There can be no true rendition of betrayal, for the moment hides within itself, sudden, delivering such comprehension that one would surrender his or her own soul to deny all that has come to pass. There can be no true rendition of betrayal, but of that day, Ormulogun's portrayal is the closest to what was true that any mortal could hope to achieve ...

N'aruhl's Commentary on Ormulogun's
Slaying of Whiskeyjack

 

Footsteps in the hallway announced yet another guest – Coll had no idea if invited or not – and he pulled his gaze away from the two ancient Rath' councillors kneeling before the burial pit, to see a robed figure appear in the doorway. Unmasked, face strangely indistinct.

The Knight of Death swung in a crackle of armour to face the newcomer. 'K'rul,' he grated, 'my Lord welcomes you to his sacred abode.'

K'rul? Isn't there an old temple in Darujhistan – the one with the belfry – K'rul's Belfry. Some kind of elder . . . Coll glanced over, met Murillio's eyes, saw the same slow realization writ plain on his friend's features. An Elder God has entered this chamber. Stands a half-dozen paces away. Beru fend us all! Another blood-hungry bastard from antiquity—

K'rul strode towards the Mhybe.

Coll, hand settling on the grip of his sword, fear rising to lodge in his throat, stepped into the Elder God's path. 'Hold,' he growled. His heart pounded as he locked gazes with K'rul, seeing in those eyes ... nothing. Nothing at all. 'If you're planning on opening her throat on that altar, well, Elder God or not, I won't make it easy for you,'

Rath'Togg's toothless mouth dropped open in a gasp on the other side of the pit.

The Knight of Death made a sound that might have been laughter, then said in a voice that was no longer his own, 'Mortals are nothing if not audacious.'

Murillio moved up to stand at Coll's side, raising a trembling hand to close on the hilt of his rapier.

K'rul glanced at the undead champion and smiled. 'Their most admirable gift, Hood.'

'Until it turns belligerent, perhaps. Then, it is best answered by annihilation.'

'Your answer, yes.' The Elder God faced Coll. 'I have no desire to harm the Mhybe. Indeed, I am here for her ... salvation.'

'Well then,' snapped Murillio, 'maybe you can explain why there's a burial pit in here!'

'That shall become clear in time ... I hope. Know this: something has happened. Far to the south. Something ... unexpected. The consequences are unknown – to us all. None the less, the time has come for the Mhybe—'

'And what does that mean, precisely?' Coll demanded.

'Now,' the Elder God replied, moving past him to kneel before the Mhybe, 'she must dream for real.'

 

They were gone. Gone from her soul, and with their departure – with what Itkovian had done, was doing – all that she had hoped to achieve had been torn down, left in ruins.

Silverfox stood motionless, cold with shock.

Kallor's brutal attack had revealed yet another truth – the T'lan Ay had abandoned her. A loss that twisted a knife blade into her soul.

Once more, betrayal, the dark-hearted slayer of faith. Nightchill's ancient legacy. Tattersail and Bellurdan Skullcrusher both – killed by the machinations of Tayschrenn, the hand of the Empress. And now . . . Whiskeyjack. The two marines, my twin shadows for so long. Murdered.

Beyond the kneeling T'lan Imass waited the K'Chain Che'Malle undead. The huge creatures made no move towards the T'lan Imass – yet. They need only wade into the ranks, blades chopping down, and begin destroying. My children are beyond resistance. Beyond caring. Oh, ltkovian, you noble fool.

And this mortal army – she saw the Grey Swords down below, readying lassos, lances and shields – preparing to charge the K'Chain Che'Malle. Dujek's army was being destroyed within the city – the north gate had to be breached. She saw Gruntle, Trake's Mortal Sword, leading his motley legion down to join the Grey Swords. She saw officers riding before the wavering line of Malazans, rallying the heartbroken soldiers. She saw Artanthos – Tayschrenn – preparing to unleash his warren. Caladan Brood knelt beside Korlat, High Denul sorcery enwreathing the Tiste Andii woman. Orfantal stood behind the warlord – she felt the dragon in his blood, icy hunger, eager to return.

All for naught. The Seer and his demonic condors . . . and the K'Chain Che'Malle . . . will kill them all.

She had no choice. She would have to begin. Defy the despair, begin all that she had set in motion so long ago. Without hope, she would take the first step on the path.

Silverfox opened the Warren of Tellann.

Vanished within.

 

A mother's love abides.

But I was never meant to be a mother. I wasn't ready. I was unprepared to give so much of myself. A self I had only begun to unveil.

The Mhybe could have turned away. At the very beginning. She could have defied Kruppe, defied the Elder God, the Imass – what were these lost souls to her? Malazans, one and all. The enemy. Dire in the ways of magic. All with the blood of Rhivi staining their hands.

Children were meant to be gifts. The physical manifestation of love between a man and a woman. And for that love, all manner of sacrifice could be borne.

