Amby Bole reappeared from the crimson cloud, Faint hanging limp over one shoulder. His other arm was stretched back behind him, and Precious saw him strain, saw him leaning hard, and then out from the cloud emerged Aranict, held by the back of her collar, and after her – the naked form of Brys Beddict.

The cloud erupted, burst apart in a welter of icy water.

The four figures fell to the ground, Faint rolling out almost to the witch’s knees. Precious Thimble stared down, saw the blood still pumping from the woman’s slashed arms. She closed trembling hands on both wrists, healing spells tumbling out on her breath.

Soldiers were rushing up. Shouts filled the air.

Precious Thimble’s hands tightened on the wounds, but now there were only scars beneath her palms, and she could feel Faint’s pulse. But…gods, it’s there – I can feel it. It’s…faint. A sudden giggle escaped her – but that was just relief. She’d always hated puns. Proper women did. She scowled down at the scars. Hold on, where did I get that power? Looking up, she saw Amby Bole lying motionless on the muddy ground. Beyond him soldiers crowded round Aranict, who knelt with her prince, cradling his head on her lap.

And then Precious Thimble caught a glimpse of motion from one of Brys’s hands, out from under the cloak someone had thrown over him.

I can’t believe it.

Faint stirred, groaned, eyes opening, stared unseeing for a moment, and then focused on the witch. She slowly frowned. ‘I’m not dead?’

‘No. I’ve just healed you. The Atri-Ceda made it out, too. So did the prince. Your blood bought passage – though how that watery piss you call blood ever passed muster in the eyes of an Elder God, I’ll never know.’

‘What – but how? Who saved us? Who dragged us free?’

Sudden coughing from where Amby Bole lay sprawled.

Precious Thimble shook her head. ‘The only one who could, Faint, some idiot from Blackdog Swamp.’

 

The dozen menhirs erupting from the earthworks around Prince Brys Beddict had ruptured the embankment for sixty paces, driving fighting soldiers from their feet – bodies tumbling into the trenches even as enormous mounds of earth and stones poured down, burying scores alive.

The Ve’Gath beneath Grub elected to escape the chaos by leaping forward, across the entire trench, and landed close to where the Forkrul Assail stood. The K’Chain Che’Malle had shattered its halberd some time earlier, and now wielded a double-bladed axe in one hand and a falchion in the other.

The Forkrul Assail stood with his face stretched as if in agony, tilted back, the eyes shut and the mouth stretched wide open. When the Ve’Gath advanced, he gave no sign of awareness. Two swift thumping strides and the falchion swung down, taking the motionless Pure between his right shoulder and neck. The blade tore down through the chest, ripped free in a spray of bone shards.

The other Ve’Gath had followed its kin and now came in from the left. An instant after the first Ve’Gath’s attack, its heavy single-bladed axe slammed into the side of the Assail’s head in an explosion of skull fragments and gore.

The Forkrul Assail collapsed in red ruin.

Even as Grub struggled to wheel the beast round, two heavy quarrels hissed across – between him and the Ve’Gath’s head – and punched into the side of the other Ve’Gath. The impact staggered the giant reptile, and then it fell over, hind legs scything the air.

‘Back! Back across!’

The K’Chain Che’Malle burst into motion, sprinting down the length of the berm – fifteen, twenty paces, and then wheeling to plunge down amidst crowds of Kolansii in the first trench. Weapons hammered down, slashed and chopped a carnage-strewn path through to the other side.

Pike blades glanced across the armour encasing Grub’s legs and girdling his hips – and then they were clawing up the other side, winning free atop what remained of the first bank.

Grub looked round for the prince – for any officer – but the chaos reigned on all sides.

Had Brys fallen? There was no way of knowing.

But Grub now saw Letherii soldiers lifting their heads, saw them tracking his thumping trek across the front of the warring forces – watching the Ve’Gath clear attackers from its path with devastating sweeps of its bladed weapons.

They’re looking to me.

But I know nothing.

Fool! Nothing but a life of war! Look well – decide what must be done! Twisting in the saddle, he scanned the climbing slope to his left, squinted at the succession of fortified tiers – and saw soldiers streaming from the highest positions.

But between them and the Letherii…four trenches. No, this is impossible. We’ve lost a third of the army against this first trench alone!

Grub faced the Letherii ranks once more. ‘Withdraw!’ he shouted. ‘By the prince’s command, withdraw!’

And he saw, all along the front, the Letherii soldiers disengaging, shields up as they backed away, others dragging wounded comrades with them.

Another quarrel hissed past – too close. Cursing, Grub kicked at the sides of the Ve’Gath. ‘Down from the ridge – along the front – put those weapons away and find us some shields! Better yet, pick up some of the wounded – as many as you can carry!’

The beast skidded down the slope, righted itself and, staying low beneath the cover of the first berm, began picking its way through heaps of bodies.

Grub stared down at the terrible carnage. I remember on the wall and that man and all the ones who fell around him – he fought and fought, until they overcame him, brought him down, and then there was a cross and he was nailed to it and the crows spun and screamed and fell from the sky.

I remember the old man on his horse, reaching down to collect me up – and the way he wheeled outside the gate, to stare back – as if he could see all the way we’d come – the bloody road where I was born, where I came alive.

I remember that world. I remember no other.

All of the brave soldiers, I am yours. I was always yours.

 

The Kolansii counter-attack from troops stationed in the next two trenches met the advance of Saphii and Evertine legionnaires in an avalanche of iron fury. Rolling down with the slope, along the wide descent tracks or up and over the berms, they slammed into the Bolkando forces like a storm of studded fists. For all the wild fury of the Saphii, they were not sufficiently armoured against heavy infantry, and the Evertine soldiers were unable to close a solid shieldwall with the Saphii in their midst.

The first lines were overwhelmed, driven underfoot, and the entire Bolkando front reeled back, yielding once more the second berm and then the first trench, and, finally, the first bank of earthworks. With the enemy gaining momentum, the legion was pushed back still further.

Almost none of the Saphii remained by this time, and as the Kolansii rolled out on to level ground they rushed across, only to collide with the legionnaires. They met a solid shieldwall. The impact sent bodies and weapons into the air and the crush made both sides recoil, before closing once more in savage fighting.

Queen Abrastal, still mounted, her sword and forearm painted with blood, forced her charger away from the inside edge of the Evertine line – the animal’s muzzle was gushing blood from a frenzied bite against a visored face and its hind flanks were slashed through the cladding, spattering blood with every muscle surge. But she could feel the pounding of its heart and she knew that her horse had never felt more alive than at this moment – it was impossible for her not to grin at the terrible joy in the beast she rode. Impossible to not find herself sharing it.

Still, they’d arrived upon the crux – and looking to the west, she saw the Letherii forces withdrawing from the assault, though their onager salvos continued unabated.

The Pure had done as she had expected – seeking to break her hold here, forcing the Letherii away from any hope of marching to the Spire by blocking the valley – but only if they could succeed in turning the Evertine Legion.

She rode hard round to the back of her legion.

Still held in reserve, the Barghast ranks were readying weapons, and Abrastal caught sight of Warchief Spax, standing atop a small hill of bundled supplies and straining to see over the Evertine ranks to the front of the battle. She saw him turn to her upon hearing her horse’s drumming hoofbeats.

She reined in before him.

‘I’ve never swum in a sea of blood before, Firehair. How was it?’

The queen glanced down to see herself lathered in gore. She shook her sword clear. ‘How fast were those Perish moving?’ she asked.

‘A good clip – almost as quickly as a band of White Faces on the raid. If they have anything left after tackling the valley side, they should be almost in position – but Highness, you’ve seen how many are headed their way.’ He shook his head.

‘Can they even slow them down?’

The Warchief shrugged. ‘Depends on the lay of the land, I suppose. If it’s a broad front they need to hold…no, they’ll barely slow ’em.’

Abrastal cursed under her breath as she swung her mount round. Thought furiously for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Very well. Warchief, take your warriors and the Teblor and move with all haste to support the Perish – whatever you can manage, understood?’

‘You send us to our deaths, Highness.’

‘Aye.’ She bared her teeth at him. ‘I show you my coin. You show me your love.’

‘I wasn’t complaining, just saying.’

‘We will screen you here.’

‘Highness, you can’t hold against this counter-attack – we can see that.’

‘We will screen you for as long as is needed,’ Abrastal said firmly. ‘Now get going, Warchief.’

‘If we do not meet again, Firehair, I should tell you’ – and Spax leapt down from the mound of supplies – ‘I went and knocked up your daughter.’

‘Gods below!’

‘You’ll have years of doting on that little runt – you’ll know it for mine ’cause it’s got my eyes.’

‘Just get going for Errant’s sake!’

Laughing, Spax raised his axe and waved it in a circle over his head.

As one, the White Faces lunged into motion – eastward.

Impressed in spite of herself, Abrastal watched in silence for a moment.

Spax was following her gaze. ‘Aye, we live for this, Firehair. We’ll give a good account of ourselves, I promise you.’ He looked up at her. ‘Sing songs about us, and remember to tell your court poets, that’s Gilk with one k.’

She frowned down at him. ‘How else would it be, you fool?’

‘Fare you well, my queen,’ Spax said, bowing even as he turned away.

When he’d trotted a dozen paces Abrastal called out, ‘Spax!’

The Warchief glanced back.

‘Boy or girl, I’ll make sure it’s named after you – but that’s the only favour you’ll get!’

Smiling, the Barghast waved his weapon, and then was on his way again.

She watched the Teblor falling in alongside the mass of White Faces, and then she swung round to study her legion.

Sure enough, they were being driven back – these Kolansii heavies were anything but soft. Abrastal adjusted her grip on the sword in her hand, collected the reins once more. Let us make them remember us.

She was about to kick her horse forward when a rider thundered up on her left. ‘Highness!’

Abrastal stared. A damned Letherii! ‘That was a long ride – what news?’

The messenger – a Bluerose Lancer – saluted. ‘Felicitations from the prince, Highness—’

‘Felicitations? Gods take me – sorry, go on.’

‘Highness, the Pure Forkrul Assail is dead. Only mixed-blood Assail remain in command. The prince hereby informs you that he has disengaged his forces from the Kolansii positions. And that he has established dug-in defences along the onager line on the valley floor and will commit a third of his remaining forces there—’

‘Excuse me, a third?’

The Letherii nodded. ‘Prince begs to inform you, Highness, that he is on his way to your position.’

Abrastal looked round, and then cursed. ‘Take a moment to rest your horse, sir, and then ride with all haste back to Prince Brys. Inform him he’d better hurry.’

But the messenger wasn’t interested in resting, and he wheeled his weary horse round and set out at the gallop.

Damn but those lancers know how to ride. And damn me, young man – if we both survive this, I’m going to give you a ride you’ll never forget.

Abrastal sighed, and then shook herself. With a low growl, she kicked her horse forward. ‘My standard to the front! Get on with you – follow your damned queen!’

 

Someone had found clothing and armour for the prince. With Aranict close by his side, he stood on the high ground and watched his troops swarming to entrench all along the line of onagers. Lines of soldiers were moving the wounded back on stretchers, while still others retrieved serviceable weapons from the field. And overseeing it all, a young man riding a K’Chain Che’Malle.

Brys was still struggling to regain himself – he did not know how Aranict had managed to save him, or how she even survived her descent into that lifeless warren. While still only half conscious he had heard fragments of conversation, and it seemed that the three foreigners, Faint, Precious Thimble and Amby Bole, had all had a hand in his resurrection. And then he’d caught the name Mael.

Old man, we owe you so much. Why are we Beddicts so important to you? But…it wasn’t me you did this for, was it? It was for Tehol. Your chosen mortal, the one you would have wanted as your own son.

Rest assured, I’m not complaining.

Someone brought him a helm and he took it with a grateful nod. Tugged it on and fastened the clasp.

An officer crowded close. ‘Sir, we have found you a horse – it would do the troops good to see you again as soon as possible.’

Brys shook his head. ‘Our Malazan guest has things well in hand, Lieutenant.’

