallet with which I could translate you into actuality, Gumble.’

‘You would break this exquisite bowl.’

‘Aye, I’d shed a few tears over that. But then I’d get better.’

‘Dujek Onearm standing outside the shattered gates of Black Coral. Dujek Onearm at the parley with Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake. Dujek Onearm and Tayschrenn outside Pale, the dawn preceding the attack. Three primary walls, three panels, three images.’

‘You’ve looked at my sketchings! Gods how I hate you!’

‘There was no need,’ Gumble said, ‘to do something so crass, not to mention implicitly depressing, as to examine your sketchings.’

Ormulogun quickly gathered up his chosen paints, styli and brushes, then made his way down into the barrow.

Gumble stayed where he was, and thought about eating flies.

 

Ganoes Paran looked down at the armour laid out on the cot. A High Fist’s armour, one sleeve of chain newly attached. The inheritance left a sour, bitter taste in his mouth. Proclamation, was it? As if anything he’d done whilst a soldier could justify such a thing. Every Fist in this army was better qualified to assume command. What could it have been, there in Dujek’s logs, to so thoroughly twist, even falsify, Paran’s legacy as the captain and commander of the Bridgeburners? He considered finding out for himself, but knew he would do no such thing. He already felt imposter enough without seeing proof of the duplicity before his own eyes. No doubt Dujek had good reasons, likely having to do with protecting, if not elevating, the reputation of House Paran, and thereby implicitly supporting his sister Tavore in her new command of the Fourteenth.

Politics dictated such official logs, of course. As, I suppose, they will dictate my own entries. Or not. What do I care? Posterity be damned. If this is my army, then so be it. The Empress can always strip me of the command, as she no doubt will when she hears about this field promotion. In the meantime, he would do as he pleased.

Behind him, Hurlochel cleared his throat, then said, ‘High Fist, the Fists may be on their feet, but they’re still weak.’

‘You mean they’re out there standing at attention?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s ridiculous. Never mind the armour, then.’

They walked to the flap and Hurlochel pulled the canvas aside. Paran strode outside, blinking in sunlight. The entire army stood in formation, standards upright, armour glinting. Directly before him were the Fists, Rythe Bude foremost among them. She was wan, painfully thin in gear that seemed oversized for her frame. She saluted and said, ‘High Fist Ganoes Paran, the Host awaits your inspection.’

‘Thank you, Fist. How soon will they be ready to march?’

‘By dawn tomorrow, High Fist.’

Paran scanned the ranks. Not a sound from them, not even the rustle of armour. They stood like dusty statues. ‘And precisely how,’ he asked in a whisper, ‘am I to live up to this?’

‘High Fist,’ Hurlochel murmured at his side, ‘you rode with one healer into G’danisban and then singlehandedly struck down a goddess. Drove her from this realm. You then forced the sister of that goddess to gift a dozen mortals with the power to heal—’

‘That power will not last,’ Paran said.

‘Nonetheless. High Fist, you have killed the plague. Something even Dujek Onearm could not achieve. These soldiers are yours, Ganoes Paran. No matter what the Empress decides.’

But I don’t want a damned army!

Fist Rythe Bude said, ‘Given the losses to disease, High Fist, we are sufficiently supplied to march for six, perhaps seven days, assuming we do not resupply en route. Of course,’ she added, ‘there are the grain stores in G’danisban, and with the population virtually non-existent—’

‘Yes,’ Paran cut in. ‘Virtually non-existent. Does that not strike you as strange, Fist?’

‘The goddess herself—’

‘Hurlochel reports that his outriders are seeing people, survivors, heading north and east. A pilgrimage.’

‘Yes, High Fist.’

She was wavering, he saw. ‘We will follow those pilgrims, Fist,’ Paran said. ‘We will delay another two days, during which the stores of G’danisban will be used to establish a full resupply – but only if enough remains to sustain the population still in the city. Commandeer wagons and carts as needed. Further, invite those citizens the soldiers come upon to join our train. At the very least, they will find a livelihood accompanying us, and food, water and protection. Now, inform the captains that I will address the troops the morning of our departure – at the consecration and sealing of the barrow. In the meantime, you are all dismissed.’