Is it enough that the child issued from my flesh? Arrived in this world in the way of all children? Is the simple pain of birth the wellspring of love? Everyone else believed so. They took the bond of mother and child as given, a natural consequence of the birth itself.

They should not have done that.

My child was not innocent.

Conceived out of pity, not love; conceived with dread purpose – to take command of the T'lan Imass, to draw them into yet another war – to betray them.

And now, the Mhybe was trapped. Lost in a dreamworld too vast to comprehend, where forces were colliding, demanding that she act, that she do ... something.

Ancient gods, bestial spirits, a man imprisoned in pain, in a broken, twisted body. This cage of ribs before me – is it his? The one I spoke with, so long ago? The one writhing so in a mother's embrace? Are we as kin, he and I? Both trapped in ravaged bodies, both doomed to slide ever deeper into this torment of pain?

The beast waits for me – the man waits for me. We must reach out to each other. To touch, to give proof to both of us that we are not alone.

Is this what awaits us?

The cage of ribs, the prison, must be broken from the outside.

Daughter, you may have forsaken me. But this man, this brother of mine, him I shall not forsake.

She could not be entirely sure, but she believed that she started crawling once more.

The beast howled in her mind, a voice raw with agony.

She would have to free it, if she could. Such was pity's demand.

Not love.

Ah, now I see . . .

Thus.

 

He would embrace them. He would take their pain. In this world, where all had been taken from him, where he walked without purpose, burdened with the lives and deaths of tens of thousands of mortal souls – unable to grant them peace, unable – unwilling – to simply cast them off, he was not yet done.

He would embrace them. These T'lan Imass, who had twisted all the powers of the Warren of Tellann into a ritual that devoured their souls. A ritual that had left them – in the eyes of all others – as little more than husks, animated by a purpose they had set outside themselves, yet were chained to – for eternity.

Husks, yet... anything but.

And that was a truth Itkovian had not expected, had no way to prepare for.

Insharak Ulan, who was born third to Inal Thoom and Sultha A'rad of the Nashar Clan that would come to be Kron's own, in the spring of the Year of Blighted Moss, below the Land of Raw Copper, and I remember—

I remember—

A snow hare, trembling, no more than a dusk-shadow's length from my reach, my child's arm and hand stretching. Streaks in the white, the promise of summer. Trembling hand, trembling hare, born together in the snows just past. Reaching out. Lives touching – small-heart-patter, slow-drum-hunger my chest's answer to the world's hidden music – I remember—

Kalas Agkor – my arms wrapped about little Jala, little sister, hot with fever but the fire grew too hot, and so, in my arms, her flesh cooled to dawn-stone, mother keening – Jala was the ember now lifeless, and from that day, in mother's eyes, I became naught but its bed of ash—

Ulthan Arlad herd-tracks in the snow, tufts of moult, ay on the flanks, we were hungry in that year yet held to the trail, old as it was—

Karas Av riding Bonecaster Thai's son in the Valley of Deep Moss, beneath the sun we were breaking the ancient law – I was breaking the ancient law, I, mate to Ibinahl Chode, made the boy a man before his circle was knotted—

—in the Year of the Broken Antler, we found wolf cubs—

—I dreamed I said no to the Ritual, I dreamed I strode to Onos T'oolan's side—

—a face streaming tears – my tears—

—Chode, who watched my mate lead the boy into the valley, and knew the child would be remade into a man – knew that he was in the gentlest of hands—

—the grasslands were burning—

—ranag in the Homed Circle—

—I loved her so—

Voices, a flood, memories – these warriors had not lost them. They had known them as living things – within their own dead bodies.

Known them.

For almost three hundred thousand years.

—friend to Onrack of the Logros, I last saw him kneeling amidst the corpses of his clan. All slain in the street, yet the Soletaken were finally broken. Ah, at such a cost—

—oh, heart laid at his feet, dear Legana Breed. So clever, sharpest of wit, oh how he made me laugh—

—our eyes met, Maenas Lot and I, even as the Ritual began its demand, and we saw the fear in each other's eyes – our love, our dreams of more children, to fill the spaces of those we had lost out on the ice, our lives of mingled shadows – our love, that must now be surrendered—

—I, Cannig Tol, watched as my hunters hurled their spears. She fell without making a sound, the last of her kind on this continent, and had I a heart, it would have burst, then. There was no justice in this war. We'd left our gods behind, and knelt only before an altar of brutality. Truth. And I, Cannig Tol, shall not turn away from truth—

Itkovian's mind reeled back, sought to fend off the diluvial tide, to fight himself clear of his own soul's answering cry of sorrow, the torrent of truths shattering his heart, the secrets of the T'lan Imass – no, the Ritual – how – Fener's Tusks, how could you have done that to yourselves?