‘He has issued orders in the prince’s name, sir!’

‘A clever thing to do, under the circumstances. He may be young, but he does command a presence on the back of that lizard. From this moment forward, he is to be considered my second – make this clear to all the other officers.’

‘Yes sir.’

Brys glanced over to see that a horse had been brought forward.

Aranict spoke, ‘Still, beloved, it would be good for them to see you.’

‘I am tempted to place Grub in command of our relieving force,’ he replied. When she stepped closer he held up a hand. ‘I am not recovered – I feel as likely to fall off that horse as stay on it. Oh, I’ll mount up, and as long as the beast isn’t moving under me, why, I should cut a strikingly inspiring figure.’ He shot a look up at the imperial standard and winced. ‘So long as no one looks too carefully.’ He reached out and took hold of her hand. ‘Aranict… I am glad you fought for me.’

‘It was Mael,’ she said. ‘And Faint’s blood. And then, if not for Amby Bole, we still would have failed.’

‘Will you think less of me if I choose to remain here, commanding these defences?’

‘Brys, if I had to, I’d have tied you down to keep you here. Close to me. We’re not saving you just to see you fall to some errant arrow – no, you stay back, issue orders and leave the rest to everyone else.’

He smiled. ‘You have begun to show a stubborn side, Atri-Ceda.’

‘Idiot.’ She lit a stick of rustleaf. ‘The only thing just begun is you noticing it – but that’s what makes the first flush of love so dangerous, and once it fades and you start seeing clearly again, why, it’s too late.’

Still smiling, he took the reins and set a foot in the stirrup, pulling himself up to slump in the saddle with a low groan.

From all sides voices rose upon seeing him. Grimacing, Brys straightened, and then raised one gauntleted hand. The roar redoubled in its intensity.

He saw Grub riding up the slope towards him. The boy didn’t look much like a boy any longer. He was splashed with drying blood, and from somewhere he’d found a Bluerose lance, and its iron point had swum in blood not long past.

‘Prince Brys – I didn’t know you— I mean—’

‘There is little time to waste,’ Brys cut in. ‘I am placing you in command of the relief force. They’re almost assembled – in fact’ – he squinted eastward – ‘they can shake themselves out on the march – the Bolkando are losing ground. Lead them, Commander, and be quick about it.’

Grub saluted. ‘Sir, when we close, I may ride ahead.’

‘Would any of us expect otherwise?’ Brys asked. ‘Just don’t get yourself killed.’

Nodding, the Malazan youth kicked at the flanks of the Ve’Gath, and the huge beast wheeled round and set off.

 

Faint studied the defenders opposite, watching as they regrouped, drawing reinforcements down from the higher earthworks. ‘They’re going to break cover,’ she muttered. ‘They’re going to charge us.’

Precious Thimble glanced over. ‘What? Why would they do that?’

‘Because most of us are headed east, down the valley – they can’t let us chase after their own relieving force. They need to wipe out both the Letherii and the Bolkando.’

The witch’s gaze was darting back and forth along the hasty defences thrown up by the Letherii. ‘We’re badly outnumbered.’

‘Haven’t you been paying attention? Assaulting costs dear – we’re about to turn the tables on them, and they’re not going to like it.’

‘It’s only the mixed-bloods who’re keeping them fighting at all,’ Precious said under her breath.

‘What? What did you say?’

‘It’s the mixed-bloods, feeding off this cursed warren – using it to bend the Kolansii to their will. I doubt they’d fight this hard without it.’

‘Now you say all this!’ Faint looked about, saw the prince sitting on a horse twenty paces away, his back to them as he observed the departing companies. Stepping forward, Faint stumbled slightly, recovered. But her head was spinning. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘Blood loss,’ snapped Precious Thimble.

Hissing in frustration, Faint made her way – slowly – towards Brys Beddict. Find the damned mixed-bloods. Aim a few onagers at them. Tear them to pieces. And this battle is done. ‘Prince Brys!’

The man turned his head.

Faint hobbled forward. ‘A word with you, Highness…’

 

Ascending a valley side at the run and in full armour left the Perish staggering once they’d reached the top. Heart hammering in the cage of his chest, Syndecan pulled clear of the others and then halted, studying the lay of the land.

Shit. It’s all shit.

Forty paces away was a raised road, running parallel with the valley, its steep side facing them banked with water-worn stones. In between was a strip of furrowed field, left fallow for two years or more. Off to the right, a hundred paces along, rose a cluster of buildings – farmstead facing on to the field, public stables and inn facing the road.

Syndecan continued on, bleakly eyeing the sharp slope of the roadside. Reaching it, he sheathed his sword and scrambled his way to the top.

Beyond the road the unplanted fields stretched on for at least a third of a league, broken up by walled hedgerows forming a chaotic patchwork. ‘Now that’s better,’ he grunted. No army would be happy crossing that – the walls alone would slow them up, since they were as high as a man was tall. The Perish could break up into half-cohorts and contest one after another, and by the time the Kolansii won through the battle at the Spire would be long over.

Still leaves the road and this side, though. Narrow enough, but where do I weight my defence? Road or field? And what about this infernal stony bank? Can’t defend it worth a damn. That said, trying to breach along it would be a nightmare – until they won through. So I throw a cohort five steps back of the line, waiting for them. We bottle them up, don’t let them spill out to the sides. It’ll work. It’ll have to.

Hands on his hips, he turned round, looked down on his Grey Helms. Winded, most of them bent over, or on one knee, gulping air like beached carp. He pointed at the buildings. ‘Wounded go there. Cutters on your way – set up fast as you can. Rest of you, drink down the last of your water if you haven’t already. Chew on some food while you’re at it. We’re going to hold on the road and this side of it – mostly. I want two cohorts on the other side in case they send anyone that way. If they do, make them pay, brothers and sisters. Now, march to twenty paces from the buildings and form up there.’

Not a single groan as the Perish picked themselves up again and set off along the rippled, weed-knotted field.

Swinging round, Syndecan looked up the road.

Was that a glitter of pike points?

He glared back at his Grey Helms. ‘Step lively! Enemy sighted on the road!’ Wolves preserve us this day.

 

High Watered Festian gestured, watched as the columns plunged down off the road on the inland side, breaking up as they entered the hedgerow fields. He saw crews rushing ahead with picks to ensure that the passage gates through the walls were serviceable.

Seven hundred paces up the road he could see the cursed Perish – but they had fully discounted the enclosed fields.

Festian intended to lock fiercely with the Grey Helms, pushing forward with the weight of fifteen thousand Kolansii heavy infantry, and then send eight thousand through the enclosures, to take the road behind them. They would first crush the defenders on the road itself, and then drive the rest south across the field, to the very edge of the valley – where the only retreat was a deadly tumble down the steep valley side.

He intended to make quick work of this.

In the distance to the east, he could make out the top third of the Spire. Everything below that, on the ridged ascent of the isthmus, was obscured in clouds of dust or smoke. The sight chilled him.

And now Brother Diligence is dead. Slain by some foul trap of sorcery. It all falls to you, Sister Reverence. But we shall prevail. Justice is a sword without equal. I pray to you, Sister, hold on. We are coming.

 

Gillimada slowed her pace to match that of the Warchief, and he glared up at the huge woman as he struggled for breath.

‘I sent a scout up to the road – there are soldiers on it.’

Spax nodded but could manage little more. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d led a raid, and while his warriors were thumping along in his wake with all the infernal ease of youth, his own legs were cramping, there was a stitch in his side, and sweat was stinging the vicious bite Abrastal’s daughter had delivered to his penis the night before. That she’d been trying to tear it off with her own teeth was only because of her frustration and anger at getting pregnant – nothing to do with him, really – and it was just his bad luck that his champion was the nearest thing at hand on which to vent all her anger and whatnot.

‘We could attack,’ suggested the Teblor in her stentorian voice. ‘A surprise!’

‘Can – can we overtake ’em?’

‘Teblor can – but not you. They are using the road. There is a road up there. My scout saw it and there were soldiers on it. Running.’

‘Did your scout – did your scout see – the Perish?’

‘No. Kolansii soldiers! On the road. Running!’

Oh, my cursed gods of the Barghast, am I wallowing in the muck with you? Feels like it! With some brainless backwoods harridan for company too! ‘Felled any trees lately, woman?’

‘What? No trees anywhere! I’d hit my head if there were trees. I’m glad there are no trees!’ And she bellowed a laugh, only to then shake her head. ‘Your language – it is so clumsy!’ She drew a sudden deep breath and out from her came a smooth flow of sounds Spax had not imagined possible from this Teblor.

‘What was that?’ he demanded when she’d finished.

‘I make up poem songs in my own language. I am famous for it, hah hah!’

‘Care to translate what you just said?’

‘No. Useless. You have one word for one thought. We have many thoughts for one word! You all speak too slow and we have to slow down too and we get bored talking to you humans!’

Gasping, Spax shook his head. ‘Right now – no more words from me – at all!’

‘I should carry you?’

Oh, and watch me try and live that down – in front of all my warriors? They’d die laughing, never mind enemy pikes and swords! ‘Don’t even touch me!’ he growled.

‘Hah hah hah!’

 

The Kolansii wasted little time, pouring down from the road to form up opposite the Perish on the field, and then, once the shields were locked and swords drawn, they advanced, matching step by step the troops remaining on the road.

Syndecan stood one row back from the front line. Much as he wanted to be with his fellow cutters amongst the buildings, he was now commanding and his place was here, with his brothers and sisters.

They were still winded, their legs sagging under them – he knew the signs of muscle exhaustion and there was no time to fully recover. This is going to be unpleasant.

The Kolansii closed to within six paces and then charged.

 

Gillimada dropped back again. ‘There is fighting!’

‘For Hood’s sake, Teblor – we may be slow but we’re not deaf!’

‘Should we join them from here?’

‘Not unless you want to fight on the damned slope! No, we’ll move past the whole mess and come up behind the Perish, and then move forward.’

‘But I want to kill the mixed-blood!’

‘Maybe you’ll get a chance at that—’

‘No! I want to kill him right away! It’s important!’

‘Fine! You can lead a counter-attack once we’re up there, all right?’

Gillimada smiled broadly, her teeth even and white as snow. ‘And we will cut down every tree we see!’

He glared at her back as she loped ahead. His heart felt ready to burst and he wondered if it might, the moment he stepped up to fight – a sudden clenching in his chest, or whatever happened when the thing seized up. He was certain that it’d hurt. Probably a lot.

Glancing upslope to his left, he saw rising dust, and there – the flash of spears or perhaps pikes, or even swords. Ahead, the Teblor raised a shout – and Spax squinted to see bodies sliding down the slope, limbs flailing, weapons skirling away.

‘Go past! Go past!’

His warriors were pressing up behind him. Spax snarled. ‘Go round me then, damn you all! I’ll catch up!’ They poured past on either side in a clatter of armour and drawn weapons.

My beloved fools, all of you.

Forty more heaving paces, another ten, five, and then, looking up, he saw his Barghast scrambling in the wake of the Teblor, up the valley side, many of them using their hands where they could. And above them the Perish falling back, spinning away from blows, tumbling and skidding down into the midst of the climbing warriors.

Gods curse us all!

‘Climb! Get up there!’

He saw the Teblor reach the summit, saw them plunge forward and out of sight, weapons swinging. And then, behind them, the first of the Gilk, armour grey with dust, their white faces running with stained sweat.

Spax reached the base, clambered upward. His legs were half numb under him. Blisters roared with pain on his ankles, his heels. He coughed out dust, was almost knocked over by a descending corpse – a Perish, most of his face cut away – and struggled yet higher.

Is there no end to this damned hillside?

And then a hand reached down, took hold of his wrist, and Spax was dragged on to level ground.

They were in the midst of farm buildings, and the Kolansii were on all sides, sweeping down from the road, driving the buckling clumps of Perish back towards the valley edge.

His first sight of this told him that the Grey Helms had been flanked, and though they fought on, with a ferocity worthy of their gods, they were dying by the score. His Gilk had slammed into this press, but even as they did so more Kolansii surged forward, fully encircling the defenders – with the valley side the only possible retreat.