The Fists saluted. Shouts from the captains stirred the ranks into motion as soldiers relaxed and began splitting up.

I should have said something to them here and now. Warned them not to expect too much. No, that wouldn’t do. What does a new commander say? Especially after the death of a great leader, a true hero? Dammit, Ganoes, you’re better off saying nothing. Not now, and not much when we seal the barrow and leave the old man in peace. ‘We’re following pilgrims. Why? Because I want to know where they’re going, that’s why.’ That should do. Mentally shrugging, Paran set off. In his wake followed Hurlochel and then, ten paces back, the young G’danii woman Naval D’natha, who was now, it seemed, a part of his entourage.

‘High Fist?’

‘What is it, Hurlochel?’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To visit the imperial artist.’

‘Oh, him. May I ask why?’

‘Why suffer such torment, you mean? Well, I have a request to make of him.’

‘High Fist?’

I need a new Deck of Dragons. ‘Is he skilled, do you know?’

‘A subject of constant debate, High Fist.’

‘Really? Among whom? The soldiers? I find that hard to believe.’

‘Ormulogun has, accompanying him everywhere, a critic.’

Oh, the poor man.

 

The body was lying on the trail, the limbs lacerated, the tanned-hide shirt stiff and black with dried blood. Boatfinder crouched beside it. ‘Stonefinder,’ he said. ‘In the frozen time now. We shared tales.’

‘Someone cut off one of his fingers,’ Karsa Orlong said. ‘The rest of the wounds, they came from torture, except that spear-thrust, beneath the left shoulder blade. See the tracks – the killer stepped out from cover as the man passed – he was not running, but staggering. They but played with him.’

Samar Dev settled a hand on Boatfinder’s shoulder, and felt the Anibar trembling with grief. ‘How long ago?’ she asked Karsa.

The Teblor shrugged. ‘It does not matter. They are close.’

She straightened in alarm. ‘How close?’

‘They have made camp and they are careless with its wastes.’ He unslung his flint sword. ‘They have more prisoners.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I smell their suffering.’

Not possible. Is such a thing possible? She looked round, seeking more obvious signs of all that the Toblakai claimed to know. A peat-filled basin was to their right, a short descent from the bedrock path on which they stood. Grey-boled black spruce trees rose from it, leaning this way and that, most of their branches bereft of needles. Glinting strands of spider’s web spanned the spaces in between, like scratches on transparent glass. To the left, flattened sprawls of juniper occupied a fold in the bedrock that ran parallel to the trail. Samar frowned.

‘What cover?’ she asked. ‘You said the killer stepped out from cover to drive that spear into the Anibar’s back. But there isn’t any, Karsa.’

‘None that remains,’ he said.

Her frown deepened into a scowl. ‘Are they swathed in branches and leaves, then?’

‘There are other ways of hiding, woman.’

‘Such as?’

Karsa shrugged off his fur cloak. ‘Sorcery,’ he said. ‘Wait here.’

Like Hood I will. She set off after Karsa as the Toblakai, sword held before him in both hands, moved forward in a gliding half-run. Four strides later and she had to sprint in an effort to keep up.

The jog, silent, grew swifter. Became lightning fast.

Gasping, she scrambled after the huge warrior, but he was already lost to sight.

At the sound of a sudden shriek to her left, Samar skidded to a halt – Karsa had left the trail somewhere behind her, had plunged into the forest, over jumbled, moss-slick boulders, fallen trees, thick skeins of dead branches – leaving in his wake no sign. More screams.

Heart hammering in her chest, Samar Dev pushed into the stand, clawing aside undergrowth, webs pulling against her before snapping, dust and bark flakes cascading down—

—while the slaughter somewhere ahead continued.