And she has denied you. She has denied you all—

He could not escape – he had embraced their pain, and the flood of memories was destroying him. Too many, too fiercely felt – relived, every moment relived by these lost creatures – he was drowning.

He had promised them release, yet he knew now he would fail. There was no end, no way he could encompass this yearning gift, this desperate, begging desire.

He was alone—

— am Pran Chole, you must hear me, mortal!

Alone. Fading ...

Hear me, mortal! There is a place – I can lead you! You must carry all we give you – not far, not long – carry us, mortal! There is a place!

Fading...

Mortal! For the Grey Swords – you must do this! Hold on – succeed – and you will gift them. I can lead you!

For the Grey Swords . . .

Itkovian reached out—

—and a hand, solid, warm, clasped his forearm—

 

The ground crawled beneath her. Lichens – green-stalked and green-cupped, the cups filled with red; another kind, white as bone, intricate as coral; and beneath these, grey shark-skin on the mostly buried stones – an entire world, here, a hand's width from the ground.

Her slow, inexorable passage destroyed it all, scraped a swathe through the lichens' brittle architecture. She wanted to weep.

Ahead, close now, the cage of bone and stained skin, the creature within it a shapeless, massive shadow.

Which still called to her, still exerted its terrible demand.

To reach.

To touch the ghastly barrier.

The Mhybe suddenly froze in place, a vast, invisible weight pinning her to the ground.

Something was happening.

The earth beneath her twisting, flashes through the gathering oblivion, the air suddenly hot. A rumble of thunder—

Drawing up her legs, pushing with one arm, she managed to roll onto her back. Breath rasping in shallow lungs, she stared—

 

The hand held firm. Itkovian began to comprehend. Behind the memories awaited the pain, awaited all that he come to embrace. Beyond the memories, absolution was his answering gift – could he but survive ...

The hand was leading him. Through a mindscape. Yet he strode across it as would a giant, the land distant below him.

Mortal, shed these memories. Free them to soak the earth in the seasons gift. Down to the earth, mortal – through you, they can return life to a dying, desolate land.

Please. You must comprehend. Memories belong in the soil, in stone, in wind. They are the land's unseen meaning, such that touches the souls of all who would look – truly look – upon it. Touches, in faintest whisper, old, almost shapeless echoes – to which a mortal life adds its own.

Feed this dreamscape, mortal.

And know this. We kneel before you. Silenced in our hearts by what you offer to us, by what you offer of yourself.

You are Itkovian, and you would embrace the T'lan Imass.

Shed these memories – weep for us, mortal—

 

Heaving, churning cloud where before there had been naught but a formless, colourless, impossibly distant dome – the cloud spreading, tumbling out to fill the entire sky, drawing dark curtains across bruised rainbows. Lightning, crimson-stained, flickered from horizon to horizon.

She watched the falling, watched the descent – rain, no, hail—

It struck. Drumming roar on the ground, the sound filling her ears – sweeping closer—

To pummel her.

She screamed, throwing up her hands.

Each impact was explosive, something more than simply frozen rain.

Lives. Ancient, long forgotten lives.

And memories—

All raining down.

The pain was unbearable—

Then cessation, a shadow slipping over her, close, a figure, hunched beneath the trammelling thud of hail. A warm, soft hand on her brow, a voice—

'Not much further, dear lass. This storm – unexpected—' the voice broke, gasping as the deluge intensified, 'yet. . . wonderful. But you must not stop now. Here, Kruppe will help you . . .'

Shielding as much of her from the barrage as he could, he began dragging her forward, closer . . .

 

Silverfox wandered. Lost, half blinded by the tears that streamed without surcease. What she had begun as a child, on a long forgotten barrow outside the city of Pale – what she had begun so long ago – now seemed pathetic.

She had denied the T'lan Imass.

Denied the T'lan Ay.

But only for a time – or so had been her intent. A brief time, in which she would work to fashion the world that awaited them. The spirits that she had gathered, spirits who would serve that ancient people, become their gods – she had meant them to bring healing to the T'lan Imass, to their long-bereft souls.

A world where her mother was young once more.

A dreamworld, gift of K'rul. Gift of the Daru, Kruppe.

Gift of love, in answer to all she had taken from her mother.

But the T'lan Ay had turned away, were silent to her desperate call – and now Whiskeyjack was dead. Two marines, two women whose solid presence she had come to depend on – more than they could ever have realized. Two marines, killed defending her.

Whiskeyjack. All that was Tattersail keened with inconsolable grief. She had turned from him as well. Yet he had stepped into Kallor's path.

He had done that, for he remained the man he had always been.

And now, lost too were the T'lan Imass. The man, Itkovian, the mortal, Shield Anvil without a god, who had taken into himself the slain thousands of Capustan – he had opened his arms—

You cannot embrace the pain of the T'lan Imass. Were your god still with you, he would have refused your thought. You cannot. They are too much. And you, you are but one man – alone – you cannot take their burden. It is impossible.