Dark fury raged in Spax as he staggered forward, readying his weapons. We failed, Firehair. May all the swamp gods rot in Hood’s own bog! We should have set out earlier – we should have marched with the Perish!

The Teblor had formed a solid square and were pushing through the enemy, but even they were not enough.

On the road, Spax could see massive elements of the Kolansii army simply driving forward, eastward, ignoring the vicious last stand on their right.

We didn’t even slow them down.

‘Withdraw! Barghast! Perish! Teblor! Withdraw – down the hillside! Back down the hillside!’

Seeing warrior and soldier stumbling back, seeing them twist and pour down from the summit, the Warchief’s heart felt cold, buried in ashes. Gesler, ’ware your flank. We couldn’t hold them. We just couldn’t.

The press of retreating warriors, bloodied and desperate, gathered him up and they all slid ragged paths back down the slope. He was pulled along unresisting. All this way – for this? We could have done more. But he knew that any stand would have been doomed – there were just too many Kolansii, and they fought with demonic valour.

He had lost both his weapons on the descent, and his soul howled at the appropriateness of that. Tilting his head back, he stared up at the sun.

It was barely noon.

 

In the depths of night rain was pouring down in Darujhistan. Karsa Orlong had walked into the city, and now he stood, water streaming from him, waiting. Opposite him was the temple, and the vow that he had made so long ago now, in the savage intensity of youth, was a heat in his flesh, so fierce that he thought he could see steam rising from his limbs.

Almost time.

He’d seen no one else in the street since dusk, and during the day, while he had stood in place, the people of this city had swept past, unwilling to fix eyes upon him for very long. A troop of city guards had lingered for a time, nervous, half circling his position where he had stood, his huge stone sword resting point down, his hands wrapped about its leather-bound grip. Then they had simply moved on.

He would have been irritated at having to kill them, and no doubt there would have been alarms, and yet more guards, and more killing. But, rather than being heaped with the dead, the cobbled width of the street before him remained unobstructed.

Eyes half closed, he experienced again the echo of the life he had watched seething back and forth in the day now gone. He wondered at all those lives, the way few would meet the gazes of their fellows, as if crowds demanded wilful anonymity, when the truth was they were all in it together – all these people, facing much the same struggles, the same fears. And yet, it seemed, each one was determined to survive them alone, or with but a few kin and friends offering paltry allegiance. Perhaps they each believed themselves unique, like a knot-stone in the centre of the world’s mill wheel, but the truth was there were very few who could truly make claim to such a pivotal existence.

After all, there was only one Karsa Orlong. Standing here across from a modest temple with stained walls and faded friezes, standing here with the fate of the world in his hands.

He had known a time in chains. He had lived in that wretched house, his hands closed into fists against the slavery in which so many insisted he reside – meek, uncomplaining, accepting of his fate. He thought back to the citizens he’d seen here. So many had been dragging chains. So many had walked bowed and twisted by their weight. So many had with their own hands hammered tight the shackles, believing that this was how it was supposed to be. Sweating at another person’s behest, the muscles and will given away and now owned by someone claiming to be their better in all things. Year after year, a lifetime of enslavement.

This was the conversation of the civilized, and it repulsed Karsa Orlong to the very core of his being.

Who was the slavemaster? Nothing but a host of cruel ideas. Nothing but a deceitful argument. A sleight of hand deception between things of value, where one wins and the other always loses. He had heard bartering, had witnessed bargains made, and it all had the illusion of fairness, and it all played out as if it was a ritual deemed necessary, made iron like a natural law.

But where was the joy in that ceaseless struggle? Where was the proper indolence of the predator, and just how many fangs needed pulling to make this precious civilization?

Of course, not everyone suffered the same emasculation, and this was where all the lies finally gathered. The hungriest maws, fangs dripping, hid in the cool upper rooms of the estates, in the fountained gardens of the rich – and these ones, oh, they indulged all the indolence they desired. While the crowds of their lessers looked on, wide-eyed and ever eager for details.

A broken and suffering god in chains had haunted him. It had flung weapons in his path. It had whispered all manner of enticements. It had, in all its desperate pain, rushed down a thousand tracks, only to find not a moment of blessed relief.

Karsa now understood that god. The times that he had been chained, he had felt that terrible panic, that animal frenzy to escape. No mortal, human or Toblakai, should ever feel such feelings. Nor, he knew now, should a god.

‘He cannot know compassion, from whom compassion has been taken. He cannot know love, with love denied him. But he will know pain, when pain is all that is given him.’

Compassion. Love. It was not civilization that birthed these gentle gifts – though its followers might claim otherwise. Nor was civilization the sweetest garden for such things to blossom in – though those trapped within it might imagine it so. No, as far as he could see, civilization was a madman’s mechanism that, for all its good intentions, ended up ensnaring the gentle gifts, stifling them, leaving them to wander mazes only to die alone and in the dark.

A mechanism, a cagework, and in its chaos the slaves bred like flies – until the world itself groaned under the assault of their appetites.

‘You have made many vows, Karsa Orlong.’

A civilization was the means by which too many people could live together despite their mutual hatred. And those moments where love and community burgeoned forth, the cynics descended like vultures eager to feed, and the skies soured, and the moment died away.

‘Upon my heart, Karsa Orlong. Do you hear me? Upon my heart!’

Blinking, Karsa looked down to see a crippled man drawn up against his feet. The rain streamed around him, gushed and swirled, and the face that had twisted up to look at him seemed to be shedding from blinded eyes the tears of the world.

‘Is it time then?’ Karsa demanded.

‘Will you kill it all?’

The Toblakai showed his teeth. ‘If I can.’

‘It will simply grow up again, like a weed from the ashes. For all that we are made to kneel, Karsa Orlong, we yearn to fly.’

‘Yes, rare and noble and precious as pigeons. I’ve seen the statues of old heroes in the square, old man. I’ve seen their crowns of birdshit.’

‘I – I was an artist once. These hands – so deformed now, so bent and frozen – can you understand? All this talent, but no way to release it, no way to give it shape. But perhaps we are all like that, and only the lucky few are able to find talent’s path unbarred.’

‘I doubt it,’ Karsa replied.

Thunder rumbled from beyond the lake.

The crippled man coughed. ‘I am drowning. I have enjoyed our conversation on the merits of the civilized, Karsa Orlong, but now I must surrender. I must die. Sick. Fevered. The needs burn too hot. I have given you the words you shall use. Upon my heart. Upon my heart.’

Karsa stared at the wretched shape at his feet. He set his sword to lean against the wall behind him, and then crouched down.

The crippled man’s face lifted, the sightless eyes white as polished coins. ‘What are you doing?’

Karsa reached down, gathered the skeletal figure into his arms, and then settled back. ‘I stepped over corpses on the way here,’ the Toblakai said. ‘People no one cared about, dying alone. In my barbaric village this would never happen, but here in this city, this civilized jewel, it happens all the time.’

The ravaged face was turned upward, the last of the raindrops dripping away as he huddled beneath the cover Karsa provided. The mouth worked, but no sounds came forth.

‘What is your name?’ Karsa asked.

‘Munug.’

‘Munug. This night – before I must rise and walk into the temple – I am a village. And you are here, in my arms. You will not die uncared for.’

‘You – you would do this for me? A stranger?’

‘In my village no one is a stranger – and this is what civilization has turned its back on. One day, Munug, I will make a world of villages, and the age of cities will be over. And slavery will be dead, and there shall be no chains – tell your god. Tonight, I am his knight.’

Munug’s shivering was fading. The old man smiled. ‘He knows.’

It wasn’t too much, to take a frail figure into one’s arms for those last moments of life. Better than a cot, or even a bed in a room filled with loved ones. Better, too, than an empty street in the cold rain. To die in someone’s arms – could there be anything more forgiving?

Every savage barbarian in the world knew the truth of this.

 

Behind their massive shields the Ve’Gath soldiers of the K’Chain Che’Malle advanced into a hailstorm of arrows and heavy quarrels. Impacts staggered some of them, quarrels shattering against the shields. Others reeled, heads, necks and chests sprouting shafts, and as they fell their kin moved up to take their places, and the reptilian assault drew ever closer to the trenches and redoubts.

In the centre of the advance, the T’lan Imass weathered a similar deluge of missile fire, but they held no shields, and where the oversized quarrels struck the bodies shattered, bones exploding into shards and splinters. Those that could then picked themselves back up and continued on. But many were too broken to rise again, lying amid the wreckage of their own bones.

The withering fusillade lashed into the attacking forces again and again. Scores of Ve’Gath went down, legs kicking, tails whipping or striking the ground. Deep gaps opened in the T’lan Imass lines. Yet there were no screams, no terrible cries of agony or horror.

Sister Reverence stood high above the battle, winds both hot and bitter cold whipping about her, and watched as the enemy forces pushed ever closer to her soldiers waiting in their trenches and raised redoubts. The sorcery of Akhrast Korvalain streaming from her, she held fast her Kolansii heavy infantry, leaving no room for fear, and she could feel them bristling as she fed them her hunger. Do not yield. Slay them all! Do not yield! They would hold – they had to – and then High Watered Festian would arrive, to strike at the K’Chain flank, driving deep a mortal wound against these hated enemies of old.

She swore under her breath upon seeing masses of K’ell Hunters break out along the high rock-studded sides, rushing the fortified onager positions – and she watched as the crews frantically swung the heavy weapons round. They managed a single salvo, the scores of quarrels tearing into the ranks of Hunters, before the rest reached the base of the hill and swarmed upward, their terrible swords lifting high.

As the helpless crews were slaughtered, their machines smashed into splinters, Sister Reverence dismissed the scene from her mind. She had seen ten or more K’ell Hunters go down, and if each fortlet could match or better that toll, then she was satisfied. She would rely on attrition – there was no other choice.

Now that the battle was under way, her panic had subsided, though the murder of Brother Diligence still sent trembling waves of shock through her. She remained uncertain as to the manner of his death, and that still disturbed her; if she gave her dread free rein, she knew her fear would return. Humans were duplicitous and brazen – they should have known better than to underestimate their treacherous, deceitful natures. His power had been turned back upon him. Somehow. He had drowned in a deluge of words, and she could not comprehend how that was even possible.

But in this battle below she could see but two humans. Riding Ve’Gath, by the Abyss. Do they command? No, that cannot be. The K’Chain Che’Malle would never yield to human rule. They are ever commanded by their Matron and none other. It has always been so and so it remains.

A formidable Matron, however, to have spawned so many Ve’Gath. She stays hidden. She evades my questing. That alone speaks of impressive power.

But when this is done, when her army is destroyed, I will find her. I will eviscerate her. This day is the last gasp of the K’Chain Che’Malle. There are no other Matrons left – I am certain of it. They must have discovered the alliance I made with the Nah’ruk, and so they have come here, seeking vengeance.

Am I a child with a hand to be slapped?

Of the four ancient races, who was always the most feared, if not the Forkrul Assail?

She knew there were other Pures, on distant continents. And, once Akhrast Korvalain’s power was made unassailable in this place, she would quest to find them. She would invite them to share in this power, and the cleansing could begin in earnest. We shall unleash such justice as to—

A frigid blast of air swept up around her and Sister Reverence turned from the battle below. Facing into that icy wind, she made her way across the platform to the side looking out over the sea.

What she saw stunned her.

Kolanse Bay was filling with ice. Mountains, glowing emerald and sapphire, were rising up from the depths, and as she stared she saw the churning water bleach white, saw every wave freeze solid. The Perish ships, which had been broken and smashed and swallowed by the sea, had now reappeared, the wreckage sealed in ice – and there were more ships, ones long buried in the silts of the sea bottom, heaving to the surface. Directly below, the sheltered Kolansii galleys and triremes, now locked in ice, began to shatter, hulls collapsing. The sound of that destruction, rising up to where she stood, was a chorus of detonations, as of trees battered down by winds.