Weapons clashed, iron against stone. The crunch of splintered wood – blurred motion between trees ahead of her, figures running – a body, cartwheeling in a mist of crimson – she reached the edge of the encampment—

And saw Karsa Orlong – and a half hundred, maybe more, tall grey-skinned warriors, wielding spears, cutlasses, long-knives and axes, now closing in on the Toblakai.

Karsa’s path into their midst was marked by a grisly corridor of corpses and fallen, mortally wounded foes.

But there were too many—

The huge flint sword burst into view at the end of a sweeping upswing, amid fragments of bone and thick, whipping threads of gore. Two figures reeled back, a third struck so hard that his moccasined feet flashed up and over at Karsa’s eye-level, and, falling back, dragged down the spear-shafts of two more warriors – and into that opening the Toblakai surged, evading a half-dozen thrusts and swings, most of them appearing in his wake, for the giant’s speed was extraordinary – no, more, it was appalling.

The two foes, weapons snagged, sought to launch themselves back, beyond the reach of Karsa – but his sword, lashing out, caught the neck of the one on the left – the head leapt free of the body – then the blade angled down to chop clean through the other warrior’s right shoulder, severing the arm.

Karsa’s left hand released its grip on his sword, intercepting the shaft of a thrusting spear, then pulling both weapon and wielder close, the hand releasing the haft to snap up and round the man’s neck. Fluids burst from the victim’s eyes, nose and mouth as the Toblakai crushed that neck as if it were little more than a tube of parchment. A hard push flung the twitching body into the pressing mass, fouling yet more weapons—

Samar Dev could barely track what her eyes saw, for even as Karsa’s left hand had moved away from the sword’s grip, the blade itself was slashing to the right, batting aside enemy weapons, then wheeling up and over, and, while the warrior’s throat was collapsing in that savage clutch, the sword crashed down through an up-flung cutlass and into flesh and bone, shattering clavicle, then a host of ribs—

Tearing the sword loose burst the ribcage, and Samar stared to see the victim’s heart, still beating, pitch free of its broken nest, dangling for a moment from torn arteries and veins, before the warrior fell from sight.

Someone was screaming – away from the battle – off to the far left, where there was a shoreline of rocks, and, beyond, open water – a row of low-slung, broad-beamed wooden canoes – and she saw there a woman, slight, golden-haired – a human – casting spells.

Yet whatever sorcery she worked seemed to achieve nothing. Impossibly, Karsa Orlong had somehow carved his way through to the other side of the press, where he spun round, his back to a huge pine, the flint sword almost contemptuous in its batting aside attacks – as the Toblakai paused for a rest.

Samar could not believe what she was seeing.

More shouts now, a single warrior, standing well beyond the jostling mob, bellowing at his companions – who began to draw back, disengaging from Karsa Orlong.

Seeing the Toblakai draw a deep, chest-swelling breath, then raise his sword, Samar Dev yelled, ‘Karsa! Wait! Do not attack, damn you!’

The cold glare that met her gaze made Samar flinch.

The giant gestured with the sword. ‘See what’s left of the Anibar, woman?’ His voice was deep in tone, the beat of words like a drum of war.

She nodded, refusing to look once more at the row of prisoners, bound head-down and spreadeagled to wooden frames along the inland edge of the encampment, their naked forms painted red in blood, and before each victim a heap of live embers, filling the air with the stench of burnt hair and meat. Karsa Orlong, she realized, had been driven by rage, yet such fury set no tremble in the huge warrior, the sword was motionless, now, held at the ready, the very stillness of that blade seeming to vow a tide of destruction. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But listen to me, Karsa. If you kill them all – and I see that you mean to do just that – but listen! If you do, more will come, seeking to find their vanished kin. More will come, Toblakai, and this will never end – until you make a mistake, until there are so many of them that even you cannot hope to prevail. Nor can you be everywhere at once, so more Anibar will die.’

‘What do you suggest, then, woman?’

