And all who would walk the fields
when the Boar of Summer strides
in drum-beat hooves,
and the Iron Forest converges
to its fated, inevitable clash – all,
all are as children, as children once more.

Fener's Reve
Destriant Dellem (b?)

 

Born on a sea dark as spiced wine, the wind moaned its way across the seaside killing ground, over and around the East Watch on its low, brick-strewn hill, where faint torchlight glimmered from the fortress's battened shutters. The wind's voice rose in pitch as it rolled up against the city's mortarless walls, flinging salty spray against its rounded, weathered stone. Rising then, the night's breath reached the battlements and swept between the merlons and along the platforms, then down into Capustan's curving, undulating streets, where not a soul stirred.

From the corner tower parapet looming above the ancient barracks, Karnadas stood facing the storm, alone, his boar-maned cloak whipping in the savage gusts. Though the parapet's killing arc guarded the southeast approach, from his position he could just make out, five hundred paces to the north along the wall, the object of his fiercest attention.

The brooding, cliff-like palace of Prince Jelarkan was like no other building in Capustan. Windowless, the grey-stoned structure towered in a chaotic confusion of planes, angles, overhangs and seemingly pointless ledges. It rose well above the flanking coast-facing wall, and in his mind's eye the mercenary watched huge boulders arcing towards it from the killing field beyond, crashing into its sides, sending the whole edifice down into ruin.

Unworthy of you. Where resides the comforting knowledge of history's vast, cyclical sweep, the ebb and flow of wars and of peace? Peace is the time of waiting for war. A time of preparation, or a time of wilful ignorance, blind, blinkered and prattling behind secure walls.

Within the palace, the Mortal Sword Brukhalian was mired in yet another meeting with the prince and a half-dozen representatives of the Mask Council. The Grey Swords' commander forbore such tangled marathons with what seemed to Karnadas superhuman patience. I would never have suffered this spider-bitten dance, not this long, not night after night, weeks on end. Still, it's remarkable what can be achieved even as the debates rage on, and on. How many of the Mortal Sword's – and Prince Jelarkan's – proposals have already been implemented, whilst the wrangling continues unending and those masked bastards utter their lists of objections in all ignorance. It's too late, you fools – we've already done what we could . . . to save your damned city.

In his mind's eye rose the fur-painted, articulated mask of the one priest on the Council he and the company should have been able to count on as an ally. Rath'Fener spoke for the Boar of Summer – the Grey Swords' own patron god. But political ambition consumes you, as it does your rivals in the Council. You kneel before summer's bloody tusk, yet . . . is it naught but a lie?

The wind howled, the only answer to Karnadas's silent question. Lightning lit the clouds churning over the distant bay. Rath'Fener was a priest of the Sceptred Rank, a veteran of temple politics and thus at the pinnacle of what a mortal could achieve within Fener's sanctified walls. But the Boar of Summer is not a civilized god. Ranks and orders and ivory-clasped gowns . . . secular pomp, petty plays of arrogance in the pursuit of mundane power. No, I must not impugn Rath'Fener with questions of his faith – he serves our god in his own way.

The Boar of Summer was the voice of war. Dark and grisly, as ancient as humanity itself. The song of battle – the screams of the dying and the vengeful, the discordant, hacking music of iron weapons, of shields resounding to blows, of hissing arrows and quarrels ... And forgive us all, the voice grows to a roar. It is not the time to hide behind temple walls. Not the time for foolish politics. We serve Fener by striding the soaked, steaming earth, weapons bared in quicksilver promise. We are the clash and clangour, the bellows of rage, pain and terror ...

Rath'Fener was not the only priest of the Boar in this city to have achieved a Sceptred Rank. The difference was this: while Rath'Fener possessed such an ambition – to kneel before the boar cloak and humbly assume the ancient title of Destriant, vacant for so long – Karnadas had already achieved it.

Karnadas could put Rath'Fener in his place with a simple unveiling of his own position in the mortal hierarchy. In his place? I could depose the bastard with a gesture. But Brukhalian had forbidden him that sweet revelation. Nor could the Mortal Sword be swayed. The time for such a move was not propitious, he'd said, its yield as yet of too low a currency. Patience, Karnadas, that time will come . . .

Not an easy thing to accept...

'Is this a welcome night, Destriant?'

'Ah, Itkovian, I did not see you there in the gloom. 'Tis the Boar's storm, this night. So, how long have you stood there, Shield Anvil?' How long, in your cold, closed-in fashion, have you stared upon your High Priest? Black-mannered Itkovian, will you ever unsheathe your true self?

There was no way to read the man's expression in the darkness. 'Moments only, Destriant.'

'Does sleep elude you, sir?'

'Not when I seek it.'

Looking upon the Shield Anvil's blue chain surcoat beneath the grey rain-cape, the wrist-length cuffed gauntlets now slick and black with rain, Karnadas slowly nodded. 'I had not realized it was so close to dawn. Do you anticipate being gone for long?'

Itkovian shrugged. 'No, assuming they have indeed crossed in strength. I am restricted to leading but two wings in any case. Should we come upon little more than scouting parties, however, then the first blows against the Domin shall be made.'

'At last,' the Destriant said, grimacing as yet another gust of wind roiled over the battlement.

There was silence for a while.

Then Karnadas cleared his throat. 'What then, may I ask, has brought you up here, Shield Anvil?'

'The Mortal Sword has returned from the latest gathering. He wishes to speak with you.'

'And he has sat patiently waiting whilst we chatted?'

'I would imagine so, Destriant.'

The two Grey Swords turned to the tower's spiral stairs. They descended the slick, limned steps amidst streams trickling down the stone walls to either side. By the third tier down they could see their breaths. Until the arrival of the company, these barracks had been left virtually uninhabited for close to a century. The chill that had seeped into the thick-walled old fortress keep defied every effort to dispel it. Among the major structures in Capustan, it predated the Daru Keep – now re-named the Thrall and home to the Mask Council – and every other building with the exception of Prince Jelarkan's Palace. And that palace was not raised by human hands, most certainly not. I'd swear that on Fener's bristly hump.

Reaching ground level, Itkovian pushed open the squealing door that led directly into the central Round Hall. Alone in the massive, barely furnished chamber stood the Mortal Sword Brukhalian, motionless before the hearth and almost spectral despite his formidable height and build. His back was to the two newcomers, his long, wavy black hair unbound and down to just above his belted hips.

'Rath'Trake believes,' the commander rumbled without turning, 'there are unwelcome intruders on the plains west of the city. Demonic apparitions.'

Karnadas unclasped his cloak and shook the water from it. 'Rath'Trake, you said. I admit I do not understand the Tiger's sudden claim to true godhood. That a cult of a First Hero should have succeeded in shouldering its way into a council of temples—'

Brukhalian slowly turned, his soft brown eyes fixing on the Destriant. 'An unworthy rivalry, sir. The Season of Summer is home to more than one voice of war, or would you now challenge the fierce spirits of the Barghast and the Rhivi as well?'

'First Heroes are not gods,' Karnadas growled, rubbing at his face as the cold, wind-blasted numbness faded. 'They're not even tribal spirits, sir. Have any of the other priests supported Rath'Trake's claim?'.

'No.'

'I thought as—'

'Of course,' Brukhalian went on, 'they also are not convinced that the Pannion Domin intends to lay siege to Capustan.'

Karnadas clamped his mouth shut. Point token, Mortal Sword.

Brukhalian's gaze flicked to Itkovian. 'Are your wings unfurled, Shield Anvil?'

'They are, sir.'

'It would be foolish, do you not think, sir,' the Mortal Sword said, 'to discard such warnings during your patrol?'

'I discard nothing, sir. We shall be vigilant.'

'As you always are, Shield Anvil. You may take charge of your wings, now, sir. The Twin Tusks guard you.'

Itkovian bowed, then strode from the room.

'And now, dear priest,' Brukhalian said. 'Are you certain of this ... invitation of yours?'

Karnadas shook his head. 'No, I am not. I can discern nothing of its sender's identity, nor even if its stance is true to ours or inimical.'

'Yet it awaits a reply still?'

'Yes, Mortal Sword, it does.'

'Then let us make one. Now.'

Karnadas's eyes widened slightly. 'Sir, perhaps then we should call in a Mane, in case we invite an enemy into our midst?'

'Destriant, you forget. I am Fener's own weapon.'

Aye, but will that be enough? 'As you say, sir.' Karnadas strode to a cleared space in the chamber. He folded back the sodden sleeves of his shirt, then made a slight gesture with his left hand. A small, pulsing orb of light took form in front of the priest. 'This fashioning is in our language,' he said, studying the manifestation again. 'The language of Fener's Reve, intimating a certain knowledge of our company and its immortal benefactor. There is a message intended in such knowing.'

'Which you have yet to ascertain.'

A scowl flickered for a moment in the Destriant's weathered face. 'I have narrowed the list of possibilities, Mortal Sword. Such knowledge suggests arrogance in the sender, or, indeed, it offers us a hint of brotherhood.'

'Release the invitation, sir.'

'As you command.' He gestured again. The orb brightened, then began growing, its light thinning, the sphere growing translucent. Karnadas stepped back to give it space, fighting down his alarm at the sheer power behind this communication. 'Sir, there are souls within this. Not two or three – a dozen, maybe more – yet they are bound within one. I have not seen its like before.'

A figure, sitting cross-legged, slowly took form within the orb, dark-skinned, lean, wearing light leather armour. The man's face showed an expression of mild surprise. In the background, the two Grey Swords could see the interior walls of a small tent. A brazier sat before the man, giving his dark eyes a lurid glow.

'Address him,' Brukhalian commanded.

'In what language, sir? Our native Elin?'

The figure cocked his head at the quiet exchange. 'That's an awkward dialect,' he said in Daru, 'with Daru the obvious mother. Can you understand me?'

Karnadas nodded. 'Aye, close enough to Capan.'

The man straightened. 'Capan? I've reached through, then! You are in Capustan, excellent. Are you the city's rulers, then?'

The Destriant frowned. 'You do not know us? Your ... communication suggested a certain knowledge of our Reve . . .'

'Ah, yes, well, that particular weaving of my warrens has a way of reflecting those who stumble on it – though only among priests, of course, the target it was intended to reach. I assume you are of Capustan's temple council? What's that title again – Mask Council, yes?'

'No,' Brukhalian rumbled, 'we are not.'

'Go on, please, I am truly intrigued now.'

'Pleased to hear it, sir,' the Mortal Sword replied, stepping forward. 'Your invitation has been answered by Destriant Karnadas – who stands beside me – at my request. I command the Grey Swords—'

'Mercenaries! Hood's breath! If I'd wanted to contact a bunch of over-priced sword-hackers—'

'Sir.' Brukhalian's voice was hard but low. 'We are an army of the Boar of Summer. Sworn to Fener. Each soldier among us has chosen this path. Schooled in the sacred scriptures, blessed by the Destriant's hand in the Tusked One's name. Aye, we are a company of ... sword-hackers. We are also our own temple, our acolytes numbering well over seven thousand – and the number grows with each day.'

'All right, all right, sir, I understand now. Wait – you say you're growing? The city's given you leave to accept new followers?'

Brukhalian smiled. 'Capustan is but half armed, sir. Remnants of its tribal origins remain, and peculiar ones they are. Women are forbidden from the art of war. The Boar of Summer, however, acknowledges no such arbitrary exclusions—'

'And you're getting away with it?' the man laughed.

'Our new acolytes number but twelve hundred to date. Since many second and third born daughters are cast out onto the city's streets, none among the rulers have as yet noticed the diminishment of those numbers. Now, I have granted you enough in the way of introduction. Who, sir, are you?'

'How rude of me. I am Adaephon Ben Delat. To make things simpler, call me Quick Ben—'

'You are from Darujhistan?' Karnadas asked.

'Hood, no, I mean, no, I am not. I am with ... uh, Caladan Brood.'

'We have heard that name since coming north,' Brukhalian said. 'A warlord who leads an army against an invading empire.'

'Well, that invading empire has . . . withdrawn its interests. In any case, we are seeking to get a message through to Capustan's rulers ...'

'If only it were that simple,' Karnadas muttered.

The Mortal Sword was nodding. 'Then you must choose, sir. The Mask Council and the city's Prince Jelarkan are balanced upon the claim. There are countless factions among the council itself, and some discord has resulted. The Grey Swords answer to the prince. Our task is simple – to make the taking of Capustan by the Pannion Domin too costly. The Seer's expansion will stop at the city's walls and go no further. Thus, you can deliver your warlord's message to me and hence to the prince. Or you can resume your attempts to contact the Mask Council.'

'We suspected it'd get complicated,' Quick Ben sighed. 'We know next to nothing of your company. Or, rather, knew next to little. With this contact I am no longer so ignorant.' The man's eyes swung to Karnadas. 'Destriant. In Fener's Reve that means Arch-Priest, doesn't it? But only in the martial arena – the temple of hallowed ground that is the field of battle. Does Fener's representative in the Mask Council acknowledge that you outrank him or her, as a tiger does a cat?'