The entire bay was now solid ice, the surface a crazed landscape of jagged translucent crags, welling fissures, and flat sweeps of dirty snow. Mists poured from it in roiling clouds.

And, with the voice of grinding mountains, it had begun lifting higher, tilting, the nearest end reaching upwards. The mole and breakwaters of the harbour directly below were suddenly obliterated, torn and crushed to rubble – and as the ice shifted, reaching the base of the Spire, Sister Reverence felt the stone tremble beneath her feet.

This cannot be!

Omtose Phellack – what Jaghut dares this? No! They are gone! Extinct – there is not one Jaghut left with this kind of power – we would have found the threat, we would have destroyed it!

Sister Reverence staggered back from the precipice as she felt the Spire sway under her. Hearts pounding, hips aching, she stumbled across the platform. Reaching her previous position, she glared down at the battle.

In time to see the Ve’Gath soldiers pouring up the embankment.

Rise! Kolansii – my blessed children – rise to meet them!

Fists clenched, she flung her humans into the K’Chain Che’Malle.

Buffeted to one side by a collapsing Ve’Gath, Gesler struggled for balance as his mount stumbled. He could see that the front line had plunged into the trench – and from higher up the tiers, hundreds of Kolansii were rushing down to support their besieged comrades.

He saw Stormy, dragging his axe upward, a cloven helm jammed on the blade. The man’s face was red as his beard, a berserk rage upon him. His Ve’Gath stood atop the berm, its own weapons hammering down at the Kolansii swarming up to assail it.

Fool’s going to get himself killed. He’ll do it, too, just to spite me!

He commanded his Ve’Gath forward. Amidst the swirling flavours in his mind, he spoke to his K’Chain Che’Malle. ‘Take this trench! Push! All of you – push!’

Off to his right he saw the T’lan Imass chopping their way through the defenders, overrunning the redoubts. Once they were able to close in hand-to-hand fighting, their battle turned into slaughter. Gesler saw Onos T’oolan – enemy weapons rebounding from him – wade forward, flint sword swinging. He seemed to be walking through a mist of blood.

Bastards are showing us up. Of course, we’re all flesh and blood, and they’re not. Nothing’s more irritating than an unfair advantage on the field. At least they’re on our side – gods, why am I even complaining?

‘Push!’

The Ve’Gath advance stalled in the trench. The sheer mass of armoured bodies had blocked the huge reptilian warriors – their weapons tore through the Kolansii, but more of the enemy kept arriving. Ascending the berm, Gesler could see that the next tier of earthworks had been abandoned, all the forces pouring down to slam into the K’Chain Che’Malle. Yet beyond those entrenchments, the remaining infantry stayed in their positions. He could see high redoubts on enfilading angles, onagers loaded and waiting.

This is going to take all day.

Worse yet. We might even lose.

The T’lan Imass had taken the trench at the centre and were now seeking to broaden the breach. A salvo of heavy bolts slashed through their ranks.

‘K’ell Hunters – Sag’Churok – we need you at the centre – we need those onagers destroyed! The T’lan Imass can break this wide open. Flow in behind them – Ve’Gath rear ranks, form up on the centre and advance into the breach!’

An arrow skidded off his left shoulder. Swearing, he kicked his Ve’Gath forward, down into the trench to join Stormy.

The slaughter was appalling, close and packed with heaving bodies, slashing and stabbing weapons. His Ve’Gath landed on corpses – already the trench was at but half its normal depth – and the smeared limbs and torsos slipped beneath his mount’s weight until its claws dug in for purchase.

A half dozen shield-locked Kolansii held the top of the ramp directly opposite, short-handled spiked axes at the ready – they were attacking the Ve’Gath low, chopping at legs and thrusting at underbellies. This is how the Malazans did it. Why couldn’t these Kolansii be stupid?

Howling, he drove his Ve’Gath forward.

 

‘We kill and we kill still more, and yet they do not break. Destriant, these soldiers are under a geas. The pure-blood Forkrul Assail commands their souls.’

Kalyth slowly nodded. She could see that well enough – no army could withstand this kind of ceaseless slaughter. She knew that thousands of Kolansii had fallen. The battle for the first trenches had consumed almost half the morning, and now, as the sun blazed directly overhead – in the very midst of the Jade Strangers – the K’Chain Che’Malle and T’lan Imass had advanced no further than crushing the last defenders of the third entrenchment.

Only halfway through the defences.

Beside her the Matron Gunth Mach spoke in a mélange of flavours. ‘My Ve’Gath are beginning to tire, Destriant. A thousand have fallen and will not rise again. And now Gu’Rull informs me that more Kolansii are on the way – upon the inland high road to the west.’

Kalyth hugged herself. What to do, what to say? ‘Then the Letherii and Bolkando have failed.’

‘No. They pursue, but they are much reduced and exhausted – they will not arrive in time to assist us. Destriant, it is difficult to reach the Shield Anvil and the Mortal Sword. They are in battle frenzy – again and again they call upon a name I do not know, but each time it is voiced, something trembles in the air. A flavour pungent and bestial.

‘Destriant, we must withdraw an element of our forces to meet this threat from the west. You must reach through to our human commanders – you must break their fury and speak with a voice of reason. Ride the minds of the Ve’Gath – they will guide you to them.’

Kalyth drew a deep breath, and then closed her eyes.

 

The tattoos on Gesler’s forearms were burning, as if splashed with acid, but he barely noticed as he leaned over the shoulders of his reeling Ve’Gath. He had never been so tired, so…demoralized. The enemy would not break. The enemy fought with a rage to match his and Stormy’s, and though they died and died, still more came.

An axe spike had plunged deep into his mount’s gut and the animal was dying beneath him, yet somehow it remained on its feet, somehow it continued advancing, weapons bashing foes aside.

They had drawn closer to the centre – to where the T’lan Imass still pushed forward, their tireless arms rising and descending. Never before had Gesler been so close to the ancient undead warriors in the midst of battle, witness to this devastating…implacability.

And the Emperor had almost twenty thousand of them at his command. He could have conquered the world. He could have delivered such slaughter as to break every kingdom, every empire in his path.

But he barely used them at all.

Kellanved – is it possible? Did even you quail at the carnage these creatures promised? Did you see for yourself how victory could destroy you, destroy the entire Malazan Empire?

Gods below, I think you did.

You took command of the T’lan Imass – to keep them off the field of battle, to keep them out of human wars.

And now I see why.

He still held his heavy sword, but had no strength left to even so much as lift it.

The battle lust was fading – something was assaulting it, tearing it down, away from his eyes, and all at once the redness of his vision fragmented, vanished.

And he heard Kalyth’s voice. ‘Gesler. There is another Kolansii army on the high inland road. They are fast-marching – we must guard our flank.’

‘Guard our flank? With what?’ He angled his mount round, lurched as it staggered. ‘Ah, shit, my Ve’Gath’s finished.’ He pulled his boots from the scale stirrups, slid down from the beast’s slathered back. Landing, his knees buckled and he fell to one side. Fighting to regain his breath, he stared up at the strange – and strangely crowded – sky. ‘All right. Listen, Kalyth. Draw the K’ell back and send them over there, all of them. Tell Sag’Churok – I’m sending him the T’lan Imass.’ He forced himself to his feet. ‘Did you hear all that?’ He flinched as his Ve’Gath fell over, legs flailing, half its guts hanging out in thick ropes. He saw the life empty from its eyes.

‘Yes. Gu’Rull says you must hurry. There is little time.’

‘That damned rhizan’s finally come back, has it?’

‘Gu’Rull says there is a storm coming, Gesler. He says you called it.’

‘Like Hood I have!’ He looked around, but Stormy was nowhere to be seen. A storm? What’s she going on about? Whatever it is, it’s probably that red-bearded bastard’s fault.

Cursing, the Mortal Sword set off to find Onos T’oolan. His forearms, he saw with faint alarm, were sweating beads of blood.

Onos T’oolan cut diagonally in a downward chop, through the torso of the Kolansii opposite him, dragging his blade free as he stepped over the crumpling body. An axe head slammed into his ribs on his left side, bounced off, and he turned and slashed through his attacker’s neck, watched the head roll off the shoulders. Two more strides and he was atop the fourth berm, his warriors coming up alongside him.

Looking down into the trench, he stared at a mass of upturned faces – all twisted with inhuman hatred – and weapons lifted as he prepared to descend into the press.

‘First Sword!’

Onos T’oolan paused, stepped back and turned round.

The Malazan named Gesler was stumbling towards him.

‘Gesler,’ said Onos T’oolan, ‘there are but two more tiers left – and the number of enemy in those positions is sorely diminished. We shall prevail. Draw your Ve’Gath into our wake—’

‘First Sword – we are about to be flanked to the west. I have sent what remains of my K’ell Hunters there, but they are not enough.’

Onos T’oolan lowered his sword. ‘I understand.’

‘We will push on here without you,’ Gesler said. ‘You’ve split the defences in two, and when all is said and done, the Ve’Gath can out-climb and out-run humans – we will fight to the foot of the stairs. We will assault the Spire.’

‘Akhrast Korvalain is wounded now, Mortal Sword. Tellann is awake – Olar Ethil is near. It seems that this shall be a day of ancient powers. Malazan, beware the voice of the Pure who awaits you atop the Spire.’

The man revealed red-stained teeth. ‘Once I get up there, she won’t have time to get a single damned word out.’

‘I wish you success, Mortal Sword. Tell the K’Chain Che’Malle, we are honoured to have fought at their side this day.’

Onos T’oolan reached out to his followers, and as one they fell to dust.

 

Sister Reverence could hear the grinding ascent of the ice against the Spire off to her left, while before her she saw the K’Chain Che’Malle carve their way ever closer to the base of the stairs. The T’lan Imass had vanished, but she knew where they were going – and High Watered Festian will have to face them. He will have to find a way to encircle them, to win past and strike the K’Chain Che’Malle.

Then she looked skyward, where enormous dark clouds were building almost directly overhead, forming huge, towering columns bruised blue and green. She saw flashes of lightning flaring from their depths – and the blinding light was slow to fade. Two remained, burning luridly, and instead of diminishing, it seemed that those actinic glares were growing stronger, deepening in hue.

All at once, she realized what she was seeing.

There is a god among us. A god has been summoned!

The eyes blazed with demonic fire, and the clouds, ever massing, found form, a shape so vast, so overwhelming, that Sister Reverence cried out.

The argent gleam of tusks, the clouds curling into swirls of dark fur. Towering, seething, building into a thing of muscle and terrible rage, the eyes baleful as twin desert suns. Dominating the entire sky above the Spire, Fener, the Boar of Summer, manifested.

This is no sending. He is here. The god Fener is here!

 

With dawn paling the grey sky overhead and water running in streams along the gutters, Karsa Orlong looked down at the peaceful face of the old man cradled in his lap. He slipped a hand under that head and lifted it slightly, and then moved away, settling it once more on the hard cobbles of the street.

It was time.

He rose, taking hold of his sword. Fixing his eyes on the temple opposite, he walked towards the barred door.

The city was awakening. Early risers out on the street paused upon seeing him crossing their path. And those who could see his face backed away.

He reached for the heavy brass latch, grasped hold of it, and tore it away from the wooden door. Then he kicked, shattering the door’s planks like kindling, the sound of the impact like thunder, its echoes tumbling down the passageway within. Voices shouted.

Karsa entered the temple of Fener.

Down a once-opulent corridor, past the flanking braziers – two priests appearing with the intent of blocking his passage, but when they saw him they shrank from his path.

Into the altar chamber. Thick smoke sweetly redolent with incense, a heat rising from the very stones underfoot, and to either side the paint of the murals was crackling, bubbling, and then it began to blacken, curling away from the walls, devouring the images.

Priests were wailing in terror and grief, but the Toblakai ignored them all. His eyes were on the altar, a block of rough-hewn stone on which rested a jewel-studded boar tusk.

Closing on the altar, Karsa raised his stone sword.

‘Upon his heart.’

When the blade descended, it smashed through the tusk and then continued on, cracking the altar stone with the sound of thunder, shattering the block in half.