She strode forward, ignoring, for the moment, the grey-skinned warriors and the yellow-haired witch. ‘They fear you now, Karsa, and you must use that fear—’ She paused, distracted by a commotion from among the half-tent-half-huts near the beached canoes. Two warriors were dragging someone into view. Another human. His face was swollen by constant beatings, but he seemed otherwise undamaged. Samar Dev studied the new arrival with narrowed eyes, then quickly approached Karsa, lowering her voice to a harsh whisper. ‘They now have an interpreter, Karsa. The tattoos on his forearms. He is Taxilian. Listen to me. Quickly. Use that fear. Tell them there are more of your kind, allies to the Anibar, and that you are but the first of a horde, coming in answer to a plea for help. Karsa, tell them to get the Hood off this land!’

‘If they leave I cannot kill more of them.’

An argument was going on among the raiders. The warrior who had issued commands was rejecting – in an obvious fashion – the frantic pleas of the yellow-haired human. The Taxilian, held by the arms off to one side, was clearly following the debate, but his face was too mangled to reveal any expression. Samar saw the man’s eyes flick over to her and Karsa, then back to her, and, with slow deliberation, the Taxilian winked.

Gods below. Good. She nodded. Then, to spare him any retribution, she averted her gaze, and found herself looking upon a scene of terrible carnage. Figures lay moaning in blood-drenched humus. Broken spear-shafts were everywhere like scattered kindling from an overturned cart. But mostly, there were motionless corpses, severed limbs, exposed bones and spilled intestines.

And Karsa Orlong was barely out of breath.

Were these tall, unhuman strangers such poor fighters? She did not believe so. By their garb, theirs was a warrior society. But many such societies, if stagnant – or isolated – for a long enough period of time, bound their martial arts into ritualized forms and techniques. They would have but one way of fighting, perhaps with a few variations, and would have difficulty adjusting to the unexpected…such as a lone Toblakai with an unbreakable flint sword nearly as long as he is tall – a Toblakai possessing mind-numbing speed and the cold, detached precision of a natural killer.

And Karsa had said that he had fought this enemy once before.

The commander of the grey-skinned raiders was approaching, the Taxilian being dragged along in his wake, the yellow-haired witch hurrying to come up alongside the leader – who then straight-armed her back a step.

Samar saw the flash of unbridled hatred the small woman directed at the commander’s back. There was something dangling from the witch’s neck, blackened and oblong – a severed finger. A witch indeed, of the old arts, the lost ways of spiritual magic – well, not entirely lost, for I have made of that my own speciality, atavistic bitch that I am. By her hair and heart-shaped features – and those blue eyes – she reminded Samar Dev of the small, mostly subjugated peoples who could be found near the centre of the subcontinent, in such ancient cities as Halaf, Guran and Karashimesh; and as far west as Omari. Some remnant population, perhaps. And yet, her words earlier had been in a language Samar had not recognized.

The commander spoke, clearly addressing the yellow-haired witch, who then in turn relayed his words – in yet another language – to the Taxilian. At that latter exchange, Samar Dev’s eyes widened, for she recognized certain words – though she had never before heard them spoken, had only read them, in the most ancient tomes. Remnants, in fact, from the First Empire.

The Taxilian nodded when the witch was done. He faced first Karsa, then Samar Dev, and finally said, ‘To which of you should I convey the Preda’s words?’

‘Why not to both?’ Samar responded. ‘We can both understand you, Taxilian.’

‘Very well. The Preda asks what reason this Tarthenal had for his unwarranted attack on his Merude warriors.’

Tarthenal? ‘Vengeance,’ Samar Dev said quickly before Karsa Orlong triggered yet another bloody clash. She pointed towards the pathetic forms on the racks at the camp’s edge. ‘These Anibar, suffering your predations, have called upon their longstanding allies, the Toblakai—’

At that word the yellow-haired witch started, and the Preda’s elongated eyes widened slightly.

‘—and this warrior, a lowly hunter among the twenty-thousand-strong clan of the Toblakai, was, by chance, close by, and so he represents only the beginning of what will be, I am afraid, a most thorough retribution. Assuming the Preda is, of course, foolish enough to await their arrival.’