Karnadas grimaced. 'He does not know my true title, sir. There are reasons for that. I am impressed by your knowledge of Fener's priesthood. No, more than impressed. I am stunned.'

The man seemed to flinch. 'Well, yes. Thank you.' He turned to study Brukhalian. 'You're the god's Mortal Sword.' He paused then, and it was as if the full significance of that title only now struck home, for his eyes slowly widened. 'Uh, all right. I think the warlord would endorse my decision to deliver his message to you. In fact, I have no doubt at all. Good.' He drew a breath, then resumed. 'Caladan Brood leads an army to the relief of Capustan. The siege – as I'm sure you well understand – is not only inevitable, it is imminent. Now, our challenge is getting there in time—'

'Sir,' Brukhalian interrupted, frowning, 'how large is Caladan Brood's army? Understand, we will be facing perhaps sixty thousand Pannions – veterans one and all. Does he grasp the maelstrom he so generously wishes to enter on our behalf ?'

'Well, we don't have the numbers to match. But we will be' – Quick Ben grinned – 'bringing a few surprises with us. Now, Destriant – we need to reconvene. I need to bring the warlord and his officers in on this. Can I suggest we resume this conversation in a bell's time?'

'Perhaps it would be best to postpone it until the dead of night, sir,' Brukhalian said. 'My daylight hours are rather full – and public. As are Prince Jelarkan's.'

Quick Ben nodded. 'Two bells before next dawn, then.' He glanced around all of a sudden. 'I'll need a bigger tent ...'

A moment later he faded from view. The sphere contracted once more, then slowly vanished at a wave from Karnadas. The Destriant turned to Brukhalian. 'This was unexpected.'

The Mortal Sword grunted. 'We must be certain to condition the prince, sir. Perhaps this warlord's army can harry the besieging forces slightly, but it will probably achieve little else. We must keep Jelarkan's vision realistic ... assuming we tell him.'

We'll not win this war. Aye. No false hopes here.

Brukhalian asked, 'What think you of this Quick Ben?'

'A man of many veils, sir. An ex-priest of Fener, perhaps. His knowledge was too precise.'

'Many souls, within one, you said.'

Karnadas shivered. 'I must have been mistaken,' he said. 'Perhaps the ritual required the assistance of other mages, and it was these that I sensed.'

Brukhalian studied his priest long and hard at that, but said nothing. He turned away after a moment. 'You look exhausted, sir. Get some sleep.'

Karnadas slowly bowed.

 

As the spell faded, Quick Ben sighed, glanced to his right. 'Well?'

Seated against the tent's wall on that side, Whiskeyjack leaned forward to refill their goblets with Gredfallan ale. 'They'll fight,' the bearded man said, 'for a while at least. That commander looks a tough sword-hacker, but it might be all show and no iron – he must be a shrewd enough man of business to know the value of appearances. What was that you called him?'

'Mortal Sword. Not likely – once, long ago, that title was for real. Long before the Deck of Dragons acknowledged the place of Knights of the High Houses, Fener's cult had its own. They've got the serious titles down with exactness. Destriant . . . Hood's breath, there hasn't been a real Destriant in the cult for a thousand years. The titles are for show, Whiskeyjack—'

'Indeed,' the commander cut in, 'then why keep it a secret from the Fener priest on the Mask Council?'

'Uh. Well... Oh, it's simple. That priest would know it for a lie, of course. There, easy answer to your question.'

'Easy answer, as you say. So, are easy answers always right answers, Quick?'

Ignoring the question, the wizard drained his goblet. 'In any case, I'd count the Grey Swords as best among the bunch over there, but that's not saying much.'

'Were they fooled by the "accidental" contact?'

'I think so. I'd shaped the spell to reflect the company's own nature – whether greedy and rapacious, or honourable or whatever. I admit, though, I didn't expect it to find pious faith. Still, the spell was intended to be malleable, and so it was.'

Whiskeyjack climbed to his feet, wincing as he put his weight down on his bad leg. 'I'd better track down Brood and Dujek, then.'

'At the head of the column, is my guess,' Quick Ben said.

'You're sharp tonight,' the commander noted as he made his way out.

A moment later, when Whiskeyjack's sarcasm finally seeped into Quick Ben's thoughts, he scowled.

 

On the other side of the street, opposite the barracks gate and behind an ancient bronze fence, was a cemetery that had once belonged to one of Capustan's founding tribes. The sun-fired columns of mud with their spiral incisions – each one containing an upright corpse – rose like the boles of a crowded forest in the cemetery's heart, surrounded on all sides by the more mundane Daru stone urns. The city's history was a tortured, bizarre tale, and it had been Itkovian's task among the company to glean its depths. The Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords was a position that demanded both scholarly pursuits and military prowess. While many would hold the two disciplines as distinct, the truth was in fact the opposite.

From histories and philosophies and religions came an understanding of human motivation, and motivation lay at the heart of tactics and strategy. Just as people moved in patterns, so too did their thoughts. A Shield Anvil must predict, anticipate, and this applied to the potential actions of allies as well as enemies.

Before the arrival of Daru peoples from the west, the tribes that had founded Capustan had only a generation before been nomadic. And their dead are left standing. Free to wander in their unseen spirit world. That restless mobility resided still in the minds of the Capan, and since the Daru communities held to their own, it was scarcely diluted despite the now dozens of generations who had lived and died in this one place.

Yet much of Capustan's early history remained mysterious, and Itkovian found himself pondering what little he could piece together of those times, as he led the two wings of riders down the wide, cobbled street towards Jelarkan's Concourse, and beyond it to the south-facing Main Gate.

The rain was abating, the dawn's steel smear pushing through the heavy clouds to the east, the wind falling off into fitful gusts.

The districts making up the city were called Camps, and each Camp was a distinct, self-contained settlement, usually circular, with a private open ground at the central hub. The wide, uneven spaces between each Camp formed Capustan's streets. This pattern changed only in the area surrounding the old Daru Keep – now the Thrall and home to the Mask Council – called the Temple District, which represented the sole Daru-style imposition of a gridwork layout of streets.

The Camps, Itkovian suspected, had once been precisely that. Tribal encampments, tightly bound in ties of kinship. Positioned on the banks of the Catlin River among sea-fearing peoples, this site had become a focus for trade, encouraging sedentary behaviour. The result was one of the oddest-looking cities Itkovian had ever seen. Wide, open concourses and avenues defined by curving walls; random clay stands of burial pillars; well pools surrounded by sandpits; and, moving through Capustan's winding spaces, Daru and Capan citizens, the former holding to the disparate styles and ornamentation of their heritage – no two dressed alike – whilst the latter, kin-bound, wore the bright colours of their families, creating a flow in the streets that sharply contrasted with the plain, unpainted architecture. The beauty of Capustan lies in its people, not in its buildings... Even the Daru temples had bowed to the local, modest style of architecture. The effect was that of ceaseless movement, dominating its fixed, simple surroundings. The Capan tribes celebrated themselves, colours in a colourless world.

The only unknowns in Itkovian's scenario were the old keep that the Grey Swords now occupied, and Jelarkan's Palace. The old keep had been built before the coming of both the Capan and the Daru, by unknown hands, and it had been constructed almost in the shadow of the palace.

Jelarkan's fortress was a structure unlike anything Itkovian had ever seen before. It predated all else, its severe architecture throughly alien and strangely unwelcoming. No doubt the royal line of Capustan had chosen to occupy it for its imposing prominence rather than any particular notions of its defensive capacities. The stone walls were perilously thin, and its absence of windows or flat rooftops made those within it blind to all that occurred on the outside. Worse, there was but one entrance – the main approach, a wide ramp leading into a courtyard. Previous princes had raised guard houses to either side of the entrance, and a walkway along the courtyard's walls. Actual additions to the palace itself had a habit of falling down – the palace's stone facings refused to take mortar, for some reason, and the walls were not deemed strong enough to assume additional burdens of a substantial nature. In all, a curious edifice.

Passing out through the crowded Main Gate – harsh black iron and dark leather amidst streams of saturated colours – the troop swung right, rode a short distance down the south caravan road, then left it and its traffic as soon as they reached open plain, riding due west, past the few goat, cattle and sheep farms and their low stone walls breaking up the landscape, out onto unoccupied prairie.

As they moved further inland, the overcast above them began to clear, until by the midday break – fourteen leagues from Capustan – the sky above them was an unbroken blue. The meal was brief, conducted with few words among the thirty soldiers. They had crossed no-one's trail as yet, which, given it was nearing the height of caravan season, was unusual.

As the Grey Swords completed repacking their kits, the Shield Anvil addressed them for the first time since leaving the barracks. 'Raptor formation at slow canter. Outrider Sidlis twenty lengths to point. Everyone track-hunting.'

One soldier, a young woman acolyte and the only recruit in the company, asked, 'What kind of tracks are we looking for, sir?'

Ignoring the impropriety, Itkovian replied. 'Any kind, soldier. Wings mount up.'

He watched as the soldiers swung into their saddles in perfect unison, barring the recruit who struggled a moment before settling and closing up the reins.

Few words were offered at this early stage of training – the recruit either would quickly follow the example set by the experienced soldiers, or would not stay long in the company. She had been taught to ride, well enough not to fall off her horse at a canter, and was wearing her weapons and armour to get used to their weight. Schooling in the art of wielding those weapons would come later. If the wings found themselves in a skirmish, two veterans would guard the recruit at all times.

At the moment, the young woman's master was her horse. The chestnut gelding knew its place in the crooked wing shape of the raptor formation. If trouble came, it would also know enough to pull its rider away from danger.

It was enough that she had been chosen to accompany the patrol. Train the soldier in the real world was one of the company's tenets.

Spread out into the formation, with Itkovian as the raptor's head, the troop rode on at a slow canter. A league, then another as the heat slowly became oppressive.

The sudden slowing of the north wing pulled the others round as if invisible ropes bound every animal together. A trail had been found. Itkovian glanced ahead to see Outrider Sidlis slow her horse, wheel it round, confirming that both she and her mount had sensed the shift in motion behind them. She held position, watching.

The Shield Anvil slowed his horse as he approached his right-flanking riders.

'Report.'

'Recruit caught the trail first, sir,' the wing's spokesman said. 'The tip of a spiral. The pattern of discovery that followed suggests a northwest direction. Something upright, on two legs, sir. Large. Three-toed and taloned.'

'Just the one set?'

'Yes, sir.'

'How old?'

'Passed this way this morning, sir.'

A second glance at Sidlis brought her riding back towards the troop.

'Relieve the outrider, Nakalian. We'll pick up this trail and pursue.'

'Sir,' the spokesman acknowledged. He hesitated, then said, 'Shield Anvil, the span between the steps is ... vast. The creature was moving with speed.'

Itkovian met the soldier's eyes. 'How fast, sir? A canter? Gallop?'

'Hard to know for certain. I'd judge twice a canter, sir.'

We have, it seems, found our demonic apparition. 'Archers on the tips. All others barring Torun, Farakalian and the recruit, lances to hand. Named soldiers, coils out.'

Nakalian now in the lead, the wings moved out once again, the riders at the very ends with arrows fitted to their short, recurved bows. Torun and Farakalian rode to either side of the Shield Anvil, lasso and rope coils in hand.

The sun crawled across the sky. Nakalian held them to the trail without much difficulty, the tracks now a straight, direct line northwest. Itkovian had opportunity to see the imprints in the hard earth himself. A huge animal indeed, to have driven such deep impressions. Given its obvious speed, the Shield Anvil suspected they would never catch up with the creature.

Unless, of course, Itkovian silently added as he watched Nakalian suddenly rein in at the top of a low rise ahead, the beast decided to stop and wait for us.

The troop slowed, all eyes on the soldier on point. Nakalian's attention remained fixed on something only he could see. He had drawn his lance but was not readying for a charge. His horse shied nervously beneath him, and as Itkovian and the others neared, the Shield Anvil could see the animal's fear.

They reached the rise.

A basin stretched out before them, the grasses trampled and scattered in a wide swathe – the recent passing of a herd of wild bhederin – cutting diagonally across the plain. Towards the centre, at a distance of at least two hundred paces, stood a grey-skinned creature, two-legged, long-tailed, its snout two rows of jagged fangs. Broad-bladed swords flashed from the ends of its arms. Motionless, its head, torso and tail almost horizontal as it balanced on its two legs, the creature was watching them.

Itkovian's eyes narrowed to slits.

'I judge,' Nakalian said at his side, 'five heartbeats to cover the distance between us, Shield Anvil.'

'Yet it makes no move.'

'With that speed, sir, it needn't bother.'

Until it elects to, at which point it will be upon us. We'd best test this apparition's abilities. 'Let us choose our own timing, sir,' Itkovian said. 'Lancers – hit the beast low and leave your weapons in, foul its stride if you can. Archers, go for the eyes and neck. One down the throat as well if the opportunity presents itself. A staggered pass, random evasion once you've planted your weapons, then draw swords. Torun and Farakalian' – he drew his longsword – 'you're with me. Very well, canter to gallop at fifty, sooner if the beast reacts.'