Onos T’oolan could hear weeping, but this was the sound of something unseen, something long hidden in the souls of the T’lan Imass. He had never expected it to awaken, had never expected to feel it again. In his mind he saw a child, clothed in mortal flesh, lifting a face to the heavens, and that face was his own – so long ago now. There had been dreams, but even as they faded the child boy wept with shuddering convulsions.

Things die. Dreams fall to dust. Innocence bleeds out to soak the ground. Love settles in cold ashes. We had so much. But we surrendered it all. It was…unforgivable.

He rose again, on a broad, level stretch of land where a village had once stood. It had been made mostly of wood and that wood had been taken away to build engines of war. Now only the foundation stones remained. The raised road that ran into it sloped until it was level with the cobbled street at the village’s edge.

His kin rose around him and they moved out to present a broad front facing on to that road, there to await the army they could now see to the west. The sound of thousands of marching boots on cobbles was a solid roar underfoot.

We shall fight here. Because the fighting and the killing goes on for ever. And the child will shed his tears until the end of time. I remember so many loves, so many things lost. I remember being broken. Again and again. There need be no end to it – there is no law to say that one cannot break one more time.

When he raised his weapon, his kin followed suit. Seven thousand four hundred and fifty-nine T’lan Imass. Another battle, the same war. The war we never lost, yet never knew how to win.

The concussion that clove through the heaving clouds behind them staggered the T’lan Imass, a thunder so loud it shivered through their bones. Wheeling round, Onos T’oolan stared up to see a stone sword – an Imass sword – descending as if held in the hand of the Jade Strangers, impossibly huge, slicing down through a vague bestial shape – that then staggered.

Twin embers of crimson – eyes – suddenly blossomed as if filling with blood.

A roar sounded, filling the air with such fury and pain that it pounded the entire army of T’lan Imass back a step, and then another.

The death cry of a god.

And the heavens erupted.

Onos T’oolan watched the waves of blood descending, falling earthward. He watched the crimson sheets rolling across the land, watched them roll ever closer – and then with yet another roar, the rain slammed down upon the T’lan Imass, driving them to their knees.

Head bowed beneath the deluge, Onos T’oolan gasped. One breath. Another. And his eyes, fixed now upon the hands on his knees, slowly widened.

As the withered skin softened, thickened. As muscles expanded.

Another terrible gasp of breath, deep into aching lungs.

From his kin, sudden cries. Of shock. Of wonder.

We are remade. By the blood of a slain god, we are reborn.

Then he lifted his gaze, to look upon the Kolansii ranks, fast closing on their position.

This…this was ill-timed.

 

The blood of a slain god rained from the sky. In torrents, cascading down from the ruptured, now shapeless clouds. The air filled with the terrible roar of those thick drops, falling heavy as molten lead. The armies fighting near the highest level of the isthmus were staggered by the downpour. The vast shelf of ice, ever rising towards the pinnacle of the Spire, now streamed crimson in growing torrents.

Bowed beneath the onslaught, Sister Reverence staggered towards the altar stone. Through the carmine haze she could see the Crippled God’s heart – no longer a withered, knotted thing of stone – now pulsing, now surging with life.

But the sorcerous chains still held it bound to the altar.

This – this changes nothing. My soldiers shall hold. I still have their souls in my hands. I have the chains of their fallen comrades, their slain souls – all feeding my power. At the foot of the stairs, they shall make a human wall. And I will take this unexpected power and make of it a gift. I will feed this blood into the soul of Akhrast Korvalain.

She drew up against the altar stone, slowly straightened, and held her face to the sky, to feel that hot blood streaming down. And then, laughing, she opened her mouth.

Make me young again. Banish this bent body. Make all that is outside as beautiful as that which was ever inside. Make me whole and make me perfect. The blood of a god! See me drink deep!

 

It was as if the heavens had been struck a mortal wound. Kalyth cried out, in shock, in dread horror, as the deluge descended upon the land – to all sides, devouring every vista, as if swallowing up the entire world. The blood – on her face, on her hands – felt like fire, but did not burn. She saw the heavy drops pounding into the lifeless earth, saw the soil blacken, watched as streams of thick mud slumped down the hillsides.

She could barely draw breath. ‘Gunth Mach! What – what will come of this?’

‘Destriant, I cannot give answer. Immortal rituals unravel. Ancient power melts…dissolves. But what do these things mean? What is resolved? No one can say. A god has died, Destriant, and that death tastes bitter and it fills me with sorrow.’

Kalyth saw how the K’Chain Che’Malle, momentarily stunned, now resumed their assault upon the highest defences of the Kolansii. She saw the defenders rise to meet the Ve’Gath.

A god dies. And the fighting simply goes on, and we add to the rain with blood of our own. I am seeing the history of the world – here, before me. I am seeing it all, age upon age. All so…useless.

There was low laughter behind her, cutting through the dull roar, and Kalyth turned.

Sinn had stripped naked, and now she was painted in blood. ‘The Pure has made a shining fist,’ she said. ‘To block the ascent. The lizards cannot break it – their oils are fouled with exhaustion.’ Her eyes lifted to Kalyth. ‘Tell them to disengage. Order them to retreat.’

She walked past.

 

The Imass reeled back. The Kolansii heavy infantry pushed forward, over Imass corpses. With shields and armour they weathered blows from stone weapons. With iron sword, axe and spear, they tore apart unprotected flesh, and on all sides the rain of blood – cooled now, lifeless – hammered down.

Driven past the remains of the village, the Imass forces contracted, unable to hold the enemy back. Pincers swept out to either side, seeking to encircle the increasingly crowded, disorganized warriors. Onos Toolan sought to hold the centre in the front line – he alone remembered what it was to defend his own body – now so vulnerable, so frail. His kin had…forgotten. They attacked unmindful of protecting themselves, and so they died.

Reborn, only to live but moments. The anguish of this threatened to tear the First Sword apart. But he was only one man, as mortal as his brothers and sisters now, and it was only a matter of time before—

He saw the Kolansii line opposite him flinch back suddenly, saw them hesitate, and Onos Toolan did not understand.

Low, deep laughter sounded from somewhere on his right, and even as he turned, a voice spoke.

‘Imass, we greet you.’

Now, pushing through to stand in the foremost line – Jaghut.

Armoured, helmed, bristling with weapons, all of it dripping blood.

The Jaghut beside Onos Toolan then said in a loud voice, ‘Suvalas! Are you as beautiful as I remembered?’

A female shouted in answer, ‘You only remember what I told you, Haut! And it was all lies!’

Amid Jaghut laughter, the one named Haut tilted his head to regard Onos Toolan. ‘To draw breath was unexpected. We thought to fight with you – two lifeless but eternally stubborn peoples. A day of slaughter, hah!’

The Jaghut beyond Haut then said, ‘And slaughter it shall be! Alas, the wrong way round! And there are but fourteen of us. Aimanan – you are good with numbers! Does fourteen dead Jaghut constitute a slaughter?’

‘With five thousand Imass, I would think so, Gedoran!’

‘Then our disappointment is averted and I am once more at ease!’

The Jaghut drew weapons. Beside Onos Toolan, Haut said, ‘Join us, First Sword. If we must die, must it be on the back step? I think not.’ His eyes flashed from the shadows of his helm. ‘First Sword – do you see? Forkrul Assail, K’Chain Che’Malle, Imass and now Jaghut! What a fell party this is!’

Gedoran grunted and said, ‘All we now need are a few Thel Akai, Haut, and we can swap old lies all night long!’

And then, with bull roars, the Jaghut charged the Kolansii.

Onos Toolan leapt forward to join them, and behind him, the Imass followed.

 

Gillimada, who had been chosen to lead because she was the most beautiful, looked back on the way they’d come. She could barely make out the Barghast. ‘They are slow!’

‘If only you were taller, Gilli,’ bellowed her brother, Gand, ‘you could look the other way and see the fighting!’

Scowling, Gillimada faced forward again. ‘I was about to – impatient runt, Gand! Everyone, enough resting – we shall run some more. Do you all see?’

‘Of course we do,’ shouted one of her brother’s mouthy friends, ‘we’re all taller than you, Gilli!’

‘But who’s the most beautiful? Exactly!’

‘Gilli – there are Jaghut with those Imass!’

Gillimada squinted, but the truth of it was, she was the shortest one here. ‘Are they killing each other?’

‘No!’

‘Good! All the old stories are lies!’

‘Surely just that one, Gilli—’

‘No! If one is a lie then all of them are! I have spoken! Is everyone rested? Good! Let us join the fight, just like in the old story about the war against Death itself!’

‘But it’s a lie, Gilli – you just said so!’

‘Well, maybe I was the one doing the lying, did you think of that? Now, no more wasting of breath, let us run and fight!’

‘Gilli – I think it’s raining blood over there!’

‘I don’t care – you all have to do what I say, because I’m still the most beautiful, aren’t I?’

 

With the remaining K’ell Hunters – cut and slashed, many with the snapped stubs of arrow shafts protruding from their bodies – Sag’Churok advanced at a cantering pace. Before them, he could see the Imass – granted the bitter gift of mortality – locked in fierce battle against overwhelming numbers of Kolansii heavy infantry. Among them, near the front, there were armoured Jaghut.

To see these two ancient foes now standing side by side sent strange flavours surging through the K’ell Hunter, scouring away his exhaustion. He felt the scents flowing out now to embrace his kin, felt a reawakening of their strength.

What is this, that so stirs my heart?

It is…glory.

We rush to our deaths. We rush to fight beside ancient foes. We rush like the past itself, into the face of the present. And what is at stake? Why, nothing but the future itself.

Beloved kin, if this day must rain blood, let us add to it. If this day must know death, let us take its throat in our jaws. We are alive, and there is no greater power in all the world!

Brothers! Raise your swords!

Reaching level ground, the K’Chain Che’Malle K’ell Hunters stretched out their bodies, swords lifting high, and charged.

 

Two hundred and seventy-eight Teblor smashed into the flank of the Kolansii forces near the line of engagement. Suddenly singing ancient songs – mostly about unexpected trysts and unwelcome births – they thundered into the press, weapons swinging. Kolansii bodies spun through the air. Entire ranks were driven to the ground, trampled underfoot.

Wild terrible laughter rose from the Jaghut upon seeing their arrival. Each of the fourteen led knots of Imass, and the Jaghut themselves were islands amidst slaughter – none could stand before them.

Yet they were but fourteen, and the Imass fighting close to them continued to fall, no matter how savagely they fought.

 

The K’ell Hunters struck the inside envelopment, driving the enemy back in a maelstrom of savagery. They swarmed out across the pasture and over the paddocks to swing round and plunge into the Kolansii flank, almost opposite the Teblor.

And in answer to all of this, High Watered Festian ordered his reserves into the battle. Four legions, almost eight thousand heavy infantry, heaved forward to close on the enemy.

Bitterspring, crippled by a sword thrust through her left thigh, lay among the heaps of fallen kin. There had been a charge – it had swept over her, but now she saw how it had stalled, and was once more yielding ground, step by step.

There were no memories to match this moment – this time, so short, so sweet, when she had tasted breath once again, when she had felt the softness of her skin, had known the feel of tears in her own eyes – how that blurred her vision, a thing she had forgotten. If this was how living had been, if this was the reality of mortality…she could not imagine that anyone, no matter how despairing, would ever willingly surrender it. And yet…and yet…

The blood still raining down – thinner now, cooler on her skin – offered no further gifts. She could feel her own blood, much warmer, pooling under her thigh, and around her hip, and the life so fresh, so new, was slowly draining away.

Was this better than an inexorable advance into the enemy forces? Better than killing hundreds and then thousands when they could do little to defend themselves against her and her immortal kind? Was this not, in fact, a redressing of the balance?

She would not grieve. No matter how short-lived this gift.

I have known it again. And so few are that fortunate. So few.

 

The Ship of Death lay trapped on its side, embraced in ice. Captain Shurq Elalle picked herself up, brushing the snow from her clothes. Beside her, Skorgen Kaban the Pretty was still on his knees, gathering up a handful of icy snow and then sucking on it.