Heart-breakingly brave.

But impossible.

Ah, Itkovian . . .

Courage had defeated her, but not her own – which had never been strong – no, the courage of those around her. On all sides – Coll and Murillio, with their misguided honour, who had stolen her mother and were no doubt guarding her even now, as she slowly died. Whiskeyjack and the two marines. Itkovian. And even Tayschrenn, who had torn himself – badly – unleashing his warren to drive Kallor away. Such extraordinary, tragically misguided courage—

I am Nightchill, Elder Goddess. I am Bellurdan, Thelomen Skullcrusher. I am Tattersail, who was once mortal. And I am Silverfox, flesh and blood Bonecaster, Summoner of the T'lan.

And I have been defeated.

By mortals—

The sky heaved over her – she looked up. Eyes widening in disbelief—

 

The wolf thrashed, battered against the bone bars of its cage – its cage ... my ribs. Trapped. Dying—

And that is a pain I share.

His chest was on fire, blossoms of intense agony lashing into him as if arriving from somewhere outside, a storm, blistering the skin covering his ribs—

—yet it grew no stronger, indeed, seemed to fade, as if with each wounding something was imparted to him, a gift—

Gift? This pain? How – what is it? What comes to me?

Old, so very old. Bittersweet, lost moments of wonder, of joy, of grief – a storm of memories, not his – so many, arriving like ice, then melting in the flare of impact – he felt his flesh grow numb beneath the unceasing deluge—

—was suddenly tugged away—

Blinking in the darkness, his lone eye as blind as the other one – the one he had lost at Pale. Something was pounding at his ears, a sound, then. Shrieking, the floor and walls shaking, chains snapping, dust raining from the low ceiling. I am not alone in here. Who? What?

Claws gouged the flagstones near his head, frantic and yearning.

Reaching. It wants me. What does? What am I to it?

The concussions were growing closer. And now voices, desperate bellowing coming from the other side of walls ... down a corridor, perhaps. Clash of weapons, screams and gurgles, clatter of armour – pieces dancing on the floor.

Toc shifted his head – and saw something in the darkness. Huge, straining as it shrieked without pause. Massive, taloned hands stretched imploringly – reaching out—

For me.

Grey light flashed in the cavern, revealing in an instant the monstrous, fat-layered reptile chained opposite Toc, its eyes lit with terror. The stone that was within reach of the creature was gouged with countless scars, on all sides, a hatch-marked nightmare of madness, triggering horror within the Malazan ... for it was a nightmare he recognized within himself.

She – she is my soul—

The Seer stood before him, moving in desperate, jerky motions – the old man's body, that the Jaghut had occupied for so long, was falling to pieces – and muttering a singsong chant as, ignoring Toc, he edged ever closer to the Matron, to Mother.

The enormous beast cringed, claws scraping as it pushed itself against the wall. Its shrieks did not pause, resounding through the cavern.

The Seer held something in his hands, pallid, smooth and oblong – an egg, not from a bird. A lizard's egg, latticed in grey magic.

Magic that waxed with every word of the Seer's song.

Toc watched as something exploded from the Matron's body, a coruscation of power that sought to flee upward—

—but was, instead, snared by the web of sorcery; snared, then drawn into the egg in the Seer's hands.

The Matron's shrieking suddenly ceased. The creature settled back with a mindless whimper.

In the numbing silence within the cavern, Toc could now hear more clearly the sounds of battle in the corridor beyond. Close, and closing.

The Seer, clutching the Finnest, spun to stare down at Toc. The Jaghut's smile split the corpse's desiccated lips. 'We shall return,' he whispered.

The sorcery blossomed once more, then, as heavy chains clattered freely to the floor, darkness returned.

And Toc knew that he was alone within the cavern. The Seer had taken Mother's power, and then he had taken her as well.

The wolf thrashed in his chest, launching spikes of pain along his broken, malformed limbs. It yearned to loose its howl, its call to lover and to kin. Yet it could not draw breath—

—cannot draw breath. It dies. The hail, these savage gifts, they mean nothing. With me, the god's fatal choice, we die—

The sounds of fighting had stopped. Toc heard iron bars snap, one after another, heard metal clang on the flagstones.

Then someone was crouching down beside him. A hand that was little more than rough bone and tendon settled on Toc's forehead.

The Malazan could not see. There was no light. But the hand was cool, its weight gentle.

'Hood? Have you come for us, then?' The words were clearly spoken in his mind, but came out incomprehensibly – and he realized that his tongue was gone.

'Ah, my friend,' the figure replied in a rasp. 'It is I, Onos T'oolan, once of the Tarad Clan, of the Logros T'lan Imass, but now kin to Aral Fayle, to Toc the Younger.'

Kin.

Withered arms gathered him up.