The wings rode forward, down the gentle slope, lances levelling.

The creature continued to watch them, unmoving. With a hundred paces remaining between them, it slowly raised its blades, head dropping enough for the riders to see its ridged shoulders behind what was clearly some kind of helmet.

At seventy paces the creature swung round to face them, swords out to the sides, tail twitching.

Out on the tips the archers rose high in their stirrups, drew taut on the strings of their squat, powerful bows, held them motionless for a long moment, then loosed.

The arrows converged on the creature's head. Barbed heads plunged into its black eye sockets. Seemingly indifferent to the arrows buried deep, the beast took a step forward.

Fifty paces. Again the bowstrings thrummed. Shafts sprouted on either side of the neck. The archers angled their mounts away to maintain distance in their pass. The lancers' horses stretched their necks, and the closing charge had begun.

Blinded, yet not blind. I see no blood. Fener, reveal to me the nature of this demon. A command to evade—

The creature darted forward with unbelievable speed. At once, it was among the Grey Swords. Lances skewered it from all sides, then the huge blades flashed. Screams. Blood flying in gouts. Itkovian saw the rump of a horse plunge down in front of him, saw the soldier's right leg, foot still in the stirrup, falling outward. Without comprehension, he watched the rump – legs kicking spasmodically – twist round, revealing that the front half of the horse was gone. Severed spine, curved rows of rib stubs, intestines tumbling out, blood spraying from red flesh.

His own horse leapt high to clear the animal wreckage.

Crimson rain splashed the Shield Anvil's face as the creature's massive jaws – studded with arrows – snapped out at him. He leaned to his left, barely avoiding the meat-strewn fangs, and swung a wild backhand slash with his longsword as he rode past. The blade clashed against armour.

In mid-leap, his horse shrieked as something clipped it from behind. Plunging down on its forelimbs and still screaming, it managed a stagger forward before its rump sank down behind Itkovian. Knowing that something had gone desperately wrong with the beast's rocking, horrible stumble, he pulled free his heart-knife, leaned forward and opened the animal's jugular with a single slash. Then, kicking free of the stirrups, the Shield Anvil pitched forward and to the left even as he yanked the dying horse's head to the right.

They struck the ground, rolled apart.

Completing his tumble at a crouch, Itkovian spared a glance at his horse, to see the animal kicking in the air. The two hind legs ended just above the fetlocks. Both hooves had been sliced off. The dead animal quickly stilled.

The bodies of mounts and soldiers lay on both sides of the creature, which was now slowly turning to face Itkovian. Blood and gore painted its long, leathery arms. A woman's red-streaked brown hair had snagged in thick tufts between the beast's smeared fangs.

Then Itkovian saw the lassos. Both hung loose, one around the creature's neck, the other high on its right leg.

Earth thumped as the demon took a step towards the Shield Anvil. Itkovian raised his longsword.

As it lifted a three-toed foot for another stride, the two ropes snapped taut, neck to the left, leg to the right. The creature was thrown upward by the savage, perfectly timed yanks to opposite sides. Leg tore away from hip in a dry, ripping snap, even as the head parted from the neck with an identical sickly sound.

Torso and head struck the earth with heavy, bone-breaking thumps.

No movement. The beast was dead.

Suddenly trembling, Itkovian slowly straightened.

Torun had taken three riders with him. Farakalian had done the same. Ropes wound around each saddlehorn, the force behind the sudden, explosive tightening – four warhorses to each side – had managed what weapons could not.

The pair of archers rode up to the Shield Anvil. One reached down an arm. 'Quickly, sir, the stirrup's clear.'

Unquestioningly, Itkovian clasped the wrist and swung himself up behind the rider. And saw what approached.

Four more demons, four hundred paces away and closing with the speed of boulders tumbling down a mountainside.

'We'll not outrun them.'

'Yes, sir.'

'So we split up,' Itkovian said.

The rider kicked his mount into a gallop. 'Yes, sir. We're the slowest – Torun and Farakalian will engage – give us time—'

The horse swerved suddenly beneath them. Caught unprepared, the Shield Anvil's head snapped back, and he tumbled from the saddle. He hit the hard-packed soil, the air bursting from his lungs, then rolled, stunned, to come to a stop against a pair of legs hard as iron.

Blinking, gasping, Itkovian found himself staring up at a squat, fur-clad corpse. The dark-brown, withered face beneath the antlered head-dress tilted downward. Shadowed sockets studied him.

Gods, what a day.

'Your soldiers approach,' the apparition rasped in Elin. 'From this engagement ... you are relieved.'

The archer was still struggling with his startled horse, cursing, then he hissed in surprise.

The Shield Anvil frowned up at the undead figure. 'We are?'

'Against undead,' the corpse said, 'arises an army in kind.'

Distantly, Itkovian heard the sounds of battle – no screams, simply the clash of weapons, relentless, ever growing. With a groan, he rolled onto his side. A headache was building in the back of his skull, waves of nausea rippling through him. Gritting his teeth, he sat up.

'Ten survivors,' the figure above him mused. 'You did well... for mortals.'

Itkovian stared across the basin. An army of corpses identical to the one beside him surrounded the demons, of which only two remained standing. The battle around those two creatures was horrible to witness. Pieces of the undead warriors flew in all directions, but still they kept coming, huge flint swords chopping into the demons, carving them down where they stood. A half-dozen heartbeats later, the fight was over.

The Shield Anvil judged that at least sixty of the fur-clad warriors had been destroyed. The others continued chopping on the felled beasts, swinging ever lower as the remaining pieces grew ever smaller. Even as he watched, dust swirled from the hillsides in every direction – more of the undead warriors with their weapons of stone. An army, motionless beneath the sun.

'We did not know that K'Chain Che'Malle had returned to this land,' the hide-wrapped corpse said.

Itkovian's remaining soldiers approached, tense, driven into watchful silence by the conjurations rising on all sides.

'Who,' Itkovian asked dully, 'are you?'

'I am the Bonecaster Pran Chole, of the Kron T'lan Imass. We are come to the Gathering. And, it seems, to a war. I think, mortal, you have need of us.'

The Shield Anvil looked upon his ten surviving soldiers. The recruit was among them, but not her two guardians. Twenty. Soldiers and horses. Twenty ... gone. He scanned the faces now arrayed before him, and slowly nodded. 'Aye, Pran Chole, we have need.'

 

The recruit's face was the hue of bleached parchment. She sat on the ground, eyes unfocused, spattered with the blood of one or both of the soldiers who had given their lives protecting her.

Itkovian stood beside her, saying nothing. The brutality of the engagement may well have broken the Capan recruit, he suspected. Active service was intended to hone, not destroy. The Shield Anvil's underestimation of the enemy had made of this young woman's future a world of ashes. Two blindingly sudden deaths would haunt her for the rest of her days. And there was nothing Itkovian could do, or say, to ease the pain.

'Shield Anvil.'

He looked down at her, surprised that she would speak, wondering at the hardness of her voice. 'Recruit?'

She was looking round, eyes thinning as she studied the legions of undead warriors who stood in ragged ranks, unmoving, on all sides. 'There are thousands.'

Spectral figures, risen to stand above the plain's tawny grasses, row on row. As if the earth herself had thrust them clear of her flesh. 'Aye. I'd judge well over ten thousand. T'lan Imass. Tales of these warriors had reached us' – tales I found hard to countenance – 'but this represents our first encounter, and a timely one at that.'

'Do we return to Capustan now?'

Itkovian shook his head. 'Not all of us. Not immediately. There are more of these K'Chain Che'Malle on this plain. Pran Chole – the unarmed one, some kind of high priest or shaman – has suggested a joint exercise, and I have approved. I will lead eight of the troop west.'

'Bait.'

He raised a brow. 'Correct. The T'lan Imass travel unseen, and will therefore surround us at all times. Were they to remain visible in this hunt, the K'Chain Che'Malle would probably avoid them, at least until they have gathered in such numbers as to challenge the entire army. Better they were cut down in twos and threes. Recruit, I am attaching an escort of one soldier to you for an immediate return to Capustan. A report must needs be made to the Mortal Sword. Accompanying the two of you, unseen, will be a select squad of T'lan Imass. Emissaries. I have been assured that no K'Chain Che'Malle are present between here and the city.'

She slowly rose. 'Sir, a single rider would do as well. You return me to Capustan to spare me . . . from what? From seeing K'Chain Che'Malle cut to pieces by these T'lan Imass? Shield Anvil, there is no mercy or compassion in your decision.'

'It seems,' Itkovian said, staring out upon the vast army arrayed around them, 'you are not lost to us, after all. The Boar of Summer despises blind obedience. You will ride with us, sir.'

'Thank you, Shield Anvil.'

'Recruit, I trust you have not deluded yourself into believing that witnessing the destruction of more K'Chain Che'Malle will silence the cries within you. Soldiers are issued armour for their flesh and bones, but they must fashion their own for their souls. Piece by piece.'

She looked down at the blood spattered across her uniform. 'It has begun.'

Itkovian was silent for a moment, studying the recruit at his side. 'The Capan are a foolish people, to deny freedom to their women. The truth of that is before me.'

She shrugged. 'I am not unique.'

'Attend to your horse, soldier. And direct Sidlis to join me.'

'Sir.'

He watched her walk towards the waiting horses and the surviving soldiers of the wings, all of whom had gathered around their mounts to check girth straps, fittings and equipment. She joined their ranks, spoke with Sidlis, who nodded and approached the Shield Anvil.

Pran Chole strode up at the same time. 'Itkovian, our choices have been made. Kron's emissaries have been assembled and await your messenger.'

'Understood.'

Sidlis arrived. 'Capustan, Shield Anvil?' she asked.

'With an unseen escort. Report directly to the Mortal Sword and the Destriant. In private. The T'lan Imass emissaries are to speak with the Grey Swords and none other, for the moment at least.'

'Sir.'

'Mortals,' Pran Chole addressed them tonelessly, 'Kron has commanded that I inform you of certain details. These K'Chain Che'Malle are what was once known as K'ell Hunters. Chosen children of a matriarch, bred to battle. However, they are undead, and that which controls them hides well its identity – somewhere to the south, we believe. The K'ell Hunters were freed from tombs situated in the Place of the Rent, called Morn. We do not know if present maps of this land mass know the place by these ancient names—'

'Morn,' Itkovian nodded. 'South of the Lamatath Plain, on the west coast and directly north of the island wherein dwell the Seguleh. Our company is from Elingarth, which borders the Lamatath Plain to the east. While we know of no-one who has visited Morn, the name has been copied from the oldest maps and so remains. The general understanding is that nothing is there. Nothing at all.'

The Bonecaster shrugged. 'The barrows are much worn down, I would imagine. It has been a long time since we last visited the Rent. The K'ell Hunters may well be under the command of their matriarch, for we believe she has finally worked her way free from her own imprisonment. This, then, is the enemy you face.'

Frowning, the Shield Anvil shook his head and said, 'The threat from the south comes from an empire called the Pannion Domin, ruled by the Seer – a mortal man. The reports of these K'Chain Che'Malle are recent developments, whilst the expansion of the Pannion Domin has been under way for some years now.' He drew breath to say more, then fell silent, realizing that over ten thousand withered, undead faces were now turned towards him. His mouth dried to parchment, his heart suddenly pounding.

'Itkovian,' Pran Chole rasped, 'this word "Pannion". Has it a particular meaning among the natives?'

He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

'Pannion,' the Bonecaster said. 'A Jaghut word. A Jaghut name.'

 

As the afternoon waned, Toc the Younger sat by the fire, his lone eye studying the huge, sleeping wolf at his side. Baaljagg – what had Tool called her? An ay – had a face longer and narrower than the timber wolves the scout recalled seeing in Blackdog Forest, hundreds of leagues to the north. At the shoulder, the creature beside him had two, maybe three hands on those formidable northern wolves. Sloping brow, small ears, with canines to challenge those of a lion or a plains bear. Broadly muscled, the animal nevertheless had a build suggesting both speed and endurance. A swift kill or a league-devouring pursuit, Baaljagg looked capable of both.

The wolf opened one eye to look upon him.

'You're supposed to be extinct,' Toc murmured. 'Vanished from the world for a hundred thousand years. What are you doing here?'

The ay was the scout's only company, for the moment. Lady Envy had elected to make a detour through her warren, northwestward a hundred and twenty leagues to the city of Callows, to replenish her supplies. Supplies of what? Bath oil? He was unconvinced of the justification, but even his suspicious nature yielded him no clue as to her real reasons. She had taken the dog, Garath, with her, as well as Mok. Safe enough to leave Senu and Thurule, I suppose. Tool dropped them both, after all. Still, what was important enough to make Envy break her own rule of a minimum of three servants?

Tool had vanished into a dusty swirl a half-bell earlier, off on another hunt. The remaining two Seguleh weren't in a generous mood, not deigning to engage the unranked Malazan in conversation. They stood off to one side. Watching the sunset? Relaxing at ramrod attention?