‘Bad for your teeth, Pretty,’ Shurq Elalle said.

When the man grinned up at her she sighed.

‘Apologies. Forgot you had so few left.’

Princess Felash came round from the other side of the ship’s prow, trailed by her handmaid. ‘I have found him,’ she announced through a gust of smoke. ‘He is indeed walking this chilly road, and it is safe to surmise, from careful gauging of the direction of his tracks, that he intends to walk all the way to that spire. Into that most unnatural rain.’

Shurq Elalle squinted across what had been – only a short time ago – a bay. The awakening of Omtose Phellack had been like a fist to the side of the head, and only the captain had remained conscious through the unleashing of power that followed. She alone had witnessed the freezing of the seas, even as she struggled to ensure that none of her crew or guests slid over the side as the ship ran aground and started tilting hard to port.

And, alone among them all, she had seen Hood setting out, on foot.

A short time later, a storm had broken over the spire, releasing a torrential downpour of rain that seemed to glisten red as blood as it fell over the headland.

Shurq Elalle regarded Felash. ‘Princess…any sense of the fate of your mother?’

‘Too much confusion, alas, in the ether. It seems,’ she added, pausing to draw on her pipe and turning to face inland, ‘that we too shall have to trek across this wretched ice field – and hope that it does not begin breaking up too soon, now that Omtose Phellack sleeps once more.’

Skorgen scowled. ‘Excuse me…sleeps? Cap’n, she saying it’s going to melt?’

‘Pretty,’ said Shurq Elalle, ‘it is already. Very well then, shall we make haste?’

But the princess lifted a plump hand. ‘At first, I considered following in Hood’s footsteps, but that appears to entail a steep and no doubt treacherous ascent. Therefore, might I suggest an alternative? That we strike due west from here?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Shurq Elalle. ‘Shall we spend half a day discussing this?’

Felash frowned. ‘And what, precisely, did I say to invite such sarcasm? Hmm, Captain?’

‘My apologies, Highness. This has been a rather fraught journey.’

‘It is hardly done, my dear, and we can scarcely afford the luxury of complaining now, can we?’

Shurq Elalle turned to Skorgen. ‘Get everything ready. There truly is no time to waste.’

The first mate turned away and then glanced back at Shurq. ‘If that’s the case, then why in Mael’s name is she—’

‘That will be enough, Pretty.’

‘Aye, Cap’n. Sorry, Cap’n. On my way, aye.’

Queen Abrastal, I will deliver your daughter into your keeping. With every blessing I can muster. Take her, I beg you. Before I close my hands round that soft delicious neck and squeeze until her brains spurt from every hole in her head. And then her handmaid will have to chop me into tiny pieces, and Skorgen will do something stupid and get his head sliced in half and won’t that be a scar worth bragging about?

She could just make out Hood’s trail towards the spire, and caught herself looking at it longingly. Don’t be a fool, woman. Some destinies are better just hearing about, over ales in a tavern.

Go well on your way, Hood. And the next face you see, well, why not just bite it off?

He had passed through the Gates of Death, and this rain – in its brief moments of magic – could do nothing for ghosts. No kiss of rebirth, and no blinding veil to spare from me what I now see.

Toc sat on his lifeless horse, and from a hillside long vanished – worn down to nothing but a gentle mound by centuries of ploughing – he watched, in horror, the murder of his most cherished dreams.

It was not supposed to happen this way. We could smell the blood, yes – we knew it was coming.

But Onos Toolan – none of this was your war. None of this battle belonged to you.

He could see his old friend – there at the centre of less than a thousand Imass. The fourteen Jaghut had been separated from kin, and now fought in isolation, and archers had come forward and those Jaghut warriors were studded with arrows, yet still they fought on.

The K’ell Hunters had been driven back, pushed away from the Imass, and Toc could see the Toblakai – barely fifty of them left – forced back to the very edge of the slope. There were Barghast on that far side now, but they were few and had arrived staggering, half dead with exhaustion.

Toc found that he was holding his scimitar in his hand. But my power is gone. I gave the last of it away. What holds me here, if not some curse that I be made to witness my failure? Onos Toolan, friend. Brother. I will not await you at the Gates – my shame is too great. He drew up his reins. I will not see you die. I am sorry. I am a coward – but I will not see you die. It was time to leave. He swung his mount round.

And stopped.

On the high ridge before him was an army, mounted on lifeless war-horses.

Bridgeburners.

Seeing Whiskeyjack at the centre, Toc kicked his mount into a canter, and the beast tackled the hillside, hoofs carving the broken ground.

‘Will you just watch this?’ he cried as his horse scrabbled up on to the ridge. He drove his charger towards Whiskeyjack, reined in at the last moment.

The old soldier’s empty eyes were seemingly fixed on the scene below, as if he had not heard Toc’s words.

‘I beg you!’ pleaded Toc, frantic – the anguish and frustration moments from tearing him apart. ‘I know – I am not a Bridgeburner – I know that! But as a fellow Malazan, please! Whiskeyjack – don’t let him die!’

The lifeless face swung round. The empty eyes regarded him.

Toc could feel himself collapsing inside. He opened his mouth, to speak one more time, to plead with all he had left—

Whiskeyjack spoke, in a tone of faint surprise. ‘Toc Younger. Did you truly imagine that we would say no?’

And he raised one gauntleted hand, the two soldiers of his own squad drawing up around him – Mallet on his left, Trotts on his right.

When he threw that hand forward, the massed army of Bridgeburners surged on to the hillside, lunged like an avalanche – sweeping past Toc, driving his own horse round, shoving it forward.

And one last time, the Bridgeburners advanced to do battle.

 

The thunderous concussion of the god’s death had driven Torrent’s horse down to the ground, throwing the young warrior from the saddle. As he lay stunned, he heard the thumping of the animal’s hoofs as it scrambled back upright and then fled northward, away from the maelstrom.

And then the rain slammed down, and out over the rising ice beyond the headland he could hear shattering detonations as the ice fields buckled. Whirling storms of snow and sleet lifted from the cliffside, spun crimson twisters – and the ground beneath him shifted, slumped seaward.

All madness! The world is not like this. Torrent struggled to his feet, looked across to where the children huddled together in terror. He staggered towards them. ‘Listen to me! Run inland – do you hear me? Inland and away from here!’

Frozen blood slashed down from the sky. Behind him, the wind brought close the sound of laughter from Olar Ethil. Glancing back, he saw that she was facing the Spire.

Absi suddenly wailed.

Storii cried, ‘Don’t leave us, Torrent! You promised!’

‘I will catch you up!’

‘Torrent!’

‘Just run!’

Taking up Absi in her thin arms, Stavi plucked at her sister’s filthy tunic. And then they were on their way, vanishing in moments as the red sleet intensified, flinging curtains down that rolled deeper inland, one after another.

Turning to the east, Torrent stared in astonishment. The entire edge of the headland now sloped steeply towards the bay – but ice was rising beyond that edge, now level with the top of the cliff. Off to his right, the Spire was engulfed in the downpour.

Hearing the witch’s laughter again, he looked across to where Olar Ethil stood.

But the ancient hag was no more – a young woman stood in the deluge. ‘Reborn!’ she shrieked. ‘My kin – all reborn! I shall lead them – we shall rise again!’ She spun to face Torrent, blood like paint on her bold features, and then her head darted like a bird’s. ‘Where are they? Where are the children! My gifts to him – and I will give him more! More children! We shall rule together – the Bonecaster and the First Sword – where are they?’

Torrent stared at her, and then, slipping treacherously on the icy ground, he collected up his bow and quiver. ‘They slid,’ he said. ‘They panicked – went down the slope. Down on to the ice – I couldn’t reach them—’

‘You fool!’

When she ran towards the ice field, Torrent followed.

The frozen blood lacerated his face as the wind howled up from the bay. One forearm held up to shield his eyes, he stumbled after Olar Ethil.

You will give him more? Is that what all this was about? You love him? You took his life and made him a thing of skin and bones – you stole his children away – maybe even killed his wife, their mother. You did all this – thinking you could win his heart?

But he had seen her – enough of her, anyway. Reborn, made young, she was not displeasing to the eye, solid, full-breasted and wide-hipped, her hair – before the blood soaked it – so blonde it was almost white, her eyes the colour of a winter sky. No longer undead. So too, then, Onos Toolan? Now reborn? She took everything away from him, and would now replace it with herself – with the world she would make.

Toc Anaster, did you know this? Did you understand her reasons for all that she has done?

Does it matter?

He reached the ice – she was still ahead, fleet as a hare as she danced her way down the broken, jagged slope. He thought he could hear her, crying out for the children.

Fissures were opening up as the field’s own weight began to crush the ice, and the descent was growing ever steeper – off to his right he could see one part of it still climbing as if would reach to the very summit of the Spire itself. Was there a speck there, halfway up that ramp of ice? Someone ascending? He could not be sure.

His feet went out from under him and he slid, rebounding from spars of rock-hard ice. In a blur he was past Olar Ethil, hearing her shout of surprise. His head struck something, spinning him round, and then his feet jammed against a hard edge that suddenly gave way. He was thrown forward, the upper half of his body pitching hard, as what felt like jaws closed on the lower half – snapping shut on his hips and legs.

He heard and felt both thigh bones snap.

Torrent screamed. Trapped in a fissure, the edges now rising above his hips as he sank deeper. He could feel blood streaming down, could feel it freezing.

He had lost grip on his bow and the hide quiver – they lay just beyond his reach.

Olar Ethil was suddenly there, standing almost above him. ‘I heard bones break – is it true? Is it true, pup?’ She reached down and took a handful of hair, twisting his torn face around. ‘Is it? Are you useless to me now?’

‘No, listen – I thought I heard them – the children. Absi – I thought I heard him crying.’

‘Where? Point – you can still do that. Where?’

‘Pull me out, witch, and I’ll show you.’

‘Can you walk?’

‘Of course I can, woman – I’m simply jammed in this crack. Pull me out – we can find them! But quickly – this entire field is shattering!’

She cackled. ‘Omtose Phellack in all its glory – yet who dares face it? A Bonecaster, that is who! I will destroy it. Even now, I am destroying it – that fool thinks he will take that wretched heart? I will defy him! He deserves no less – he is Jaghut!’

‘Pull me free, witch.’

She reached down.

Her strength was immense, and he could feel frozen blood splitting, could feel massive sections of skin and flesh torn away as she lifted and dragged him out from the fissure.

‘Liar! You lied!’

Torrent lay on his back. The red sleet was diminishing now – he could see the Jade Strangers and the sun itself. From below his hips he could feel nothing. Frozen. Bloodless. I haven’t got long.

‘Where are they?’

He forced himself on to one elbow, pointed off to the right and slightly downslope. ‘There, behind that rise – stand atop it, witch, and you may see them.’

‘That is all I need from you – now you can die, pup. Did I not say you would?’

‘You did, Olar Ethil.’

Laughing, she set off for the rise of hard-packed snow and ice. Twenty-five, maybe thirty paces away.

Torrent twisted round, dragged himself closer to his bow. ‘I promised,’ he whispered. Half-numb fingers closed about the bow’s shaft. He scrabbled one-handed for the quiver, drew out a stone-tipped arrow. Rolling on to his back, he lay gasping for a moment. It was getting hard – hard to do anything.

Ice squealed and then cracked and he slid half a pace – back towards that fissure, but now it was wider – now it could take all of him.

Torrent forced the nock’s slitted mouth round the gut-string.

She was almost there, tackling the ragged side of the rise.

He used his elbows and shoulders to push himself up against a heap of rubbled ice. Brought the bow round and drew the arrow back. This is impossible. I’m lying all wrong. She’s too far away! Wretched panic gripped him. He struggled to calm his breath, deafened by the pounding of his own heart.

Olar Ethil scrambled on to the rise, straightened and stared downslope.

He saw her fists clench, half-heard her howl of fury.