'We are leaving now, young brother.'

Leaving?

 

Picker eyed the breach. The bravado that had been behind her proclamation that they would follow the T'lan Imass into the keep had not survived a sudden return to caution once they came within sight of the fortress. It was under assault, and whatever enemy had stormed into the keep had kicked hard the hornet nest.

K'Chain Che'Malle were thundering back through the compound gate. Sorcerous detonations shook the entire structure. Urdomen and Beklites raced along the top of the walls. Twisting spirals of grey lightning writhed skyward from the south roof, linking the score of condors wheeling overhead. Beyond it, filling the sky above the harbour, was an enormous storm-cloud, flashes burgeoning from its heaving depths.

The lieutenant glanced back at her paltry squads. They'd lost the three badly wounded soldiers, as she had expected. Not one of the Bridgeburners crouching in the smoke-hazed street had been spared – she saw far too much blood on the soot-smeared uniforms behind her.

To the northwest, the sounds of battle continued, drawing no closer. Picker knew that Dujek would have sought to reach the keep, if at all possible. From what she could hear, however, he was being pushed back, street by street.

The gambit had failed.

Leaving us on our own.

'K'Chain Che'Malle!' a soldier hissed from the back. 'Coming up behind us!'

'Well, that settles it, then,' Picker muttered. 'Doubletime to Hedge's breach!'

The Bridgeburners sprinted across the rubble-littered street.

Blend was the first to complete her scramble over the tower's wreckage. Immediately beyond was a shattered building – three walls and half of the roof remaining. Within lay dusty darkness, and what might be a doorway far to the left of the room's far wall.

Two steps behind Blend, Picker leapt clear of the tumbled stone blocks to land skidding on the room's floor – colliding with a cursing, backpedalling Blend.

Feet tangling, the two women fell.

'Damn it, Blend—'

'Guards—'

A third voice cut in. 'Picker! Lieutenant!'

As her Bridgeburners gathered behind her, Picker sat up to see Hedge, Bluepearl and seven additional Bridgeburners – the ones who had taken crossbows to the top of the wall and had survived the consequences – emerge from the shadows.

'We tried getting back to you—'

'Never mind, Hedge,' Picker said, clambering to her feet. 'You played it right, soldier, trust me—'

Hedge was holding a cusser in one hand, which he raised with a grin. 'Held one back—'

'Did a T'lan Imass come through here?'

'Aye, a beat-up bastard, looked neither left nor right – just walked right past us – deeper into the keep—'

A Bridgeburner to the rear shouted, 'We got that K'Chain Che'Malle coming up behind us!'

'Through the door back there!' Hedge squealed. 'Clear the way, idiots! I've been waiting for this—'

Picker began shoving her soldiers towards the back wall.

The sapper scrambled back towards the breach.

The following events were a tumble in Picker's mind-

Blend gripped her arm and bodily threw her towards the doorway, where her soldiers were plunging through into whatever lay beyond. Picker swore, but Blend's hands were suddenly on her back, pushing her face first through the portal. Picker twisted with a snarl, and saw over Blend's shoulder—

The K'Chain Che'Malle seemed to flow as it raced over the rubble, blades lifting.

Hedge looked up – to find himself four paces away from the charging reptile.

Picker heard him grunt, a muted, momentary sound—

The sapper threw the cusser straight down.

The K'Chain Che'Malle was already swinging – two huge blades descending—

The explosion beat them clean.

Blend and Picker were thrown through the doorway. The lieutenant's head snapped back to the thudding, staccato impact of flying stones against her helm and the lowered visor and cheek-guards. Those that made it past lanced fire into her face, filled her nose and mouth with blood.

Deafened, she reeled back through clouds of dust and smoke.

Voices were screaming – issuing from what seemed very far away then swiftly closing to surround her.

Stones falling – a cross-beam of tarred wood, raging with flames, sweeping down, ending with a solid thud and crunch of bones – a death-groan amidst the chaos, so close to Picker that she wondered if it wasn't her own.

Hands gripped her once again, pulled her round, propelled her down what seemed to be a corridor.

A tunnel of smoke and dust – no air – the pounding of boots, blind collisions, curses – darkness – that suddenly dissipated.

Picker stumbled into the midst of her soldiers, spitting blood, coughing. Around them, a room littered with dead Beklites, another door, opposite, that looked to have been shattered with a single punch. A lone lantern swung wildly from a hook above them.

'Look!' someone grunted. 'A dog's been chewing on the lieutenant's chin!'

Not even a jest – simply the absurd madness of battle. Shaking her head to a spatter of blood, Picker spat again and surveyed her troops through stinging, streaming eyes.

'Blend?' The name came out mangled but understandable.

Silence.

'Bucklund – back into the corridor! Find her!'

The Twelfth Squad's sergeant was back a moment later, dragging a blood-drenched body through the doorway. 'She's breathing – Hood knows how! Her back's full of stones and shards!'