He wondered what was happening far to the north. Dujek had chosen to march on the Pannion Domin. A new war, against an unknown foe. Onearm's Host was Toc's family, or at least what passed for family for a child born to an army. The only world he knew, after all. A family pursued by jackals of attrition. What kind of war were they heading into? Vast, sweeping battles, or the crawling pace of contested forests, jagged ranges and sieges? He fought back another surge of impatience, a tide that had been building within him day after day on this endless plain, building and threatening to escape the barriers he'd raised in his mind.

Damn you, Hemlock, for sending me so far away. All right, so that warren was chaotic – so was the puppet that used it on me. But why did it spit me out at Morn? And where did all those months go, anyway? He had begun to mistrust his belief in happenstance, and the crumbling of that belief left him feeling on shaky ground. To Mom and its wounded warren . . . to Morn, where a renegade T'lan Imass lay in the black dust, waiting – not for me, he said, but for Lady Envy. Not any old renegade T'lan Imass, either. One I've met before. The only one I've met before. And then there's Lady Envy herself, and her damned Seguleh servants and four-legged companions – uh, don't go there, Toc ...

Anyway. Now we're travelling together. North, to where each of us wants to be. What luck. What happy coincidence!

Toc disliked the notion of being used, of being manipulated. He'd seen what that had cost his friend, Captain Paran. Paran was tougher than me – I saw that from the start. He'd take the hits, blink, then just keep going. He'd some kind of hidden armour, something inside him that kept him sane.

Not me, alas. Things get tough, and I'm liable to curl up and start whimpering.

He glanced over at the two Seguleh. It seemed they were as loth to talk to each other as they were to anyone else. Strong, silent types. I hate those. I didn't before. I do, now.

So . . . here I am, in the middle of nowhere, and the only truly sane creature in my company is an extinct wolf. His gaze returned once more to Baaljagg. 'And where's your family, beastie?' he asked softly, meeting the ay's soft, brown gaze.

The answer came, a sudden explosion of swirling colours directly behind the socket of his lost eye – colours that settled into an image. Kin assailing three musk oxen, hunters and hunted mired deep in mud, trapped, doomed to die. The point of view was low, from just beyond the sinkhole, circling, ever circling. Whimpering filled Toc's mind. Desperate love unanswered. Panic, filling the cold air.

A pup's confusion.

Fleeing. Wandering mudflats and sandbanks, across a dying sea.

Hunger.

Then, standing before her, a figure. Cowled, swathed in roughly woven black wool, a hand – wrapped in leather straps, down to the very fingers – reaching out. Warmth. Welcome. A palpable compassion, a single touch to the creature's lowered forehead. The touch, Toc realized, of an Elder God. And a voice: You are the last, now. The very last, and there will be need for you. In time ...

Thus, I promise that I shall bring to you ... a lost spirit. Tom from its flesh. A suitable one, of course. For that reason, my search may be a long one. Patience, little one . . . and in the meantime, this gift...

The pup closed her eyes, sank into instant sleep – and found herself no longer alone. Loping across vast tundras, in the company of her own kind. An eternity of loving dreams, secured with joy, a gift made bitter only by waking hours, waking years, centuries, millennia spent. . . alone.

Baaljagg, unchallenged among the dreamworld's ay, ruling mother of countless children in a timeless land. No lack of quarry, no lean times. Upright figures on distant horizons, seen but rarely, and never approached. Cousins to come across every now and then. Forest-dwelling agkor, white bendal, yellow' haired ay'tog of the far south – names that had sunk their meaning into Baaljagg's immortal mind . . . eternal whisperings from those ay that had joined the T'lan Imass, there, then, at the time of the Gathering. A whole other kind of immortality ...

Wakeful, solitary Baaljagg's eyes had seen more of the world than could be fathomed. Finally, however the gift had come, the torn soul delivered to her own, where they merged, eventually became one. And in this, yet another layer of loss and pain. The beast now sought ... something. Something like ... redress ...

What do you ask of me, wolf? No, not of me – you ask not of me, do you? You ask of my companion, the undead warrior. Onos T'oolan. It was him you awaited, whilst you shared company with Lady Envy. And Garath? Ah, another mystery . . . for another time . . .

Toc blinked, his head jerking back as the link snapped. Baaljagg slept at his side. Dazed, trembling, he looked around in the gloom.

A dozen paces away, Tool stood facing him, a brace of hares dangling from one shoulder.

Oh, Beru fend. See? Soft inside. Far too soft for this world and its layered histories, its endless tragedies. 'What?' Toc asked, his voice rasping. 'What is it this wolf wants of you, T'lan Imass?'

The warrior cocked his head. 'An end to her loneliness, mortal.'

'Have you – have you given answer?'

Tool turned away, dropping the hares to the ground. His voice when he spoke shocked the scout with its raw mournfulness. 'I can do nothing for her.'

The cold, lifeless tone was gone, and for the first time Toc saw something of what hid behind that deathly, desiccated visage. 'I've never heard you speak in pain before, Tool. I didn't think—'

'You heard wrong,' the T'lan Imass said, his tone once again devoid of inflection. 'Have you completed the fletching for your arrows, Toc the Younger?'

'Aye, like you showed me. They're done, twelve of the ugliest-looking arrows I've ever had the pleasure of owning. Thank you, Tool. It's outrageous, but I am proud to own them.'

Tool shrugged. 'They will serve you well.'

'I hope you're right.' He rose with a grunt. 'I'll do the meal, then.'

'That is Senu's task.'

Toc squinted at the T'lan Imass. 'Not you, as well? They're Seguleh, Tool, not servants. While Lady Envy isn't here, I will treat them as travelling companions, and be honoured by their company.' He glanced over to find the two warriors staring at him. 'Even if they won't talk to me.'

He took the hares from the T'lan Imass, crouched down beside the hearth. 'Tell me, Tool,' he said as he began skinning the first of the creatures, 'when you're out there hunting ... any sign of other travellers? Are we completely alone on this Lamatath Plain?'

'I have seen no evidence of traders or other humans, Toc the Younger. Bhederin herds, antelope, wolves, coyotes, fox, hares and the occasional plains bear. Birds of prey and birds that scavenge. Various snakes, lizards—'

'A veritable menagerie,' Toc muttered. 'Then how is it that every time I scan the horizons, I see nothing? Nothing. No beasts, no birds, even.'

'The plain is vast,' Tool replied. 'Also, there are the effects of the Tellann warren which surrounds me – though that is much weakened at the moment. Someone has drawn on my life-force, almost to exhaustion. Ask me no questions regarding this. My Tellann powers none the less discourage mortal beasts. Creatures are given to avoidance when able. We are, however, being trailed by a pack of ay'-tog – yellow-haired wolves. But they yet remain shy. Curiosity may overcome that, eventually.'

Toc's gaze returned to Baaljagg. 'Ancient memories.'

'Memories of ice.' The T'lan Imass's cavern eyes were fixed on the Malazan. 'By this and your earlier words, I conclude that something has occurred – a binding of souls – between you and the ay. How?'

'I'm not aware of any binding of souls,' Toc answered, still staring at the sleeping wolf. 'I was granted ... visions. We shared remembrances, I think. How? I don't know. There were emotions within it, Tool, enough to make one despair.' After a moment he returned to cleaning the scrawny creature beneath his hands.

'Every gift is edged.'

Toc grimaced as he gutted the animal. 'Edged. I suppose so. I'm beginning to suspect the truth of the legends – lose an eye to receive the gift of true vision.'

'How did you lose your eye, Toc the Younger?'

'A sizzling chunk from Moon's Spawn – that deathly rain when the Enfilade was in full swing.'

'Stone.'

Toc nodded. 'Stone.' Then he stopped, looked up.

'Obelisk,' Tool said. 'In the ancient Deck of Holds, it was known as Menhir. Touched by stone, mortal – Chen're oral lich'fayle – there, on your brow. I give you a new name. Aral Fayle.'

'I don't recall asking for a new name, Tool.'

'Names are not for the asking, mortal. Names are earned.'

'Huh, sounds like the Bridgeburners.'

'An ancient tradition, Aral Fayle.'

Hood's breath. 'Fine!' he snapped. 'Only I can't see that I've earned anything—'

'You were sent into a Warren of Chaos, mortal. You survived – in itself an unlikely event – and travelled the slow vortex towards the Rent. Then, when Morn's portal should have taken you, it instead cast you out. Stone has taken one of your eyes. And the ay here has chosen you in the sharing of her soul. Baaljagg has seen in you a rare worthiness, Aral Fayle—'

'I still don't want any new names! Hood's breath!' He was sweating beneath his worn, dust-caked armour. He searched desperately for a way to change the subject, to shift the conversation away from himself. 'What's yours mean, anyway? Onos T'oolan – what's that from?'

'Onos is "clanless man". T' is "broken". Ool is "veined" while lan is "flint" and in combination T'oolan is "flawed flint".'

Toc stared at the T'lan Imass for a long moment. 'Flawed flint.'

'There are layers of meaning.'

'I'd guessed.'

'From a single core are struck blades, each finding its own use. If veins or knots of crystal lie hidden within the heart of the core, the shaping of the blades cannot be predicted. Each blow to the core breaks off useless pieces – hinge-fractured, step-fractured. Useless. Thus it was with the family in which I was born. Struck wrong, each and all.'

'Tool, I see no flaws in you.'

'In pure flint all the sands are aligned. All face in the same direction. There is unity of purpose. The hand that shapes such flint can be confident. I was of Tarad's clan. Tarad's reliance in me was misplaced. Tarad's clan no longer exists. At the Gathering, Logros was chosen to command the clans native to the First Empire. He had the expectation that my sister, a Bonecaster, would be counted among his servants. She defied the ritual, and so the Logros T'lan Imass were weakened. The First Empire fell. My two brothers, T'ber Tendara and Han'ith lath, led hunters to the north and never returned. They too failed. I was chosen First Sword, yet I have abandoned Logros T'lan Imass. I travel alone, Aral Fayle, and thus am committing the greatest crime known among my people.'

'Wait a moment,' Toc objected. 'You said you're heading to a second Gathering – you're returning to your people ...'

The undead warrior did not respond, head slowly turning to gaze northward.

Baaljagg rose, stretched, then padded to Tool's side. The massive creature sat, matching the T'lan Imass's silent regard.

A sudden chill whispered through Toc the Younger. Hood's breath, what are we headed into? He glanced at Senu and Thurule. The Seguleh seemed to be watching him. 'Hungry, I gather. I see your bridling impatience. If you like, I could—'

 

Rage.

Cold, deadly.

Unhuman.

Toc was suddenly elsewhere, seeing through a beast's eyes – but not the ay, not this time. And not images from long ago, but from this moment; behind which tumbled a cascade of memories. A moment later, all sense of himself was swallowed, his identity swept away before the storm of another creature's thoughts.

It has been so long since life found shape . . . with words, with awareness.

And now, too late.

Muscles twitched, leaked blood from beneath his slashed, torn hide. So much blood, soaking the ground under his flesh, smearing the grasses in a crawling track up the hill's slope.

Crawling, a journey of return. To find oneself, now, at the very end. And memories awakened ...

The final days – so long ago, now – had been chaotic. The ritual had unravelled, unexpectedly, unpredictably. Madness gripped the Soletaken. Madness splintered the more powerful of his kin, broke one into many, the burgeoning power wild, blood-hungry, birthing the D'ivers. The Empire was tearing itself apart.

But that was long ago, so very long ago ...

I am Treach – one of many names. Trake, the Tiger of Summer, the Talons of War. Silent Hunter. I was there at the end, one of the few survivors once the T'lan Imass were done with us. Brutal, merciful slaughter. They had no choice – I see that now, though none of us were prepared to forgive. Not then. The wounds were too fresh.

Gods, we tore a warren to pieces on that distant continent. Turned the eastlands into molten stone that cooled and became something that defied sorcery. The T'lan Imass sacrificed thousands to cut away the cancer we had become. It was the end, the end of all that promise, all that bright glory. The end of the First Empire. Hubris, to have claimed a name that rightly belonged to the T'lan Imass...

We fled, a handful of survivors. Ryllandaras, old friend – we fell out, clashed, then clashed again on another continent. He had gone the farthest, found a way to control the gifts – Soletaken and D'ivers both. White Jackal. Ay'tog. Agkor. And my other companion, Messremb – where has he gone? A kind soul, twisted by madness, yet so loyal, ever loyal. . .

Ascending. Fierce arrival – the First Heroes. Dark, savage.

I remember a vast sweep of grasses beneath a sky deepening to dusk. A wolf, its single eye like a smear of moonlight, on a distant ridgeline. This strangely singular memory, sharp as talons, returning to me now. Why?

I padded this earth for thousands of years, sunk deep into the beast, human memories fading, fading, gone. And yet . . . this vision of the wolf, awakening all within me . . .

I am Treach. Memories returning in full flood, even as my body grows cold, so very cold.