A certain measure of amusement glittered in the Taxilian’s eyes, quickly veiled as he turned to relay Samar’s words to the yellow-haired witch.

Whatever she in turn said to the Preda was twice as long as the Taxilian’s version.

Preda. Would that be a variation on Predal’atr, I wonder? A unit commander in a legion of the First Empire, Middle Period. Yet…this makes no sense. These warriors are not even human, after all.

The witch’s translation was cut short by a gesture from the Preda, who then spoke once more.

When the Taxilian at last translated, there was something like admiration in his tone. ‘The Preda wishes to express his appreciation for this warrior’s formidable skills. Further, he enquires if the warrior’s desire for vengeance is yet abated.’

‘It is not,’ Karsa Orlong replied.

The tone was sufficient for the Preda, who spoke again. The yellow-haired witch’s expression suddenly closed, and she related his words to the Taxilian in a strangely flat monotone.

She hides glee.

Suspicion rose within Samar Dev. What comes now?

The Taxilian said, ‘The Preda well understands the…Toblakai’s position. Indeed, he empathizes, for the Preda himself abhors what he has been commanded to do, along this entire foreign coastline. Yet he must follow the needs of his Emperor. That said, the Preda will order a complete withdrawal of his Tiste Edur forces, back to the fleet. Is the Toblakai satisfied with this?’

‘No.’

The Taxilian nodded at Karsa’s blunt reply, as the Preda spoke again.

Now what?

‘The Preda again has no choice but to follow the commands of his Emperor, a standing order, if you will. The Emperor is the greatest warrior this world has seen, and he ever defends that claim in personal combat. He has faced a thousand or more fighters, drawn from virtually every land, and yet still he lives, triumphant and unvanquished. It is the Emperor’s command that his soldiers, no matter where they are, no matter with whom they speak, are to relate the Emperor’s challenge. Indeed, the Emperor invites any and every warrior to a duel, always to the death – a duel in which no-one can interfere, no matter the consequences, and all rights of Guest are accorded the challenger. Further, the soldiers of the Emperor are instructed to provide transportation and to meet every need and desire of such warriors who would so face the Emperor in duel.’

More words from the Preda.

A deep chill was settling in Samar Dev, a dread she could not identify – but there was something here…something vastly wrong.

The Taxilian resumed. ‘Thus, if this Toblakai hunter seeks the sweetest vengeance of all, he must face the one who has so commanded that his soldiers inflict atrocities upon all strangers they encounter. Accordingly, the Preda invites the Toblakai – and, if desired, his companion – to be Guest of the Tiste Edur on this, their return journey to the Lether Empire. Do you accept?’

Karsa blinked, then looked down at Samar Dev. ‘They invite me to kill their Emperor?’

‘It seems so. But, Karsa, there is—’

‘Tell the Preda,’ the Toblakai said, ‘that I accept.’

She saw the commander smile.

The Taxilian said, ‘Preda Hanradi Khalag then welcomes you among the Tiste Edur.’

Samar Dev looked back at the bodies lying sprawled through the camp. And for these fallen kin, Preda Hanradi Khalag, you care nothing? No, gods below, something is very wrong here—

‘Samar Dev,’ Karsa said, ‘will you stay here?’

She shook her head.

‘Good,’ he grunted. ‘Go get Havok.’

‘Get him yourself, Toblakai.’

The giant grinned. ‘It was worth a try.’

‘Stop looking so damned pleased, Karsa Orlong. I don’t think you have any idea to what you are now bound. Can you not hear the shackles snapping shut? Chaining you to this…this absurd challenge and these damned bloodless Tiste Edur?’

Karsa’s expression darkened. ‘Chains cannot hold me, witch.’

Fool, they are holding you right now.

Glancing across, she saw the yellow-haired witch appraising Karsa Orlong with avid eyes.

And what does that mean, I wonder, and why does it frighten me so?

 

‘Fist Temul,’ Keneb asked, ‘how does it feel, to be going home?’