Picker dropped to her knees beside her friend. 'You damned idiot,' she mumbled.

'We should've had Mallet with us,' Bucklund grumbled beside her.

Aye, not the only mistake in this fouled-up game.

'Oh!' a woman's voice cried. 'You are not Pannions!'

Weapons swung to the doorway.

A woman in a blindingly white telaba stood there, her long black hair shimmering, impossibly clean, perfectly combed. Veiled, stunningly beautiful eyes studied them. 'Have you, by any chance, seen three masked warriors? They should have passed this way, looking for the throne room, assuming there is one, that is. You might have heard some fighting—'

'No,' Bucklund growled. 'I mean, yes, we've heard fighting. Everywhere, ma'am. That is—'

'Shut up,' Picker sighed. 'No,' she said to the woman, 'we ain't seen no three masked warriors—'

'What of a T'lan Imass?'

'As a matter of fact, yeah—'

'Excellent! Tell me, does she still have all those swords impaling her? I can't imagine she'd leave—'

'What swords?' Picker demanded. 'Besides, it was male. I think.'

'It was,' another soldier piped up, then reddened as her comrades swung to her with broad grins.

'A male T'lan Imass?' The white-robed woman raised a finger to her full lips, then smiled, 'Why, that would be Tool! Excellent!' The smile vanished. 'Unless, of course, Mok finds him ...'

'Who are you?' Picker demanded.

'You know, dear, it's growing increasingly difficult to understand what you are saying through all that blood and such. I believe you're Malazans, yes? Unwitting allies, but you are all so terribly injured. I have an idea, a wonderful idea – as are all my ideas, of course. Wonderful, that is. We are here, you see, to effect the rescue of one Toc the Younger, a soldier of—'

'Toc the Younger?' Picker repeated. 'Toc? But he's—'

'A prisoner of the Seer, alas. A distressing fact, and I dislike being distressed. It irritates me. Immeasurably. Now, as I was saying, I have an idea. Assist me in this rescue, and I will heal those of you who need healing – which seems to be all of you.'

Picker gestured down at Blend. 'Deal. Start with her.'

As the woman stepped into the room, Bucklund shouted and scrabbled back from the doorway.

Picker looked up. A massive wolf stood in the hallway beyond, eyes gleaming through the dust-shrouded gloom.

The woman glanced back. 'Oh, not to worry. That is Baaljagg. Garath has wandered off, I believe. Busy killing Pannions, I expect. He seems to have acquired a taste for Seerdomin... now, this poor woman – well, we'll have you right in no time, dear...'

 

'What in Hood's name is happening over there?'

On the other side of the low wall, a flight of stairs gave access to the parapet overlooking the harbour and the bay beyond – or, rather, so Paran concluded, since nothing else made sense. In any case, some kind of approach was being contested, and from the screams, whatever was on its way to the flat rooftop was wreaking havoc on the defenders.

Beside Paran, Quick Ben raised his head a fraction. 'I don't know and I'm not popping up for a look, either,' he said in answer to the captain's question, 'but let's hope it proves a worthwhile diversion. I can't keep us here much longer, without those condors finding us.'

'Something's keeping them busy,' Spindle asserted, 'and you know it, Quick. If one of them took the time to look hard – we'd be feeding the chicks in its nest by now.'

'You're right.'

'Then what in Hood's name are we still doing here?'

Good question. Paran twisted round, looked back along the roof to the north. There was a trapdoor there.

'We're still here,' Quick Ben grated, 'because this is where we need to be—'

'Hold it,' Paran growled, reaching up to wipe what he thought was sweat from his eyes, though the smear on his hand was red – the stitches on his temple had pulled loose. 'Not quite true, Quick. It's where you and I need to be. Mallet, if there's anything left of the Bridgeburners, they need you right now.'

'Aye, Captain, and knowing that's been eating me up inside.'

'All right. Listen, then. The fiery Abyss has broken loose down in this keep under us. We've no idea who's doing the fighting, but we do know one thing – they're no friends of the Pannions. So, Mallet, take Spindle and the rest – that trapdoor back there looks flimsy enough to break open if it's locked.'

'Aye, Captain. Only, how do we get there without being seen?'

'Spindle's right about those condors – they're busy with something else, and looking more agitated with every beat of the heart. It's a short sprint, Healer. But if you're not willing to risk it—'

Mallet glanced at Spindle, then at Detoran and Trotts. Finally, at Antsy. The sergeant nodded. Mallet sighed. 'Aye, sir, we'll give it a go.'

Paran glanced at Quick Ben. 'Any objections, Wizard?'

'No, Captain. At the very least. . .' He fell silent.

At the very least, they've a better chance of getting out alive. I hear you, Quick. 'OK, Mallet, make your run when you're ready.'

'Push and pull, Captain.'