He'd tracked the mysterious beasts for days, driven by relentless curiosity. A scent unknown to him, a swirling wake of death and old blood. Fearless, he'd thought only of delivering destruction, as he had done without challenge for so long. The White Jackal had vanished into the mists centuries past, dead, or if not dead, then as good as. Treach had driven him from a ledge, sent him spinning and writhing down into the fathomless crevasse. No enemies worthy of the name since then. The tiger's arrogance was legendary – it had not been difficult, embracing such assurity.

The four K'Chain Che'Malle hunters had circled back, awaited him with cold intent.

I tore into them. Slashed flesh, shattered bones. I dragged one down, fangs deep in its lifeless neck. Another moment, another heartbeat, and there would have been but three.

So close a thing . . .

Treach lay dying from a dozen mortal wounds. Indeed, he should have been dead already, yet he clung on, with blind, bestial determination, fuelled by rage. The four K'Chain Che'Malle had left him, contemptuously, knowing he would not rise again and immune to mercy.

Prone on the grasses, the Tiger of Summer had watched with dulled eyes as the creatures padded away, noted with satisfaction as an arm on one of them, dangling from the thinnest strip of skin, finally parted and fell to the ground – to be left behind with utter indifference.

Then, as the undead hunters reached the crest of a nearby hill, his eyes had flashed. A sleek, long black shape flowed from the grasses, was among his slayers. Power flowed like black water. The first K'Chain Che'Malle withered beneath the onslaught.

The clash descended beyond the crest, beyond Treach's line of sight, yet, dimly heard past the deafening thunder of his waning life, the battle continued. He began dragging himself forward, inch by inch.

Within moments, all sounds from the other side of the hill fell away, yet Treach struggled on, his blood a slick trail behind him, his amber eyes fixed on the crest, his will to live reduced to something bestial, something that refused to recognize an end to its life.

I have seen this. Antelope. Bhederin. The wilful denial, the pointless struggle, efforts to escape, even as throat gushes blood to fill my mouth. Limbs kicking in the illusion of running, of fleeing, even as I begin feeding. I have seen this, and now understand it.

The tiger is humbled by memories of prey.

He forgot the reason for the struggle to reach the crest, knew only that he must achieve it, a final ascent, to see what lay beyond.

What lay beyond. Yes. A sun low on the horizon. The endless sweep of unbroken, untamed prairie. A final vision of wildness, before I slink through Hood's cursed gates.

She appeared before him, sleek and muscled and smooth-skinned. A woman, small yet not frail, the fur of a panther on her shoulders, her long black hair unkempt yet gleaming in the day's dying light. Almond-shaped eyes, amber like his own. Heart-shaped face, robustly featured.

Coarse queen, why does this sight of you break my heart?

She approached, settled down to lift his massive head, rest it against her lap. Small hands stroked the blood and dried froth from around his eyes. 'They are destroyed,' she said in the ancient language, the language of the First Empire. 'Not so difficult – you left them with little, Silent Hunter. Indeed, they veritably flew apart at my softest touch.'

Liar.

She smiled. 'I have crossed your wake before, Treach, yet would not approach – recalling your rage when we destroyed your empire, so long ago.'

It has long cooled, Imass. You did only what was necessary. You mended the wounds—

'The Imass cannot take credit for that. Others were involved in the task of repairing the shattered warren. We did nothing but slay your kind – those whom we could find, that is. It is our singular skill.'

Killing.

'Yes. Killing.'

I cannot return to my human form. I cannot find it within myself.

'It has been too long, Treach.'

Now, I die.

'Yes. I have no skills in healing.'

Within his mind, he smiled. No, only killing.

'Only killing.'

Then an end to my suffering, please.

'That is the man speaking. The beast would never ask such a thing. Where is your defiance, Treach? Where is your cunning?'

Do you mock me?

'No. I am here. As are you. Tell me, who then is this other presence?'

Other?

'Who has unchained your memories, Treach? Who has returned you to yourself? For centuries you were a beast, with a beast's mind. Once that place is reached, there is no return. Yet. . .'

Yet I am here.

'When your life fades from this world, Treach, I suspect you will find yourself, not before Hood's gates, but . . . elsewhere. I can offer nothing of certainty. But I have sensed the stirrings. An Elder God is active once again, perhaps the most ancient one of all. Subtle moves are being made. Select mortals have been chosen, and are being shaped. Why? What does this Elder God seek? I know not, but I believe it is in answer to a grave – and vast – threat. I believe the game that has begun will take a long time in its playing out.'

A new war?

'Are you not the Tiger of Summer? A war in which, this Elder God has judged, you will be needed.'

Wry amusement flooded Treach's mind. I have never been needed, Imass.

'Changes have come. Upon us all, it seems.'

Ah, then we shall meet again? I would wish it. I would see you, once more, as the midnight panther.

She laughed, low in her throat. 'And so the beast awakens. Farewell, Treach.'

She had, in that last moment, seen what he only now felt. Darkness closed around him, narrowed his world. Vision ... from two eyes... to one.

One. Looking across a stretch of grasses as night fell, watching the massive Soletaken tiger pause warily above the dead bull ranag upon which it had been feeding. Seeing the twin flares of its cold, challenging glare. All ... so long ago, now . . .

Then nothing.

 

A gloved hand slapped him hard. Groggily, Toc the Younger pried open his lone eye, found himself staring up at Senu's painted mask.

'Uh...'

'An odd time to fall asleep,' the Seguleh said tonelessly, then straightened and moved away.

The air was sweet with the smell of roasting meat. Groaning, Toc rolled over, then slowly sat up. Echoes rolled through him, ineffable sadness, half-formed regrets, and the long exhalation of a final breath. Gods, no more visions. Please. He struggled to clear his head, looked around. Tool and Baaljagg had not moved from their stance of before: both staring northward, motionless and – Toc eventually realized – taut with tension. And he thought he knew why.

'She's not far off,' he said. 'Coming fast.' With the night, flowing as the sun flees. Deadly majesty; ancient, so very ancient, eyes.

Tool turned. 'What have you seen, Aral Fayle? To where did you journey?'

The Malazan clambered weakly upright. 'Beru fend, I'm hungry. Hungry enough to eat that antelope raw.' He paused, drew a deep breath. 'What have I seen? I was witness, T'lan Imass, to the death of Treach. Trake, as he's known round here, the Tiger of Summer. Where? North of here. Not far. And no, I don't know why.'

Tool was silent for a moment, then he simply nodded and said, 'Chen're oral lich'fayle. The Menhir, heart of memory.' He swung round again as Baaljagg rose suddenly, hackles rising.

The panther that Toc knew was coming finally appeared, more than twice a man's height in length, eyes almost level with Toc's own, her sleek fur blue-black and shimmering. A scent of spice swept forward like an exhaled breath, and the creature began sembling, the shift an uncertain blurring, a folding in of darkness itself. Then a small woman stood before them, her eyes on Tool. 'Hello, brother.'

The T'lan Imass slowly nodded. 'Sister.'

'You've not aged well,' she noted, lithely stepping forward.

Baaljagg backed away.

'You have.'

Her smile transformed bold features into a thing of beauty. 'Generous of you, Onos. You have a mortal ay for a companion, I see.'

'As mortal as you, Kilava Onass.'

'Indeed? Predictably shy of my kind, of course. None the less, an admirable beast.' She held out a hand.

Baaljagg edged closer.

'Imass,' she murmured. 'Yes, but flesh and blood. Like you. Do you remember, now?'

The huge wolf ducked her head and padded up to Kilava, leaned a shoulder against that of the woman, who pressed her face into the animal's mane, drew deep the scent, then sighed. 'This is an unexpected gift,' she whispered.

'More than that,' Toc the Younger said.

He twisted inside as she looked up at him to reveal the raw sensuality in her eyes, a thing so clearly natural that he knew in an instant that he was no more the focus of it than anyone else upon whom she turned her gaze. The Imass as they once were, before the Ritual. As they would have remained, if, like her, they had refused its power. A moment later, those eyes narrowed.

Toc nodded.

'I saw you,' she said, 'looking out from Treach's eyes—'

'Both eyes?'

She smiled. 'No. Only one – the one you no longer have, mortal. I would know what the Elder God has planned ... for us.'

He shook his head. 'I don't know. I can't recall ever meeting him, alas. Not even a whisper in my ear.'

'Brother Onos, who is this mortal?'

'I have named him Aral Fayle, sister.'

'And you have given him weapons of stone.'

'I have. Unintended.'

'By you, perhaps ...'

'I serve no god,' Tool growled.

Her eyes flashed. 'And I do? These steps are not our own, Onos! Who would dare manipulate us? An Imass Bonecaster and the First Sword of the T'lan Imass – prodded this way and that. He risks our wrath—'

'Enough,' Tool sighed. 'You and I are not of a kind, sister. We have never walked in step. I travel to the Second Gathering.'

Her sneer was decidedly unpleasant. 'Think you I did not hear the summons?'

'Made by whom? Do you know, Kilava?'

'No, nor do I care. I shall not attend.'

Tool cocked his head. 'Then why are you here?'

'That is my business.'

She seeks . . . redress. The realization flooded Toc's mind, and he knew that the knowledge was not his, but an Elder God's. Who now spoke directly, in a voice that trickled like sand into the Malazan's thoughts. To right an old wrong, heal an old scar. You shall cross paths again. It is, however, of little consequence. It is the final meeting that concerns me, and that will be years away in all likelihood. Ah, but I reveal unworthy impatience. Mortal, the children of the Pannion Seer are suffering. You must find a way to release them. It is difficult – a risk beyond imagining – but I must send you into the Seer's embrace. I do not think you will forgive me.

Struggling, Toc pushed his question forward in his mind. Release them. Why?

An odd question, mortal. I speak of compassion. There are gifts unimagined in such efforts. A man who dreams has shown me this, and indeed, you shall soon see for yourself. Such gifts . . .

'Compassion,' Toc said, mentally jarred by the Elder God's sudden departure. He blinked, saw that Tool and Kilava were staring at him. The woman's face had paled.

'My sister,' the First Sword said, 'knows nothing of compassion.'

Toc stared at the undead warrior, trying to retrieve what had been spoken last – before the ... visitation. He could not recall.

'Brother Onos, you should have realized it by now,' Kilava slowly said. 'All things change.' Studying Toc once more, the woman smiled, but it was a smile of sorrow. 'I leave now—'

'Kilava.' Tool stepped forward, a faint clash of bones and skin. 'The ritual that sundered you from your kin, the breaking of blood-ties – this Second Gathering, perhaps ...'

Her expression softened. 'Dear brother, the summoner cares nothing for me. My ancient crime will not be undone. Moreover, I suspect that what will await you at the Second Gathering will not be as you imagine. But I... I thank you, Onos T'oolan, for the kind thought.'

'I said ... we do not ... travel in step,' the undead warrior whispered, struggling with each word. 'I was angry, sister – but it is an old anger. Kilava—'

'Old anger, yes. But you were right, none the less. We have never walked in step with each other. Our past ever dogs our trail. Perhaps some day we will mend our shared wounds, brother. This meeting has given me . . . hope.' She briefly laid a hand on Baaljagg's head, then turned away.

Toc watched her vanish into the dusk's shroud.

Another clattering of bones within leather skin made him swing round. To see Tool on his knees, head hung. There could be no tears from a corpse, yet ...

Toc hesitated, then strode to the undead warrior. 'There was untruth in your words, Tool,' he said.

Swords hissed out and the Malazan spun to see Senu and Thurule advancing on him.

Tool snapped out a hand. 'Stop! Sheathe your weapons, Seguleh. I am immune to insults – even those delivered by one I would call a friend.'

'Not an insult,' Toc said levelly, turning back to the T'lan Imass. 'An observation. What did you call it? The breaking of blood-ties.' He laid a hand on Tool's shoulder. 'It's clear to me, for what that's worth, that the breaking failed. The blood-ties remain. Perhaps you could take heart in that, Onos T'oolan.'

The head tilted up, withered sockets revealed beneath the bone shelf of the helm.

Gods, I look and see nothing. He looks and sees . . . what? Toc the Younger struggled to think of what to do, what to say next. As the moment stretched, he shrugged, offered his hand.

To his amazement, Tool grasped it.

And was lifted upright, though the Malazan grunted with the effort, his every muscle protesting. Hood take me, that's the heaviest sack of bones I've . . . never mind.

Senu broke the silence, his tone firm. 'Stoneblade and Stonearrow, attend. The meal awaits us.'

Now, how in Hood's name did I earn all this? Onos T'oolan. And respect from a Seguleh, no less . . . In a night of wonders, that one surely takes the crown.

'I have truly known but two mortal humans,' Tool said at his side. 'Both underestimated themselves, the first one fatally so. This night, friend Aral Fayle, I shall endeavour to tell you of the fall of Adjunct Lorn.'

'A moral to the tale, no doubt,' Toc commented wryly.

'Indeed.'

'And here I was planning to spend the night tossing bones with Senu and Thurule.'

Senu snapped, 'Come and eat, Stonearrow!'

Uh oh, I think I just overstepped the familiarity thing.