Squinting, his muscles starting to tremble, he stared at her shoulders – waiting, waiting – and when he saw them pivot, he released.

 

I will make him pay for the lies! Olar Ethil, eldest among all the Bonecasters and now reborn, spun round towards Torrent—

The arrow caught her in the left eye.

The stone tip tore through the eyeball, punched through the back of the socket, where the bone was thin as skin, and the spinning chippedstone point drilled a gory tunnel through her brain, before shattering against the inside of the back of her skull.

 

He saw her head snap back, saw the shaft protruding from her face, and by the way her body fell – collapsing like a sack of bones – he knew that she was dead – killed instantly. Gasping, he sagged back. Did you see that, Toc? Did you see that shot?

Ah, gods. It’s done, brother.

It’s done. I am Torrent, last warrior of the Awl.

When he slid towards the fissure, he was helpless to resist.

Torrent. Last warrior of the…

 

Stormy bellowed in agony as Gesler dragged him away. The red-haired Falari had been stabbed through his right thigh. But the blood was slow, gushing only when the muscles moved, telling Gesler that the fool wouldn’t bleed out before he got him away.

The Ve’Gath were all drawing back – and back…

Because she’s coming. Because she’s finally joining this fight.

Gods help us all.

Pulling Stormy on to the blood-soaked embankment of the third trench, he looked back upslope.

She was walking alone towards the massed Kolansii. Little more than a child, stick-thin, looking undernourished. Pathetic.

When Gesler saw her raise her hands, he flinched.

With a terrible roar a wall of fire engulfed the highest trench. Scalding winds erupted in savage gusts, rolling back down the slope – Gesler saw the corpses nearest the girl crisp black, limbs suddenly pulling, curling inward in the heat’s bitter womb.

And then Sinn began walking, and, as she did so, she marched the wall of fire ahead of her.

Kalyth stumbled to her knees beside Gesler. ‘You must call her back! She can’t just burn them all alive!’

Gesler sagged back. ‘It’s too late, Kalyth. There’s no stopping her now.’

Kalyth screamed – a raw, breaking sound, her hands up at her face – but even she could not tear her eyes from the scene.

The fire devoured the army crouched against the base of the Spire. Bodies simply exploded, blood boiling. Thousands of soldiers burst into flames, their flesh melting. Everything within the fire blackened, began crumbling away. And still the firestorm raged.

Gunth Mach was crouched down over Stormy, oil streaming from her clawed hands and sealing the wound on his leg, but he was already pushing those hands away. ‘Gesler – we got to reach those stairs—’

‘I know,’ he said. Through fire. Well, of course it has to be us.

‘She won’t stop,’ Stormy said, pushing himself to his feet, swaying like a drunk. ‘She’ll take it for herself – all that power.’

‘I know, Stormy! I know, damn you!’ Gesler forced himself to his feet. He squinted inland. ‘Gods below – what is that?’

‘A ghost army,’ Kalyth said. ‘The Matron says they simply came down from the sky.’

‘Send the Ve’Gath that way – all of them, Kalyth! Do you understand – you need to get them as far away from this as possible. If Sinn reaches the heart, that fire’s likely to consume the whole fucking land for leagues around!’

She pulled at him. ‘Then you can do nothing. Don’t you see – you can’t—’

Gesler took her face in his hands and kissed her hard on the lips. ‘Teach these lizards, Kalyth, only the best in us humans. Only the best.’ He turned to Stormy. ‘All right, let’s go. Forget any weapons – they’ll get too hot in our hands. We can tear off this armour on the way.’

‘Stop ordering me around!’

Side by side, the two old marines set out.

They climbed across greasy bodies, over ground that steamed, and through air hot as the breath of a smithy’s forge.

‘Can’t believe you, Ges,’ gasped Stormy. ‘You called on Fener!’

‘I wasn’t the only one, Stormy! I heard you—’

‘Not me – must’ve been someone else. You called him and someone fucking killed him! Gesler, you went and killed our god!’

‘Go to Hood,’ Gesler growled. ‘Who crossed his finger bones when he swore off that cult? Wasn’t that you? I think it was.’

‘You told me you did the same!’

‘Right, so let’s just forget it – we both killed Fener, all right?’

Five more strides and there could be no more words – every breath scalded, and the leathers they now wore as their only clothing had begun to blacken. Now it’s going to get bad.

But this is Telas. I can feel it – we’ve been through this before. He looked for Sinn, but could not see her anywhere. Walked out of the flames at Y’Ghatan. Walked into them here. It’s her world in there, it always was. But we knew that, didn’t we?

I swear I can hear her laughing.

The two men pushed forward.

 

Kalyth cried out when Gesler and Stormy vanished into the flames. She did not understand. She had looked on in disbelief as they had stepped over bodies reduced to black ash – she had seen their tunics catch fire.

‘Matron – what gift is this? What power do they possess?’

‘Destriant, this surpasses me. But it is now clear to me – as it is to all of us – that you chose most wisely. If we could, we would follow these two humans into the firestorm itself. If we could, we would follow them to the edge of the very Abyss. You ask what manner of men are these – Destriant, I was about to ask this very same question of you.’

She shook her head, shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know. Malazans.’

 

The flames drove him back. And this was a source of fury and anguish. He tried again and again, but his beloved master was beyond his reach. Howling, he raced back and forth along the third berm, the foul stench of his own burnt hair acrid in his nostrils.

And then he saw the pup – the one of tangled hair and piercing voice, the pup that never grew up – running towards the cold, towards the frozen sea.

Had the pup found a way round this burning air?

The Wickan cattledog with the scarred face tore off in pursuit.

There would be a way round – he would find his master again. To fight at his side. There was, for Bent, no other reason to exist.

 

The base around the Spire had been reduced to scorched bedrock – not a scrap of armour remained, nothing but molten streaks of iron tracking the slopes of the blackened stone.

Yet Gesler and Stormy walked through the conflagration. Their leathers had melted on to their bodies, hard and brittle as eggshells, and as the two marines pushed closer to the stairs the clothing’s remnants cracked, made crazed patterns like a snake’s shedding skin.

Gesler could see the stairs – but she wasn’t there. His gaze tracked upward. Shit. She was already a quarter of the way up. He punched at Stormy’s shoulder and pointed.

They reached the base, set foot on the baked, crumbling stone.

Stormy edged into Gesler’s path and began gesturing – the hand language of the marines. ‘Leave her to me – I’ll slow her up, hold her back, whatever. You go past. You go fast as you can – get to the top.’

‘Listen – this was almost too much, even for us. She’ll cook you down to bones—’

‘Never mind that. I’ll hold her back – just don’t fuck up up there, Ges! Throw the hag off the edge. Get that damned heart!’

Gesler’s legs ached with every step – he was too tired for this. A whole day of fighting. The strain of command. The seemingly endless slaughter. By the time he reached the top – assuming they even got past Sinn – he’d have nothing left. Weaponless, face to face with a damned Forkrul Assail.

Sinn had not looked back down, not once. She had no idea she was being pursued. Her steps were measured, relentless but slow, almost casual.

They had all climbed above the flames, which had at last begun dying below them.

The girl would hold it back now – saving it for the Forkrul Assail. Telas to wage war against the Assail’s warren. Old old shit, all of this. Can’t they all just go away? Back into their forgotten graves. It’s not right, us having to fight in wars we didn’t even start – wars that have been going on for so long they don’t mean a thing any more.

You took a foreign god’s wounded heart. I see the blood on your lips. It’s not right. It just isn’t.

Adjunct. I know you ain’t dead. Well, no, I don’t. But I refuse to believe you failed. I don’t think there’s a thing in this world that can stop you. We’ll do our part. You’ll know that much – you’ll know it.

Make this right. Make it all right.

Stormy was one step up from Gesler. He saw his friend reaching out, saw his hand close about Sinn’s ankle.

And then, visibly snarling, Stormy tore her from the stairs, swung her out into the air behind him, and let go.

Gesler saw her plummet – saw her mouth open wide in shock, and then that visage darkened.

Now you got her mad, Stormy.

But he was reaching now for Gesler, grasping his arm and lifting him past. ‘Go, Gesler! Climb your sorry arse off!’

A push that almost sent Gesler sprawling against the steps, but he recovered, and pulled himself upward, leaving Stormy in his wake.

Don’t look down – don’t look at him, Gesler. You know why – don’t— Instead he paused, twisted round, met his friend’s eyes.

Their gazes locked.

And then Stormy nodded, and flashed a half-mad smile.

Gesler made a rude gesture, and then, before his heart could shatter, he turned back to the stone steps and resumed his ascent.

 

Hood pulled himself over a splintered ridge of ice and looked up once more. Not far now. The ice road was groaning, cracks spreading like lightning. He had felt the assault of Olar Ethil – her hatred of Omtose Phellack unleashing power that raked through him sharp as talons – and then it had vanished, and he knew that she was dead. But the damage had been done. There was the very real chance that he would not make it, that this spar of ice would shatter beneath him, sending him down to his death.

Death. Now, that was an interesting notion. One that, perhaps, he should have been more familiar with than any other being, but the truth was, he knew nothing about it at all. The Jaghut went to war against death. So many met that notion with disbelief, or confusion. They could not understand. Who is the enemy? The enemy is surrender. Where is the battlefield? In the heart of despair. How is victory won? It lies within reach. All you need do is choose to recognize it. Failing that, you can always cheat. Which is what I did.

How did I defeat death?

By taking its throne.

And now the blood of a dying god had gifted him with mortal flesh – with a return to mortality. Unexpected. Possibly unwelcome. Potentially…fatal. But then, who has a choice in these matters?

Ah, yes, I did.

A rumble of laughter from deep in his chest followed the thought. He resumed his climb.

Ahead was a broad fissure cutting diagonally across his path. He would have to jump it. Dangerous and undignified. His moment of humour fell away.

He could sense the nearby unleashing of Telas – could see how the air around the Spire was grey with smoke, and the stench of burnt flesh swept over him on an errant gust of wind from inland. This is not by the hand of an Imass. This is something…new. Foul with madness.

This could defeat us all.

He reached the fissure, threw himself over its span. His chest struck the edge, the impact almost winding him, and he clawed handholds in the rotted ice beyond. And then waited for a moment, recovering, before dragging himself from the crevasse. As he cleared it a solid shape flashed past on his left, landed with a crunch, claws digging into the crusted snow – a dog.

A dog?

He stared at it as it scrabbled yet higher, running like a fiend from the Abyss.

From behind him, on the other side of the fissure, Hood heard furious barking, and looking back he saw another dog – or, rather, some shrunken, hair-snarled mockery of a dog, rushing up to the edge only to pull back.

Don’t even try—

And then, with a launching leap, the horrid creature was sailing through the air.

Not far enough—

Hood cursed as jaws clamped on his left foot, the teeth punching through the rotted leathers of his boot. Hissing in pain he swung his leg round, kicked to shake off the snarling creature. He caught a blurred glimpse of its horrid face – like a rat that had been slammed headfirst into a wall – as it shot past him, on the trail of the bigger animal.

He glared after it for a moment, and then the Jaghut picked himself up, and resumed climbing.

With a limp.

 

She had been hurt by the fall, Stormy saw, watching as she laboriously made her way back up the stairs. Her left arm was clearly broken, the shoulder dislocated, skin scraped off where she had struck the unyielding bedrock. Had they been a dozen steps higher, she would be dead now.

The marine swore under his breath, twisted round to glare up at Gesler. He’d reached some kind of rest platform, maybe twenty-five steps below the summit. What’s he doing? Taking a damned breather? There’s no time for that, you idiot! Go!

‘I will kill you!’

At the shriek Stormy looked back down. Ten steps between him and Sinn. Her face was lifted towards him, made demonic by hatred and rage.

A billowing gust of scorching heat rushed up to buffet him. He backed up the steps. Two, three, five.

She climbed closer.

The air ignited around Sinn, red and orange flames, white-hot where her body had been. Yet from that raging, incandescent core, he could still see her eyes – fixed on him.

Gods below, she is not even human! Was she ever human? What manner of creature is this?