'And to you, Healer.'

With a grunted command, the squad scrambled for the trapdoor.

 

Dujek dragged the wounded soldier through the doorway, and only then noticed that the man's legs had been left behind, and the trail of blood leading back to the limbs thinned to virtually nothing by the time it reached the threshold. He let the body drop, sagged against the frame.

The K'Chain Che'Malle had cut through the company in the span of a dozen heartbeats, and though the Hunter had lost an arm, it had not slowed as it thumped westward – in search of another company of hapless Malazans.

Dujek's elite bodyguard of Untan heavy infantry lay in a chopped ruin in front of the building into which they had pushed the High Fist. As sworn, they'd given their lives in his defence. At the moment, however, Dujek would rather they'd failed – or, better yet, fled.

Locked in battle since dawn with Beklites, Urdomen and Seerdomin, Onearm's Host had more than held its own. And when the first dozen or so K'Chain Che'Malle appeared, Moranth munitions – cussers and burners – destroyed the undead K'ell Hunters. The same fate befell the second wave. By the time the third arrived, the cussers were gone, and soldiers died by the score. The fifth and sixth waves were met only with swords, and battle became slaughter.

Dujek had no idea how many remained among the five thousand Malazans who had been delivered into the city. He did not think a cohesive defence still existed. The battle had become a hunt, plain and simple. A cleansing by the K'Chain Che'Malle of pockets of Malazan resistance.

Until recently, he could still hear sounds of battle – of collapsing walls and perhaps sorcery – from the keep, though perhaps, he now reflected, he had been wrong in that – the storm-cloud that filled the sky to the south was itself thundering, arcs of lightning splitting the sky to lance at the thrashing seas below. Its rage now overwhelmed all other sounds.

A scrabble of boots behind him. Dujek swung about, shortsword in hand.

'High Fist!'

'Which company, soldier?'

'Eleventh, sir,' the woman gasped. 'Captain Hareb sent a squad to look for you, High Fist. I'm what's left.'

'Does Hareb still hold?'

'Aye, sir. We're collecting souvenirs – pieces of K'Chain Che'Malle.'

'And how in Hood's name are you managing that?'

'Twist, sir, he led a final flight in with the last of the munitions – mostly sharpers and crackers, High Fist – but the sappers are rigging buildings along our retreat, dropping tons of brick and stone on the damned lizards – your pardon, sir – on the Hunters.'

'Where is Hareb's company right now, soldier?'

'Not far, High Fist. Follow me.'

Hareb, that Seven Cities noble-born with the permanent sneer. Gods, 1 could kiss the man.

 

Moving to the head of his legion, Gruntle watched the Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords approach. The woman reined in even as he arrived.

'I greet you, sir,' she said, only the lower half of her face visible beneath the helm's broad, flaring cheek-guards. 'We are about to advance upon the enemy – would you flank us?'

The Daru grimaced. 'No, Shield Anvil.'

She hesitated, then gave a brusque nod and gathered up her reins. 'As you wish, sir. No dishonour in refusing a suicidal engagement.'

'You misunderstand,' Gruntle interrupted her. 'My legion leads, you follow in our wake – as close as you can. We'll drive across that stone bridge and head straight for the gate. Granted, it looks damned solid, but we might still batter it down.'

'We are seeking to relieve Dujek Onearm, agreed, Mortal Sword?'

'Aye.' And we both know we will fail.

They turned at the sound of horns, the sudden staccato of Malazan drums.

The standard-bearer – sorcery swirling from the man like flecks of gold – seemed to have taken command, calling together the company officers. Along the line, shields were readied, locked overlapping. Pikes, twice the height of a man, wavered like wind-tugged reeds above the ranks of soldiery – an uncharacteristic unsteadiness that Gruntle found disturbing.

Artanthos had despatched a rider who rode towards the Daru and the Shield Anvil at a gallop.

The Malazan reined in. 'Sirs! The High Mage Tayschrenn would know your intentions!'

Gruntle bared his teeth. 'Tayschrenn, is it? Let's hear his, first.'

'Dujek, sirs. These K'Chain Che'Malle must be broken, the gate breached, an assault on the defenders—'

'And what of the High Mage himself?' the Shield Anvil enquired.

'They're mages on the walls, sir. Tayschrenn will endeavour to deny their involvement. Orfantal and his Tiste Andii will seek to assist us in our attack upon the K'Chain Che'Malle, as will the shouldermen of the White Faces.'

'Inform the High Mage,' the Shield Anvil said, 'that Trake's Legion will initiate the charge, supported by my company.'

The soldier saluted and rode back towards the Malazan line.

Gruntle turned to study his followers. He wondered again at the effect that the Lord of Summer's gift had had upon these grim-faced Capans. Like D'ivers . . . only in reverse. From many, to one – and such power! They had crossed the land swift as a flowing shadow. Gruntle had found himself looking out upon the world with a tiger's eyes – no, not simply a tiger, a creature immortal, boundless in strength, a mass of muscle and bone within which was the Legion. His Legion. A will, fused, terrifyingly focused.