 

Blood had filled the gutters, not long past. Sun and absence of rain had preserved the turgid flow as dust-dulled black, deep enough to hide the hump of the cobbles lying underneath, the mortal river reaching down to the silty waters of the bay.

No-one in Callows had been spared. She had come upon the heaped pyres on her approach down the inland road, and judged the slaughter at perhaps thirty thousand.

Garath ranged ahead, slipping beneath the arch of the gate. She followed at a slower pace.

The city had been beautiful, once. Copper-sheathed domes, minarets, poetically winding streets overlooked by ornate balconies riotous with flowering plants. The lack of hands to nourish the precious plants had turned the gardens brown and grey. Leaves crackled underfoot as Lady Envy walked down the central avenue.

A trader city, a merchants' paradise. The masts of countless ships were visible in the harbour ahead, all motionless, indicating that the crafts had been holed and sat one and all in the mud of the bay.

Ten days, no more, since the slaughter. She could smell Hood's breath, a sigh at unexpected bounty, a faint ripple of unease at what it signified. You are troubled, dear Hood. This bodes ill, indeed ...

Garath led her unerringly, as she knew he would. An ancient, almost forgotten alleyway, the cobbles heaved, cracked and covered in decades of rubbish. Into a small, sagging house, its foundation stones of a far sharper cut than those that rested upon them. Within, a single room with a reed-matted floor of thick, wooden boards. A desultory scatter of poorly made furniture, bronze cooking plate over a brick-housed hearth, rotting foodstuffs. A child's toy wagon off to one side.

The dog circled in the centre of the small room.

Lady Envy approached, kicked aside the reed mats. No trapdoor. The inhabitants had had no idea of what lay beneath their home. She unveiled her warren, passed a hand over the floorboards, watched them dissolve into dust, creating a circular hole. A damp, salty breath wafted from its darkness.

Garath padded to the edge, then dropped out of sight. She heard the clatter of claws some distance below.

With a sigh, Lady Envy followed.

No stairs, and the pavestones of the floor were a long time in halting her warren-slowed fall. Vision enhanced, she looked around, then sniffed. The temple was all of this one chamber, squalid, once low-ceilinged though the beams of that roof had long since vanished. There was no raised altarstone, but she knew that for this particular ascendant, the entire floor of cut stone served that sacred function. Back in the days of blood ... 'I can imagine what awakened this place to you,' she said, eyes on Garath, who had lain down and was moments from sleep. 'All that blood, seeping down, dripping, dripping onto your altar. I admit, I prefer your abode in Darujhistan. Far grander, almost worthy of complementing my esteemed presence. But this . . .' Her nose wrinkled.

Garath, eyes closed, twitched.

Welcome, Lady Envy.

'Your summons was uncharacteristically distraught, K'rul. Is this the work of the Matron and her undead hunters? If so, then calling me here was unnecessary. I am well aware of their efficacy.'

Crippled and chained he may be, Lady Envy, but this particular god is never so obvious. His game displays a master's sleight of hand. Nothing is as he would have us believe, and his use of unwitting servants is as brutal as his treatment of enemies. Consider, after all, the Pannion Seer. No, for Callows, death came from the sea. A warren-twisted fleet. Cold-eyed, unhuman killers. Seeking, ever seeking, they now ply the world's oceans.

'Seeking what, dare I ask?'

A worthy challenge, no less.

'And do these dreadful seaborne murderers have a name?'

One enemy at a time, Lady Envy. You must cultivate patience.

She crossed her arms. 'You sought me out, K'rul, and you can be certain that I had not anticipated that you and I would ever meet again. The Elder Gods are gone, and good riddance, as far as I'm concerned – and that includes my father, Draconus. Were we companions two hundred thousand years ago, you and I? I think not, though the memories are admittedly vague. Not enemies, true enough. But friends? Allies? Most certainly not. Yet here you have come. I have gathered your own unwitting servants, as you asked. Have you any idea the demands on my energies to hold those three Seguleh in check?'

Ah, yes, and where is the Third now?

'Stretched senseless half a league from the city. It was vital to get him away from that T'lan Imass – the gods know, I didn't drag him along for the company. You're missing my point, K'rul. The Seguleh will not be controlled. Indeed, I wonder who humours whom when it comes to those three frightful warriors. Mok will challenge Tool. Mark my words, and while a part of me thrills at the thought – to witness such a clash! None the less, the destruction of one or the other will ill suit your plans, I imagine. The First Sword was almost defeated by Thurule, you know. Mok will chop him into kindling—'

K'rul's soft laughter filled her head. Hopefully, not before Mok and his brothers have carved their way into the Pannion Seer's throne room. Besides, Onos T'oolan is far more subtle of thought than you might imagine, Lady Envy. Let them battle, if Mok so chooses. I suspect, however, that the Third may well surprise you with his . . . constraint.

'Constraint? Tell me, K'rul, did you think the Seguleh First would send someone as highly ranked as the Third to lead his punitive army?'

Admittedly, no. For this task, of splitting the Seer's forces into two fronts, I had expected perhaps three or four hundred Eleventh Level initiates. Sufficient to inconvenience the Seer enough to draw an army or two away from the approaching Malazans. Yet, with the Second missing, and with Mok's growing prowess, no doubt the First had his reasons.

'One final question, then. Why am I doing you these favours, anyway?'

As petulant as ever, I see. Very well. You chose to turn your back on the need, when last it arose. Disappointing, that, yet enough did indeed attend to manage the Chaining – although at a cost that your presence would have diminished. But, even chained, the Crippled God will not rest. He exists in endless, tormenting pain, shattered, broken within and without, yet he has turned that into a strength. The fuel for his rage, his hunger for vengeance—

'The fools who pulled him down are long dead, K'rul. Vengeance is just an excuse. The Crippled God is driven by ambition. Lust for power is the core of his rotten, shrivelled heart.'

Perhaps, perhaps not. Time will tell, as the mortals say. In any case, you defied the summons at the Chaining, Lady Envy. I will not brook your indifference a second time.

'You?' She sneered. 'Are you my master, K'rul? Since when—'

Visions flooded her mind, staggering her. Darkness. Then chaos, wild, unfocused power, a universe devoid of sense, of control, of meaning. Entities flung through the maelstrom. Lost, terrified by the birth of light. A sudden sharpening – pain as of wrists opened, the heat spilling forth – a savage imposition of order, the heart from which blood flowed in even, steady streams. Twin chambers to that heart – Kurald Galain, the Warren of Mother Dark – and Starvald Demelain, the Warren of . . . Dragons. And the blood – the power – now sweeping in currents through veins, through arteries, branching out through all existence, and the thought that came to her then stole all warmth from her flesh. Those veins, those arteries, they are the warrens. 'Who created this? Who?'

Dear Lady, K'rul replied, you have your answer, and I will be damned if I am going to countenance your impertinence. You are a sorceress. By Light's Wild Mane, your power feeds on the very blood of my eternal soul, and I will have your obedience in this!

Lady Envy staggered another step, suddenly released by the visions, disorientated, her heart thudding in her chest. She drew in a sharp breath. 'Who knows the ... the truth, K'rul?' That, in striding through the warrens, we travel through your very flesh. That, when we draw upon the power of the warrens, we draw your very blood? Who knows?'

She felt a casual shrug in his reply.

Anomander Rake, Draconus, Osric, a handful of others. And now you. Forgive me, Lady Envy, I have no wish to be a tyrant. My presence within the warrens has ever been passive – you are free to do as you choose, as is every other creature who swims my immortal blood. I have but one excuse, if you will. This Crippled God, this stranger from an unknown realm . . . Lady Envy, I am frightened.

A chill stole through her as the words sank into her mind.

K'rul continued after a moment. We have lost allies in our foolishness. Dassem Ultor, who was broken by Hood's taking of his daughter at the Time of the Chaining – this was a devastating blow. Dassem Ultor, the First Sword reborn—

'Do you think,' she asked slowly, 'that Hood would have taken her for the Chaining, had I answered the summons?' Am I, she wondered, to blame for Dassem Ultor's loss?

Hood alone could answer that question, Lady Envy. And he'd likely lie, in any case. Dassem, his Champion – Dessembrae – had grown to rival his power. There is little value in worrying such questions, beyond the obvious lesson that inaction is a deadly choice. Consider: from Dassem's fall, a mortal empire now totters on the edge of chaos. From Dassem's fall, the Shadow Throne found a new occupant. From Dassem's fall. . . ah, well, the tumbling dominoes are almost countless. It is done.

'What is it you wish of me, now, K'rul?'

There was need. To show you the vastness of the threat. This Pannion Domin is but a fragment of the whole, yet you must lead my chosen into its very heart.

'And once there? Am I a match for the power that resides there?'

Perhaps, but that is a path it may prove unwise to take, Lady Envy. I shall trust in your judgement, and in that of others, unwitting and otherwise. Indeed, you may well choose to cut the knot that is at the heart of the Domin. Or, you may find a way to loosen it, to free all that has been bound for three hundred thousand years.

'Very well, we shall play it as it comes. What joy! I can leave now? I so long to return to the others, to Toc the Younger in particular. He's a darling, isn't he?'

Take great care of him, Lady. The scarred and the flawed are what the Crippled God seeks in his servants. I shall endeavour to keep Toc's soul from the Chained One's grasp, but, please, maintain your guard. Also . . . there is something else to that man, something . . . wild. We shall have to await its awakening before understanding comes to us, however. Oh, one last thing...

'Yes?'

Your party nears the Domin's territory. When you return to them, you must not attempt your warren in an effort to hasten your journey.

'Why?'

Within the Pannion Domin, Lady, my blood is poisoned. It is a poison you can defeat, but Toc the Younger cannot.

Garath awoke, rose and stretched before her. K'rul was gone.

'Oh my,' Lady Envy whispered, suddenly soaked in sweat. 'Poisoned. By the Abyss ... I need a bath. Come, Garath, let us go collect the Third. Shall I awaken him with a kiss?'

The dog glanced over at her.

'Twin scars on his mask, and the imprint of painted lips! Would he be the Fourth, then, or the Fifth? How do they count lips, do you think? One upper, one lower, or both together? Let's find out.'

 

Dust and the dark swirl of sorcery rose beyond the hills directly ahead.

'Shield Anvil,' Farakalian said, 'have our allies already sprung a trap?'

Itkovian frowned. 'I do not know. No doubt we shall discover the truth when they elect to reappear and inform us.'

'Well,' the soldier muttered, 'that is a fight before us. An ugly one, by the looks of the magic unleashed.'

'I'll not argue that observation, sir,' the Shield Anvil replied. 'Riders, re-form as inverted crescent, hands to weapons. Slow trot to first line-of-sight.'

The decimated wing fell into formation, rode on.

They were close to the trader road, now, Itkovian judged. If a caravan had been hit by some of these K'Chain Che'Malle, the outcome was foregone. A caravan with an attendant mage or two might well make a fight of it, and from the brimstone stench that now wafted towards them, the latter circumstance seemed the likeliest.

As they approached a rise, a row of T'lan Imass emerged to stand along its crest, backs to Itkovian and his riders. The Shield Anvil counted a dozen. Perhaps the rest were busy with the battle – still beyond his line of sight. He saw the Bonecaster Pran Chole and angled his new horse in the undead shaman's direction.

They reached the rise. The sorcerous detonations had ceased, all sounds of battle fading away.

The trader road ran below. Two carriages had made up the caravan, one much larger than the other. Both had been destroyed, ripped apart. Splintered wood, plush padding and clothes lay strewn on all sides. On a low hill off to the right lay three figures, the ground blackened around them. None moved. Eight more bodies were visible around the wagons, only two conscious – black-chain-armoured men slowly regaining their feet.

These details registered only briefly on the Shield Anvil's senses. Wandering among the dismembered corpses of five K'Chain Che'Malle hunters were hundreds of huge, gaunt wolves – with pitted eyes that were a match to those of the T'lan Imass.

Studying the silent, terrifying creatures, Itkovian spoke to Pran Chole. 'Are these ... yours, sir?'

The Bonecaster at his side shrugged. 'Gone from our company for a time. T'lan Ay often accompany us, but are not bound to us . . . beyond the Ritual itself He was silent for a long moment, then continued, 'We had thought them lost. But it seems that they too have heard the summons. Three thousand years since our eyes last rested upon the T'lan Ay.'

Itkovian finally looked down on the undead shaman. 'Is that a hint of pleasure in your voice, Pran Chole?'

'Yes. And sorrow.'

'Why sorrow? From the looks of it, these T'lan Ay took not a single loss against these K'Chain Che'Malle. Four, five hundred . . . against five. Swift destruction.'

The Bonecaster nodded. 'Their kind are skilled at defeating large beasts. My sorrow arises from a flawed mercy, mortal. At the First Gathering, our misplaced love for the ay – these few that remained – led us onto a cruel path. We chose to include them in the Ritual. Our selfish needs were a curse. All that made the flesh and blood ay honourable, proud creatures was taken away. Now, like us, they are husks, plagued by dead memories.'