The fire roared words. ‘I will kill you! No one touches me! I will burn you – I will burn all who touch me! I will burn you all! You will know what it is to hurt!

‘You said you wanted the fire inside me – you said you would kiss it – but you lied! You hurt me! You hurt me!

‘You wanted the fire in me? You shall have it!’

The flames exploded out from her, stormed up the steps and engulfed Stormy.

He howled. This was not Telas – this burned. This reached for him, took hold of him, bursting and cracking open his skin, tearing into his flesh, burrowing to clutch at his very bones. His screams vanished though his mouth remained open, his head thrown back in the stunning agony of the fire – his lungs were burned, useless. His eyes erupted and boiled away.

He felt her drawing closer – knew she was directly below him now. He could feel the stone steps against his back, could feel his body melting, pouring down as if molten.

Her hand closed on one ankle, crushed it to dust.

But he had been waiting for that touch. He had been holding on – to what he knew not – and with a silent sob that seemed to tear his soul in half Stormy threw himself forward. Closed what remained of his arms about her.

Her shriek filled his skull – and then they were falling.

Not like the first time – he’d drawn her almost half the way to the top – and he could feel her body inside that fire, or thought he could.

They plummeted.

Ges– take this – all I could —

 

He was dead before they struck, but enough of Stormy’s corpse remained to hammer Sinn against the bedrock, though it was not needed. The impact split her skull, sent burning meat, blood and flesh spraying out to sizzle on the superheated rock. Her spine broke in four places. Her ribs buckled and folded under her back, splintered ends driving up through her lungs and heart.

The raging fires then closed on her, consuming every last shred, before dying in flickering puddles on the bedrock.

 

Gesler could not keep the tears from his eyes as he climbed the last few steps – he would not look down, would not surrender to that, knowing it would break him. The fury of heat that had lifted up around him moments earlier was now gone. He’s done it. Somehow. He’s killed her.

But he didn’t make it. I feel it – a hole carved out of my soul. Beloved brother, you are gone.

I should have ordered you to stay behind.

Not that you ever listened to orders – that was always your problem, Stormy. That was – oh, gods take me!

He pulled himself on to the summit, rolled on to his back, stared up at the chaotic sky – smoke, the Jade Strangers, a day dying to darkness – and then, gasping, numbed, Gesler pushed himself on to his feet. Straightening, he looked across the flat expanse.

A female Forkrul Assail stood facing him. Young, almost incandescent with power. Behind her was a mass of bone chains heaped over something that pulsed with carmine light. The heart of the Crippled God.

‘Where is your sword?’ the Forkrul Assail demanded. ‘Or do you think you can best me with just your hands?’

My hands. ‘I broke a man’s nose once,’ Gesler said, advancing on her.

She sneered. ‘It is too late, human. Your god’s death assured that – it was your god, wasn’t it? By your own prayers you summoned it – to its execution. By your own prayers you lost your war, human. How does that feel? Should you not kneel before me?’

Her words had slowed him, then halted him still three paces from her. He could feel the last remnants of his strength draining away. There is no magic in her voice, none we would call so, anyway. No, the only power in her voice resides in the truth she speaks.

I killed Fener.

‘When this day began,’ continued the Forkrul Assail, ‘I was an old woman, frail and bent. You could have pushed me over with a nudge then – look at you, after all. A soldier. A veteran of many battles, many wars. I know this not by the scars you bear, but by the endless losses in your eyes.’

Losses. Yes. So many losses.

The woman gestured behind her. ‘There can be an end to the pain, soldier, if you so desire. I can grant you that…sip.’

‘I – I need a way out,’ said Gesler.

She nodded. ‘I understand, soldier. Shall I give it to you? That way out?’

‘Yes.’

She cocked her head, her forehead seeming to flinch inward momentarily, as if about to vertically fold in half. ‘I sense no duplicity in you – that is good. I am indeed become your salvation.’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Lead me from here, Pure.’

She raised one bony, long-fingered hand, reaching for his brow.

His fist was a blur. It smashed into her face. Bones snapped.

The Fokrul Assail reeled back, breath spraying from a crushed nose – and that fold dividing her face was deeply creased. Shaking her head, she straightened.

Gesler knew he was fast – but she was faster. She blocked his second punch and countered. The blow broke his left shoulder, threw him six paces back. He landed hard, skidded and then rolled on to his broken shoulder – the agony that ripped through him took with it all of his strength, his will. Stunned, helpless, he heard her advance.

A strange skittering sound, and then the sound of two bodies colliding.

He heard her stumble. Heard bestial snarling.

Gesler forced himself on to his side. Looked across.

Bent had struck the Forkrul Assail from one side, with enough force to drive her to one knee. The cattledog’s jaws had closed on the side of her face, its canines tearing through flesh and bone. One eye was already gone, a cheekbone pulled away – spat out and lying on the blood-stained stone.

He saw her reach round, even as she staggered upright, and one hand closed on Bent’s throat. She dragged the beast from the ruin of her face.

The cattledog, held out at the end of that long, muscled arm, struggled desperately in her choking grip.

No.

Somehow Gesler found his feet. And then he was rushing her.

Her lone eye locked with his glare and she smiled.

He saw her flexing her free arm – drawing it back to await him. He could block that blow – he could try to take her down – but Bent was dying. She was crushing his throat. No. In a flash, he saw a battlefield filled with corpses, saw Truth dragging a limp dog free of the bodies. He heard the lad’s shout of surprise – and then that look in his eyes. So hopeful. So…young.

No!

Ignoring her fist, even as it shot out for his head, Gesler sent his own blow – not into her face, but into the shoulder of the arm holding the dog.

The hardest punch he ever threw.

Crushing impacts, and then—

 

The soldier’s punch spun Reverence round, the stunning power behind it shattering her shoulder, even as her own blow connected with his forehead, splitting it, snapping his head back and breaking the vertebrae of his neck.

He was dead before he struck the ground.

But her right arm was useless, and she sagged to one knee as the dog pulled itself free of her numbed hand.

No matter. I will kill it next. A moment – to push past this pain – to clear my thoughts.

 

Bent kicked free, stumbled away. Air filled his lungs. Life flooded back into him. In his mind, a red mist, yearning need, and nothing else. Head lifting, the beast turned back to his master’s enemy.

But his master was lying so still, so emptied of all life.

The Wickan cattledog was not bred for its voice. It rarely barked, and never howled.

Yet the cry that now came from Bent could have awakened the wolf gods themselves.

And the white-skinned woman straightened then and laughed, slowly turning to face the beast.

Bent gathered his legs beneath him. The scarred nightmare of his muzzle peeled back, revealing misshapen, jagged fangs.

And then someone stepped past him.

 

Hood advanced on the Forkrul Assail even as she was turning towards the dog. When she saw him, she cried out, took a step back.

He closed.

Her left fist snapped out but he caught it one-handed, crushed both wrist bones.

She screamed.

The Jaghut then reversed his grip on that wrist and added his other hand. With a savage lunge he whirled her off her feet, slammed her body down on the stone.

Yelping, the dog backed away.

But Hood was not yet done with her. He swung her up again, spun and once more hammered her on to the stone. ‘I have had,’ the Jaghut roared, and into the air she went again, and down once more, ‘enough’ – with a sob the crushed, broken body was yanked from the ground again – ‘of—

‘your—

‘justice!’

 

As the stranger dropped the limp arm he still held, Bent crawled over to his master’s side. He lay down, settling his heavy head across the man’s chest.

The stranger looked at him, but said nothing.

Bent showed his teeth to make his claim clear. He is mine.

 

The heavy thud of wings made Hood turn round – to see a Shi’gal Assassin descend to the Great Altar. Half crouched yet still towering over the Jaghut, it regarded him with cold eyes.

Hood glanced over at the heart of the Crippled God.

The Pure’s ancestral chains were gone – destroyed with her own death. The heart was finally free, lying pulsing feebly in a pool of blood.

The smaller dog arrived, rushing over to worry at the torn face of the Forkrul Assail.

Grunting, Hood gestured towards the heart, and then turned away, to stare out over the lands to the west. Beyond the fields heaped with corpses, beyond the armies now gathered, virtually motionless with exhaustion. And now figures were climbing the stairs.

He heard the winged assassin lifting into the air and he knew that the creature now clutched that pathetic heart. The Shi’gal’s shadow slipped over the Jaghut, and then he could see it, rising yet higher, winging towards the setting sun. Then his gaze fell once more, looking down on the devastation below.

I once sat upon the Throne of Death. I once greeted all who must in the end surrender, with skeletal hands, with a face of skin and bone hidden in darkness. How many battlefields have I walked? Must I walk one more?

But this time, they are the ones who have left.

Guardians of the Gate, will you tell all these, who come to you now, that it all meant nothing? Or have you something to give them? Something more than I ever could?

Others had arrived. He heard the wailing of a woman in grief.

And was reminded that there was, in truth, no sadder sound in all the worlds.

 

Bitterspring, Lera Epar of the Imass, lay propped up against cold bodies. Her wound had been bandaged, the flow of blood staunched. Around her the survivors were moving about, many simply wandering, while others stood motionless, heads lowered, scanning the ground for familiar faces.

She saw her kin. She saw Thel Akai. She saw K’Chain Che’Malle and Jaghut.

And she watched Onos Toolan leaving them all, stumbling northward, on to the stretch of flat land edging the walled port city that had once been the capital of the Forkrul Assail empire.

None of the Imass called after him. None asked where he was going. He was the First Sword, but so too was he a man.

She tilted her head back, studied the procession up the scalded stone stairs of the Spire. Prince Brys Beddict, Aranict, Queen Abrastal, Spax of the Gilk Barghast, the priest-woman of the K’Chain Che’Malle. The eleven remaining Jaghut were also making their way in that direction.

It is done, then. It must be done.

There is peace now. It must be peace – what other name for this terrible silence?

More rain began to fall, as the day’s light slowly died, but this rain was pure and clear. She closed her eyes and let it rinse clean her face.

 

Onos Toolan walked past the city, out on to a barren headland of gorse and heather. The day’s light was fast fading, but he was indifferent to that, and the ground underfoot, which had been soaked in blood, was now slick with simple rain.

The sun spread gold across the western horizon.

And then, in the distance, he saw three figures, and Onos Toolan’s eyes narrowed. Like him, they seemed to be wandering. Like him, lost in the world. He drew closer.

The sword in his right hand, thick with gore but now showing its gleaming stone as the rain washed down its length, then fell to the ground, and he was running. His heart seemed to swell in his chest, seemed to grow too large for the bone cage holding it.

When they saw him, he heard childish cries, and now they were rushing towards him, the girl not carrying the boy winging ahead. All three were crying as they ran to meet him.

He fell to his knees to take them into his arms.

Words were tumbling from the twins. A saviour – an Awl warrior they had lost in the storm. A witch who had stolen them – their escape – and he had promised them he would find them, but he never did, and—

Lifting his gaze, still facing into the north, Onos Toolan then saw something else.

A vague shape that appeared to be sitting on the ground, curled over.

He rose, the girls reaching up to take his arms, the boy clinging to one shin. And then he moved forward, taking them all with him. When the boy complained, Storii picked him up in her arms. But Onos Toolan walked on, his steps coming faster and faster.

It was not possible. It was—

And then once more he was running.

She must have heard his approach, for she looked up and then over, and sat watching him rushing towards her.

He almost fell against her, his arms wrapping tight round her, lifting her with his embrace.

Hetan gasped. ‘Husband! I have missed you. I – I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what has happened…’

‘Nothing has happened,’ he whispered, as the children screamed behind them.

‘Onos – my toes…’

‘What?’

‘I have someone else’s toes, husband, I swear it—’

The children collided with them.

In the distance ahead, on a faint rise of land, Onos Toolan saw a figure seated on a horse. The darkness was taking the vision – dissolving it before his eyes.

And then he saw it raise one hand.

Straightening, Onos Toolan did the same. I see you, my brother.

I see you.

When at last the light left the rise of land, the vision faded from his eyes.