The young, tall Wickan – who had recently acquired full-body blue tattooing in the style of the Crow Clan, an intricate geometric design that made his face look like a portrait fashioned of tesserae – was watching as his soldiers led their horses onto the ramps down on the strand below. At Keneb’s question he shrugged. ‘Among my people, I shall face yet again all that I have faced here.’

‘But not alone any more,’ Keneb pointed out. ‘Those warriors down there, they are yours, now.’

‘Are they?’

‘So I was led to understand. They no longer challenge your orders, or your right to command, do they?’

‘I believe,’ Temul said, ‘that most of these Wickans will choose to leave the army once we disembark at Unta. They will return to their families, and when they are asked to recount their adventures in Seven Cities, they will say nothing. It is in my mind, Fist Keneb, that my warriors are shamed. Not because of how they have shown me little respect. No, they are shamed by this army’s list of failures.’ He fixed dark, hard eyes on Keneb. ‘They are too old, or too young, and both are drawn to glory as if she was a forbidden lover.’

Temul was not one for speeches, and Keneb could not recall ever managing to pull so many words from the haunted young man. ‘They sought death, then.’

‘Yes. They would join with Coltaine, Bult and the others, in the only way still possible. To die in battle, against the very same enemy. It is why they crossed the ocean, why they left their villages. They did not expect ever to return home, and so this final journey, back to Quon Tali, will break them.’

‘Damned fools. Forgive me—’

A bitter smile from Temul as he shook his head. ‘No need for that. They are fools, and even had I wisdom, I would fail in its sharing.’

From the remnants of the camp behind them, cattle-dogs began howling. Both men turned in surprise. Keneb glanced over at Temul. ‘What is it? Why—’

‘I don’t know.’

They set off, back towards the camp.

 

Lieutenant Pores watched Bent race up the track, skirls of dust rising in the dog’s wake. He caught a momentary glimpse of wild half-mad eyes above that mangled snout, then the beast was past. So only now we find out that they’re terrified of water. Well, good. We can leave the ugly things behind. He squinted towards the file of Wickans and Seti overseeing the loading of their scrawny horses – not many of those animals would survive this journey, he suspected, which made them valuable sources of meat. Anything to liven up the deck-wash and bilge-crud sailors call food. Oh, those horse-warriors might complain, but that wouldn’t keep them from lining up with their bowls when the bell tolled.

Kindly had made sure the Adjunct knew, in torrid detail, his displeasure with Fist Keneb’s incompetence. There was no question of Kindly lacking courage, or at least raging megalomania. But this time, dammit, the old bastard had had a point. An entire day and half a night had been wasted by Keneb. A Hood-damned kit inspection, presented squad by squad – and right in the middle of boarding assembly – gods, the chaos that ensued. ‘Has Keneb lost his mind?’ Oh yes, Kindly’s first question to the Adjunct, and something in her answering scowl told Pores that the miserable woman had known nothing about any of it, and clearly could not comprehend why Keneb would have ordered such a thing.

Well, no surprise, that, with her moping around in her damned tent doing who knew what with that cold beauty T’amber. Even the Admiral’s frustration had been obvious. Word was going through the ranks that Tavore was likely in line for demotion – Y’Ghatan could have been handled better. Every damned soldier turned out to be a tactical genius when it came to that, and more than once Pores had bitten out a chunk of soldier meat for some treasonous comment. It didn’t matter that Nok and Tavore were feuding; it didn’t matter that Tene Baralta was a seething cauldron of sedition among the officers; it didn’t even matter that Pores himself was undecided whether the Adjunct could have done better at Y’Ghatan – the rumours alone were as poisonous as any plague the Grey Goddess could spit out.

He was both looking forward to and dreading boarding the transports, and the long, tedious journey ahead. Bored soldiers were worse than woodworm in the keel – or so the sailors kept saying, as they cast jaded eyes on the dusty, swearing men and women who ascended the ramps only to fall silent, huddling like shorn sheep in the raft-like scuttles as the heave and haul chant rang out over the choppy water. Worse still, seas and oceans were nasty things. Soldiers would face death with nary a blink if they knew they could fight back, maybe even fight their way out of it, but the sea was immune to swinging swords, whistling arrows and shield-walls. And Hood knows, we’ve been swallowing that lumpy helpless thing enough as it is.