'Even undead, they have majesty,' Itkovian acknowledged. 'As with you.'

'Majesty in the T'lan Ay, yes. Among the T'lan Imass? No, mortal. None.'

'We differ in opinion, then, Pran Chole.' Itkovian turned to address his soldiers. 'Check the fallen.'

The Shield Anvil rode down to the two chain-clad men, who now stood together beside the remnants of the larger of the two carriages. Their ringed armour was in tatters. Blood leaked from them, forming sodden pools at their feet. Something about the two men made Itkovian uneasy, but he pushed the emotion away.

The bearded one swung to face the Shield Anvil as he reined in before them. 'I bid you welcome, warrior,' he said, his accent strange to Itkovian's ears. 'Extraordinary events, just past.'

Despite his inner discipline, his unease deepened. None the less, he managed an even tone as he said, 'Indeed, sir. I am astonished, given the attention the K'ell Hunters evidently showed you two, that you are still standing.'

'We are resilient individuals, in truth.' His flat gaze scanned the ground beyond the Shield Anvil. 'Alas, our companions were found lacking in such resources.'

Farakalian, having conferred with the soldiers crouched among the fallen, now rode towards Itkovian.

'Shield Anvil. Of the three Barghast on the hill, one lies dead. The other two are injured, but will survive with proper ministration. Of the rest, only one breathes no more. An array of injuries to attend to. Two may yet die, sir. None of the survivors has yet regained consciousness. Indeed, each seems in unusually deep sleep.'

Itkovian glanced at the bearded man. 'Do you know more of this unnatural sleep, sir?'

'I am afraid not.' He faced Farakalian. 'Sir, among the survivors, can you include a tall, lean, somewhat elderly man, and a shorter, much older one?'

'I can. The former, however, hovers at the gates.'

'We'd not lose him, if at all possible.'

Itkovian spoke, 'Soldiers of the Grey Swords are skilled in the art of healing, sir. They shall endeavour to the best of their abilities, and no more can be asked of them.'

'Of course. I am ... distraught.'

'Understood.' The Shield Anvil addressed Farakalian: 'Draw on the Destriant's power if necessary.'

'Yes, sir.'

He watched the man ride off.

'Warrior,' the bearded man said, 'I am named Bauchelain, and my companion here is Korbal Broach. I must ask, these undead servants of yours – four-footed and otherwise—'

'Not servants, Bauchelain. Allies. These are T'lan Imass. The wolves, T'lan Ay.'

'T'lan Imass,' the one named Korbal Broach whispered in a reedy thin voice, his eyes suddenly bright as he stared at the figures on the ridge. 'Undead, born of the greatest necromantic ritual there has ever been! I would speak with them!' He swung to Bauchelain. 'May I? Please?'

'As you wish,' Bauchelain replied with an indifferent shrug.

'A moment,' Itkovian said. 'You both bear wounds that require attending to.'

'No need, Shield Anvil, though I thank you for your concern. We heal . . . swiftly. Please, concentrate on our companions. Now, that is odd – our beasts of burden and sundry horses are untouched – do you see? Fortunate indeed, once I complete my repairs to our carriage.'

Itkovian studied the wreckage to which Bauchelain now swung his attention.

Repairs? 'Sir, we return to Capustan immediately. There will be no time to spare effecting ... repairs ... to your carriage.'

'I shall not be long, I assure you.'

A shout from the ridge pulled the Shield Anvil round, in time to see Korbal Broach flying backwards from a backhanded blow – delivered by the Bonecaster Pran Chole. The man struck the slope, rolled down to its base.

Bauchelain sighed. 'He lacks manners, alas,' he said, eyes on his companion, who was slowly regaining his feet. 'The price of a sheltered, nay, isolated childhood. I hope the T'lan Imass are not too offended. Tell me, Shield Anvil, do these undead warriors hold grudges?'

Itkovian allowed himself a private smile. You can ask that of the next Jaghut we happen across. 'I wouldn't know, sir.'

 

From the ruins of the smaller carriage, three wide travois were cobbled together. The T'lan Imass fashioned leather harnesses for the undead ay chosen to pull them. The caravan's collection of horses went under the care of Farakalian and the recruit.

Itkovian watched Korbal Broach lead the oxen back to the rebuilt carriage. The Shield Anvil found his gaze avoiding the contraption; the details in the mending made his skin crawl. Bauchelain had elected to use the various bones of the dismembered K'Chain Che'Malle hunters in the reconstruction. Sorcerously melded into the carriage's frame, the bones formed a bizarre skeleton, which Bauchelain then covered with swathes of grey, pebbled skin. The effect was horrific.

Yet no more so than the carriage's owners, I suspect . . .

Pran Chole appeared at the Shield Anvil's side. 'Our preparations are complete, soldier.'

Itkovian nodded, then said in a low voice, 'Bonecaster, what do you make of these two sorcerers?'

'The unmanned one is insane, yet the other is the greater threat. They are not welcome company, Shield Anvil.'

'Unmanned?' Itkovian's eyes narrowed on Korbal Broach. 'A eunuch. Yes, of course. They are necromancers?'

'Yes. The unmanned one plies the chaos on the edge of Hood's realm. The other has more arcane interests – a summoner, of formidable power.'

'We cannot abandon them, none the less.'

'As you wish.' The Bonecaster hesitated, then said, 'Shield Anvil, the injured mortals are, one and all, dreaming.'

'Dreaming?'

'A familiar flavour,' the T'lan Imass said. 'They are being ... protected. I look forward to their awakening, in particular the priest. Your soldiers displayed considerable skill in healing.'

'Our Destriant is High Denul – we are able to draw on his power in times of need, though I imagine his mood is dark at the moment. Exhausted, knowing that healing has occurred, but little else. Karnadas dislikes uncertainty. As does the Mortal Sword, Brukhalian.' He gathered his reins, straightened in the saddle. 'The eunuch has completed his task. We may now proceed. We shall ride through the night, sir, greeting the dawn at Capustan's gates.'

'And the presence of the T'lan Imass and T'lan Ay?' Pran Chole enquired.

'Hidden, if you please. Excepting those ay pulling the travois. They shall lead their charges through the city and into the compound in our barracks.'

'And you have reason for this, Shield Anvil?'

Itkovian nodded.

The sun low at their backs, the entourage set off.

 

Hands folded on his lap, the Destriant looked upon Prince Jelarkan with deep sympathy. No, more than that, given the man's obvious exhaustion ... empathy. Karnadas's head pounded behind his eyes. His Denul warren felt hollow, coated with ash. Were he to have left his hands on the tabletop, their tremble would have been obvious.

Behind him, the Mortal Sword paced.

Itkovian and two wings rode the plain to the west, and something had happened. Concern echoed in every restless step at the Destriant's back.

The prince of Capustan's eyes were squeezed shut, fingers kneading his temples beneath the circlet of cold-hammered copper that was his crown. Twenty-two years old, his lined, drawn face could have belonged to a man of forty. His shaved pate revealed the scatter of moles that marked his royal line, as if he had been sprayed in blood that had since dried and grown dark. After a long sigh, the prince spoke. 'The Mask Council will not be swayed, Mortal Sword. They insist that their Gidrath occupy the outlying strongpoints.'

'Those fortifications will become isolated once the siege begins, Prince,' Brukhalian rumbled.

'I know. We both know. Isolated, dismantled, every soldier within slaughtered ... then raped. The priests fancy themselves master strategists in warfare. A religious war, after all. The temples' own elite warriors must strike the first blows.'

'No doubt they will,' Brukhalian said. 'And little else.'

'And little else. Perhaps corridors, a series of sorties to effect a withdrawal—'

'Costing yet more lives, Prince, and likely to fail. My soldiers will not be party to suicide. And please, do not attempt to impose your will on me in this. We are contracted to hold the city. In our judgement, the best means of doing so are with maintaining the walls. The redoubts have always been a liability – they will serve the enemy better than they will serve us, as headquarters, defensible rallying positions. The Gidrath will be handing them fortifications in the killing ground. Once siege weapons are stationed there, we shall suffer ceaseless bombardment.'

'The Mask Council does not expect the strongpoints to fall, Mortal Sword. Nailed to that particular belief, all your stated fears are irrelevant, as far as they are concerned.'

There was silence, apart from Brukhalian's uncharacteristic pacing. The prince looked up finally, brown eyes following the Mortal Sword's catlike padding. Jelarkan frowned, then sighed and pushed himself to his feet. 'I need leverage, Mortal Sword. Find it for me, and quickly.' He swung about and strode to the chamber's doors, where waited his two bodyguards.

As soon as the massive doors closed behind the prince, Brukhalian spun to Karnadas. 'Do they continue to draw on your powers, sir?'

The Destriant shook his head. 'Not for some time, now, since shortly after the prince's unexpected visit. In any case, sir, they have taken all I possess, and it will be days before I fully recover.'

Brukhalian released a long, slow breath. 'Well, the risk of a skirmish was recognized. From this, we must conclude that the Pannion has sent forces across the river. The question is, how many?'

'Sufficient to maul two wings, it seems.'

'Then Itkovian should have avoided engagement.'

Karnadas studied the Mortal Sword. 'Unworthy, sir. The Shield Anvil understands caution. If avoidance was possible, he would have done so.'

'Aye,' Brukhalian growled. 'I know.'

Voices at the compound's outer gates reached through to the two men. Hooves clapped on the cobbles.

Sudden tension filled the chamber, yet neither man spoke.

The doors swung open and they turned to see Itkovian's outrider, Sidlis. The soldier took two steps into the room, then halted and tilted her head. 'Mortal Sword. Destriant. I bring word from the Shield Anvil.'

'You have seen battle, sir,' Brukhalian murmured.

'We have. A moment, sirs.' Sidlis swung about and softly shut the doors. She faced the commander and priest. 'Demonic servants of the Pannion Seer are present on the plain,' she said. 'We came upon one and closed with it. The tactics employed should have sufficed, and the damage we delivered was severe and flawlessly executed. The beast, however, was undead – an animated corpse, and this discovery came too late for disengagement. It was virtually impervious to the wounds we delivered. Nevertheless, we succeeded in destroying the demon, though at great cost.'

'Outrider Sidlis,' Karnadas said, 'the battle you describe must have occurred some time past – else you would not be here – yet the demands on my powers of healing have but just ended.'

Sidlis frowned. 'The survivors of the engagement did not require a drawing of your powers, sir. If I may, I will complete the tale, and perhaps further clarification will become ... available.'

Raising an eyebrow at the awkward reply, Brukhalian rumbled, 'Proceed.'

'Upon the destruction of the demon, we regrouped, only to find that four additional demons had arrived.'

The Destriant winced. How, then, are any of you left breathing?

'At that moment, to our fortune,' Sidlis continued, 'unexpected allies arrived. The undead demons were one and all swiftly destroyed. The issue of said alliance of course needs formalization. For the moment, it is the recognition of a common enemy that yielded the combined efforts – which I believe continue at this moment, with the Shield Anvil and the troop riding in the company of our propitious companions, their intent to extend the hunt for more of these fell demons.'

'Given the Destriant's exhaustion,' the Mortal Sword said, 'they found them, it seems.'

Sidlis nodded.

'There is more, sir?' Karnadas asked.

'Sir. Accompanying me are emissaries from these potential allies. The Shield Anvil judged that such negotiation as may follow be solely between the Grey Swords and our guests; and that any decision of revelation, to the prince or to the Mask Council, should only follow considered counsel among yourselves, sirs.'

Brukhalian grunted his agreement. 'The emissaries await in the compound?'

The answer to his question rose in swirls of dust to the outrider's left. Three desiccated, fur-clad figures shimmered into being, rising up from the stone floor. Rotted furs and leathers, skin polished deep brown, massive shoulders and long, muscle-twisted arms.

The Destriant staggered back out of his chair, eyes wide.

Brukhalian had not moved. His eyes narrowed on the three apparitions.

The air suddenly smelled of thawed mud.

'They call themselves the Kron T'lan Imass,' Sidlis said calmly. 'The Shield Anvil judged their warriors to number perhaps fourteen thousand.'

'T'lan Imass,' Karnadas whispered. 'This is a most disturbing ... convergence.'

'If I may make introductions,' Sidlis continued, 'these are Bonecasters – shamans. The one to the far left, upon whose shoulders is the fur of a snow bear, is Bek Okhan. Next to him, in the white wolf fur, is Bendal Home. The Bonecaster at my side, in the skin of a plains bear, is Okral Lorn. I specify the nature of the furs as it relates directly to their ... Soletaken forms. Or so they have informed me.'

The one named Bendal Home stepped forward. 'I bring greeting from Kron of Kron T'lan Imass, mortal,' he said in a soft, smooth whisper. 'Further, I have recent news from the clans escorting your Shield Anvil and his soldiers. Additional K'Chain Che'Malle K'ell Hunters were found, engaged in an attack on a cavaran. These hunters have been despatched. Your soldiers have administered to the wounds of the caravan survivors. All are now returning to Capustan. No further engagements are anticipated, and their arrival will coincide with the dawn.'

Trembling, Karnadas once more sat down in his chair. He struggled to speak past a suddenly parched throat. 'K'Chain Che'Malle? Animated?'

'Thank you, Sidlis,' Brukhalian said. 'You may now depart.' He faced Bendal Home. 'Do I understand correctly that Kron seeks an alliance against the Pannion Domin, and these ... K'Chain Che'Malle?'

The Bonecaster cocked his head, his long, pale hair dangling loose from beneath the wolf-skull helmet. 'Such a battle is not our primary task. We have come to this land in answer to a summons. The presence of K'Chain Che'Malle was unexpected – and unacceptable. Further, we are curious as to the identity of the one named Pannion – we suspect he is not the mortal human you believe him to be. Kron has judged that our involvement in your conflict is required for the present. There is a caveat, however. The one who has summoned us approaches. With her arrival, the Second Gathering of the T'lan Imass will commence. At this time, our disposition will be for her to decide. Furthermore, it may well be that we become ... of less value to you ... upon completion of the Gathering.'

Brukhalian slowly turned to Karnadas. 'Sir? You have questions for the one named Bendal Home?'

'So many that I do not know where to begin, Mortal Sword. Bonecaster, what is this "Gathering" that you speak of?'

'That is a matter for the T'lan Imass, mortal.'

'I see. Well, that shuts the door on one line of inquiry, and its attendant multitude of questions. Regards the Pannion Seer – he is indeed a mortal human. I have seen him myself, and there is no scent of illusion to his flesh and bone. He is an old man, and nothing more.'

'And who stands in his shadow?' the Bonecaster named Bek Okhan rasped.

The Destriant blinked. 'No-one, as far as I can tell.'

The three T'lan Imass said nothing, yet Karnadas suspected a silent exchange among them, and perhaps with their distant kin as well.

'Mortal Sword,' the priest said in a low voice, 'do we inform the prince of this? What of the Mask Council?'

'Further counsel is indeed required before that decision can be made, sir,' Brukhalian replied. 'At the very least, we shall await the return of the Shield Anvil. Furthermore, there is the issue of additional communications this night, is there not?'

Fener's blessing, I'd forgotten. 'Indeed there is.' Quick Ben . . . by the cloven hoof, we have allies stepping out of every closet . . .

Bendal Home spoke. 'Mortal Sword Brukhalian, your soldier Itkovian has decided that their public arrival into the city – with the company of the caravan's wounded – will include six of the T'lan Ay that now accompany our kin.'

'T'lan Ay?' Karnadas asked. 'Not a name I've heard before.'

'Wolves from the times of ice, long ago. Like us, undead.'

Brukhalian smiled.

A moment later, Karnadas also smiled. 'The prince asked for ... leverage, did he not, Mortal Sword?'

'He shall have it, sir.'

'So he shall.'

'If you have further need of us this evening,' Bendal Home said to Brukhalian, 'simply call upon us.'

'Thank you, sirs.'

The three T'lan Imass fell into clouds of dust.

'I take it,' the Destriant murmured, 'we need not offer our guests accommodation.'

'Evidently not. Walk with me, sir, we have much to discuss and scant time.'

Karnadas rose. 'No sleep this night.'

'None, alas.'

 

Two bells before dawn, Brukhalian stood alone in his private chamber. Exhaustion hung on him like a rain-sodden cloak, yet he would not yield to it. The Shield Anvil and his troop were soon to arrive, and the Mortal Sword was determined to await them – a commander could do no less.

A single lantern defied the gloom in the chamber, throwing lurid shadows before it. The centre hearth remained a grey smudge of dead coals and ashes. The air was bitter cold, and it was this alone that kept Brukhalian wakeful.

The sorcerous meeting with Quick Ben and Caladan Brood had proved, beneath its surface courtesies, strained – it was clear to both the Mortal Sword and Karnadas that their distant allies were holding back. The uncertainties plaguing their final intentions, and their guardedness, though understandable in the circumstances, left the two Grey Swords uncomfortable. Relief of Capustan was not, it seemed, their primary goal. An attempt would be made, but the Mortal Sword began to suspect it would be characterized by feints and minor skirmishes – late arriving at best – rather than a direct confrontation. This led Brukhalian to suspect that Caladan Brood's vaunted army, worn down by years of war with this Malazan Empire, had either lost the will to fight, or was so badly mauled that its combat effectiveness was virtually gone.

None the less, he could still think of ways in which to make these approaching allies useful. Often, the perception of threat was sufficient . . . if we can hurt the Septarch badly enough to make him lose his nerve upon the imminent arrival of Brood's relieving army. Or, if the defence crumbled, then an avenue of withdrawal for the Grey Swords was possible. The question then would be, at what point could the Mortal Sword honourably conclude that the contract's objectives no longer obtained? The death of Prince Jelarkan? Collapse of wall defences? Loss of a section of the city?

He sensed the air suddenly tear behind him, the sound like the faintest whisper as of parting fabric. A breath of lifeless wind flowed around him. The Mortal Sword slowly turned.

A tall, gauntly armoured figured was visible within the warren's grey-smeared portal. A face of pallid, lined skin over taut bones, eyes set deep within ridged sockets and brow, the glimmer of tusks protruding above the lower lip. The figure's mouth curved into a faint, mocking smile. 'Fener's Mortal Sword,' he said in the language of the Elin, his voice low and soft, 'I bring you greetings from Hood, Lord of Death.'

Brukhalian grunted, said nothing.

'Warrior,' the apparition continued after a moment, 'your reaction to my arrival seems almost ... laconic. Are you truly as calm as you would have me believe?'

'I am Fener's Mortal Sword,' Brukhalian replied.

'Yes,' the Jaghut drawled, 'I know. I, on the other hand, am Hood's Herald, once known as Gethol. The tale that lies behind my present ... servitude, is more than worthy of an epic poem. Or three. Are you not curious?'

'No.'

The face fell into exaggerated despondency, then the eyes flashed. 'How unimaginative of you, Mortal Sword. Very well, hear then, without comforting preamble, the words of my lord. While none would deny Hood's eternal hunger, and indeed his anticipation for the siege to come, certain complexities of the greater scheme lead my lord to venture an invitation to Fener's mortal soldiers—'

'Then you should be addressing the Tusked One himself, sir,' Brukhalian rumbled.

'Ah, alas, this has proved no longer posssible, Mortal Sword. Fener's attention is elsewhere. In fact, your lord has been drawn, with great reluctance, to the very edge of his realm.' The Herald's unhuman eyes narrowed. 'Fener is in great peril. The loss of your patron's power is imminent. The time has come, Hood has decided, for compassionate gestures, for expressions of the true brotherhood that exists between your lord and mine.'

'What does Hood propose, sir?'

'This city is doomed, Mortal Sword. Yet your formidable army need not join in the inevitable crush at Hood's gate. Such a sacrifice would be pointless, and indeed a great loss. The Pannion Domin is no more than a single, rather minor, element in a far vaster war – a war in which all the gods shall partake ... allied one and all ... against an enemy who seeks nothing less than the annihilation of all rivals. Thus. Hood offers you his warren, a means of extrication for you and your soldiers. Yet you must choose quickly, for the warren's path here cannot survive the arrival of the Pannion's forces.'

'What you offer, sir, demands the breaking of our contract.'

The Herald's laugh was contemptuous. 'As I most vehemently told Hood, you humans are a truly pathetic lot. A contract? Scratchings on vellum? My lord's offer is not a thing to be negotiated.'

'And in accepting Hood's warren,' Brukhalian said quietly, 'the face of our patron changes, yes? Fener's ... inaccessibility ... has made him a liability. And so Hood acts quickly, eager to strip the Boar of Summer's mortal servants, preferably intact, to thereafter serve him and him alone.'

'Foolish man,' Gethol sneered. 'Fener shall be the first casualty in the war with the Crippled God. The Boar shall fall – and none can save him. The patronage of Hood is not casually offered, mortal, to just anyone. To be so honoured—'

'Honoured?' Brukhalian cut in, his voice the slide of iron on stone, his eyes flickering with a strange light. 'Allow me, on Fener's behalf,' he said in a low whisper, 'to comment on the question of honour.' The Mortal Sword's broadsword hissed in a blur from its scabbard, the blade cleaving upward to strike the Herald across the face. Bone snapped, dark blood sprayed.

Gethol reared back a step, withered hands rising to his shattered features.

Brukhalian lowered his weapon, his eyes burning with a deep rage. 'Come forward again, Herald, and I shall resume my commentary.'

'I do not,' Gethol rasped through torn lips, 'appreciate your ... tone. It falls to me to answer in kind, not on Hood's behalf. Not any more. No, this reply shall be mine and mine alone.' A longsword appeared in each gauntleted hand, the blades shimmering like liquid gold. The Herald's eyes glittered like mirrors to the weapons. He took a step forward.

Then stopped, swords lifting into a defensive position.

A soft voice spoke behind Brukhalian. 'We greet you, Jaghut.'

The Mortal Sword turned to see the three T'lan Imass, each one strangely insubstantial, as if moments from assuming new forms, new shapes. Moments, Brukhalian realized, from veering into their Soletaken beasts. The air filled with a stale stench of spice.

'Not your concern, this fight,' Gethol hissed.

'The fight with this mortal?' Bek Okhan asked. 'No. However, Jaghut, you are.'

'I am Hood's Herald – do you dare challenge a servant of the lord of death?'

The T'lan Imass's desiccated lips peeled back. 'Why would we hesitate, Jaghut? Now ask of your lord, does he dare challenge us?'

Gethol grunted as something dragged him bodily back, the warren snapping shut, swallowing him. The air swirled briefly in the wake of the portal's sudden vanishing, then settled.

'Evidently not,' Bek Okhan said.

Sighing, Brukhalian sheathed his sword and faced the T'lan Imass Bonecasters. 'Your arrival has left me disappointed, sirs.'

'We understand this, Mortal Sword. You were doubtless well matched. Yet our hunt for this Jaghut demanded our ... interruption. His talent for escaping us is undiminished, it seems, even to the point of bending a knee in the service of a god. Your defiance of Hood makes you a worthwhile companion.'

Brukhalian grimaced. 'If only to improve your chances of closing with this Jaghut, I take it.'

'Indeed.'

'So we are understood in this.'

'Yes. It seems we are.'

He stared at the three creatures for a moment, then turned away. 'I think we can assume the Herald will not be returning to us this evening. Forgive my curtness, sirs, but I wish solitude once again.'

The T'lan Imass each bowed, then disappeared.

Brukhalian walked to the hearth, drawing his sword once more. He set the blunt end amongst the cold embers, slowly stirred the ashes. Flames licked into life, the coals burgeoning a glowing red. The spatters and streaks of Jaghut blood on the blade sizzled black, then burned away to nothing.

He stared down at the hearth for a long time, and despite the unveiled power of the sanctified sword, the Mortal Sword saw before him nothing but ashes.

 

Up from the darkness, a clawing, gasping struggle. Explosive blooms of pain, like a wall of fire rising behind his eyes, the shivering echoes of wounds, a tearing and puncturing of flesh – his own flesh.

A low groan escaped him, startled him into an awareness – he lay propped at an angle, taut skins stretched beneath him. There had been motion, a rocking and bumping and scraping, but that had ceased. He opened his eyes, found himself in shadow. A stone wall reared to his left, within reach. The air smelled of horses and dust and, much closer, blood and sweat.

Morning sunlight bathed the compound to his right, glimmered off the blurred figures moving about there. Soldiers, horses, impossibly huge, lean wolves.

Boots crunched on gravel and the shadow over him deepened. Blinking, Gruntle looked up.

Stonny's face was drawn, spattered with dried blood, her hair hanging in thick, snarled ropes. She laid a hand on his chest. 'We've reached Capustan,' she said in a ragged voice.

He managed a nod.

'Gruntle—'

Pain filled her eyes, and he felt a chill sweep over him.

'Gruntle ... Harllo's dead. They – they left him, buried under rocks. They left him. And Netok – Netok, that dear boy . . . so wide-eyed, so innocent. I gave him his manhood, Gruntle, I did that, at least. Dead – we lost them both.' She reeled away then, out of the range of his vision, though he heard her rushed footsteps, dwindling.

Another face appeared, a stranger's, a young woman, helmed, her expression gentle. 'We are safe now, sir,' she said, her accent Capan. 'You have been force-healed. I grieve for your losses. We all do – the Grey Swords, that is. Rest assured, sir, you were avenged against the demons ...'

Gruntle stopped listening, his eyes pulling away, fixing on the clear blue sky directly overhead. I saw you, Harllo. You bastard. Throwing yourself in that creature's path, between us. I saw, damn you.

A corpse beneath rocks, a face in the darkness, smeared in dust, that would never again smile.

A new voice. 'Captain.'

Gruntle turned his head, forced words through the clench of his throat. 'It's done, Keruli,' he said. 'You've been delivered. It's done. Damn you to Hood, get out of my sight.'

The priest bowed his head, withdrew through the haze of Gruntle's anger; withdrew, then was gone.