Damned cattle-dogs were all letting loose now.

Now what? Unsure of his own reasons, Pores set off in the direction Bent had gone. East on the track, past the command tent, then the inner ring of pickets, and out towards the latrine trenches – and the lieutenant saw the racing figures of a dozen or so cattle-dogs, their mottled, tanned shapes converging, then circling with wild barking – and on the road, the subjects of their excitement, a troop approaching on foot.

So who in the Queen’s name are they? The outriders were all in – he was sure of that – he’d seen the Seti practising heaving their guts up on the ramps – they got seasick standing in a puddle. And the Wickans had already surrendered their mounts to the harried transport crews.

Pores glanced round, saw a soldier leading three horses towards the strand. ‘Hey! Hold up there.’ He walked over. ‘Give me one of those.’

‘They ain’t saddled, sir.’

‘Really? How can you tell?’

The man started pointing at the horse’s back—

‘Idiot,’ Pores said, ‘give me those reins, no, those ones.’

‘That’s the Adjunct’s—’

‘Thought I recognized it.’ He pulled the beast away then vaulted onto its back. Then set off onto the road. The foundling, Grub, was walking out from the camp, at one ankle that yipping mutt that looked like what a cow would regurgitate after eating a mohair rug. Ignoring them, Pores angled his mount eastward, and kicked it into a canter.

He could already put a name to the one in the lead. Captain Faradan Sort. And there was that High Mage, Quick Ben, and that scary assassin Kalam, and – gods below, but they’re all – no, they weren’t. Marines! Damned marines!

He heard shouts from the camp behind him now, an alarm being raised outside the command tent.

Pores could not believe his own eyes. Survivors – from the firestorm – that was impossible. Granted, they look rough, half-dead in fact. Like Hood used ’em to clean out his hoary ears. There’s Lostara Yil – well, she ain’t as bad as the rest—

Lieutenant Pores reined in before Faradan Sort. ‘Captain—’

‘We need water,’ she said, the words barely making it out between chapped, cracked and blistered lips.

Gods, they look awful. Pores wheeled his horse round, nearly slipping off the animal’s back in the process. Righting himself, he rode back towards the camp.

 

As Keneb and Temul reached the main track, thirty paces from the command tent, they saw the Adjunct appear, and, a moment later, Blistig, and then T’amber. Soldiers were shouting something as yet incomprehensible from the eastern end of the camp.

The Adjunct turned towards her two approaching Fists. ‘It seems my horse has gone missing.’

Keneb’s brows rose. ‘Thus the alarms? Adjunct—’

‘No, Keneb. A troop has been spotted on the east road.’

‘A troop? We’re being attacked?’

‘I do not think so. Well, accompany me, then. It seems we shall have to walk. And this will permit you, Fist Keneb, to explain the fiasco that occurred regarding the boarding of your company.’

‘Adjunct?’

‘I find your sudden incompetence unconvincing.’

He glanced across at her. There was the hint of an emotion, there on that plain, drawn visage. A hint, no more, not enough that he could identify it. ‘Grub,’ he said.

The Adjunct’s brows rose. ‘I believe you will need to elaborate on that, Fist Keneb.’

‘He said we should take an extra day boarding, Adjunct.’

‘And this child’s advice, a barely literate, half-wild child at that, is sufficient justification for you to confound your Adjunct’s instructions?’

‘Not normally, no,’ Keneb replied. ‘It’s difficult to explain…but he knows things. Things he shouldn’t, I mean. He knew we were sailing west, for example. He knew our planned ports of call—’

‘Hiding behind the command tent,’ Blistig said.

‘Have you ever seen the boy hide, Blistig? Ever?’

The man scowled. ‘Must be he’s good at it, then.’

‘Adjunct, Grub said we needed to delay one day – or we would all die. At sea. I am beginning to believe—’

She held up a gloved hand, the gesture sharp enough to silence him, and he saw that her eyes were narrowed now, fixed on what was ahead—

A rider, bareback, coming at full gallop.

‘That’s Kindly’s lieutenant,’ Blistig said.

When it became obvious that the man had no intention of slowing down, nor of changing course, everyone quickly moved to the sides of the road.

The lieutenant sketched a hasty salute, barely seen through the dust, as he plunged past, shouting something like: ‘They need water!’

‘And,’ Blistig added, waving at clouds of dust as they all set out again, ‘that was your horse, Adjunct.’

Keneb looked down the road, blinking to get the grit from his eyes. Figures wavered into view. Indistinct…no, that was Faradan Sort…wasn’t it?

‘Your deserter is returning,’ Blistig said. ‘Stupid of her, really, since desertion is punishable by execution. But who are those people behind her? What are they carrying?’

The Adjunct halted suddenly, the motion almost a stagger.

Quick Ben. Kalam. More faces, covered in dust, so white they looked like ghosts – and so they are. What else could they be? Fiddler. Gesler, Lostara Yil, Stormy – Keneb saw one familiar, impossible face after another. Sun-ravaged, stumbling, like creatures trapped in delirium. And in their arms, children, dull-eyed, shrunken…

The boy knows things…Grub…

And there he stood, flanked by his ecstatic dogs, talking, it seemed, with Sinn.

Sinn, we’d thought her mad with grief – she’d lost a brother, after all…lost, and now found again.

But Faradan Sort had suspected, rightly, that something else had possessed Sinn. A suspicion strong enough to drive her into desertion.

Gods, we gave up too easily – but no – the city, the firestorm – we waited for days, waited until the whole damned ruin had cooled. We picked through the ashes. No-one could have lived through that.

The troop arrived to where the Adjunct stood.

Captain Faradan Sort straightened with only a slight waver, then saluted, fist to left side of her chest. ‘Adjunct,’ she rasped, ‘I have taken the liberty of re-forming the squads, pending approval—’

‘That approval is Fist Keneb’s responsibility,’ the Adjunct said, her voice strangely flat. ‘Captain, I did not expect to see you again.’

A nod. ‘I understand the necessities of maintaining military discipline, Adjunct. And so, I now surrender myself to you. I ask, however, that leniency be granted Sinn – her youth, her state of mind at the time…’

Horses from up the road. Lieutenant Pores returning, more riders behind him. Bladders filled with water, swinging and bouncing like huge udders. The other riders – healers, one and all, including the Wickans Nil and Nether. Keneb stared at their expressions of growing disbelief as they drew closer.

Fiddler had come forward, a scrawny child sleeping or unconscious in his arms. ‘Adjunct,’ he said through cracked lips, ‘without the captain, digging with her own hands, not one of us trapped under that damned city would have ever left it. We’d be mouldering bones right now.’ He stepped closer, but his effort at lowering his voice to a whisper failed, as Keneb heard him say, ‘Adjunct, you hang the captain for desertion and you better get a lot more nooses, ’cause we’ll leave this miserable world when she does.’

‘Sergeant,’ the Adjunct said, seemingly unperturbed, ‘am I to understand that you and those squads behind you burrowed beneath Y’Ghatan in the midst of the firestorm, somehow managing not to get cooked in the process, and then dug your way clear?’

Fiddler turned his head and spat blood, then he smiled a chilling, ghastly smile, the flaking lips splitting in twin rows of red, glistening fissures. ‘Aye,’ he said in a rasp, ‘we went hunting…through the bones of the damned city. And then, with the captain’s help, we crawled outa that grave.’

The Adjunct’s gaze left the ragged man, travelled slowly along the line, the gaunt faces, the deathly eyes staring out from dust-caked faces, the naked, blistered skin. ‘Bonehunters in truth, then.’ She paused, as Pores led his healers forward with their waterskins, then said, ‘Welcome back, soldiers.’