And now they would become that beast once again. This time, to enter battle.

His god seemed to possess a particular hatred for these K'Chain Che'Malle, as if Treach had a score to settle. The cold killer was giving way to bloodlust – a realization that left Gruntle vaguely troubled.

His gaze flicked to the hilltop – to see Caladan Brood, Korlat slowly straightening beside him. Distance was irrelevant – she was covered in blood, and he could feel the sickly pain that flowed and ebbed, then flowed again within her.

Brood's warren suffers, and if that's the case, then so too must. . . He swung round, back to where Artanthos – High Mage Tayschrenn – stood before the Malazan companies. Ah, I see the price he pays. . . 'Shield Anvil.'

'Sir?'

''Ware the mages on the city wall.'

'We await you, sir.'

Gruntle nodded.

A moment later, the Mortal Sword and his Legion were one, bones and muscle merging, identities – entire lives – swept under a deluge of cold, animal rage.

A tawny swirl, surging, flowing forward.

Ahead, K'Chain Che'Malle raised weapons. And stood their ground.

Again. We have done this before – no, not us. Our Lord. Tearing dead flesh . . . the spray of blood . . . blood ... oh, Hood—

 

Kurald Galain, the darkness within the soul, flowing out' ward, filling her limbs, sweeping round to swallow her feelings – the comfort of oblivion. Korlat stood, her back to the three lifeless figures on the hilltop that still lay where they fell. Stood, silent, the power of her warren – flickering, dimming to surges of pain – reaching out, seeking her kin.

Caladan Brood, hammer unlimbered in his hands, was beside her. He was speaking, his rumbling voice as distant as thunder on the sea's horizon. 'Late afternoon. No earlier. It will be over long before then ... one way or another. Korlat, please listen to me. You must seek your Lord – that storm-cloud, does Moon's Spawn hide within it? He said he would come. At the precise moment. He said he would strike...'

Korlat no longer heard him.

Orfantal was veering, there before the now marching Malazan forces, black, blossoming outward, wings spreading, sinuous neck lifting – a thudding pulsation of sorcery and the dragon was in the air, climbing—

Condors winged out from the keep, a dozen of the demonic creatures, each linked by a writhing chain of chaotic magic.

On the plain below, the beast that was the Mortal Sword and Trake's Legion seemed to flow in and out of her vision, blurred, deadly motion – and struck the line of K'Chain Che'Malle.

Sorcery stained the air around the impact in blood-spattered sheets as within the savage maelstrom blades flashed. A K'ell Hunter reeled away and toppled, its bones shattered. The huge tiger twisted from side to side as swords descended, tore into its flanks. Where each blade struck, human figures fell away from the beast, limbs severed, torsos cut through, heads crushed.

Sorcery was building along the top of the city wall.

Korlat saw Artanthos – Tayschrenn – step forward then, to answer it.

A golden wave appeared suddenly behind the K'Chain Che'Malle, rose for a moment, building, then tumbled forward. The ground it rolled over on its way to the wall burned with fierce zeal, then the wave lifted, climbed towards the Pannion mages.

This – this is what was launched against Moon's Spawn. This is what my Lord struggled against. Alone, in the face of such power—

The ground trembled beneath her boots as the wave crashed into the top of the wall to the west of the gate. Blinding – this is High Telas, the Warren of Fire – child of Tellann—

Chaotic magic exploded from the conflagration like shrapnel. The raging fire then dispersed.

The top third of the city wall, from near the gate and westward for at least forty paces, was simply gone. And with it, at least a dozen Pannion mages.

On the killing field, Trake's Legion was now surrounded by K'Chain Che'Malle, who were a match for the enormous beast's lightning speed. K'ell Hunters were falling, but the tiger was being, literally, cut to pieces.

The Grey Swords, all mounted, were attempting to open an avenue for it on the other side. Long, strangely barbed lances were being driven into Hunters from behind, fouling their steps as they wheeled to lash out at the enemy harrying them. Lassos spun in the air, snapped tight around necks, limbs—

A grey wave of sorcery raced out from the mages on the wall east of the gate, swept over the heads of those battling on the killing field, clambered through the air like some multilimbed beast – to strike Artanthos.

Coruscating fire met the assault, and both sorceries seemed to devour each other. When they vanished, Artanthos was on his knees. Soldiers ran towards him from the Malazan lines.

He is done. Too soon—

'Korlat!'

The bellow shook her. Blinking, she turned to Brood. 'What?'

'Call your Lord, Korlat! Call him!'

Call? I cannot. Could not – dare not.

'Korlat! Look to that damned storm-cloud!'

She twisted her head. Beyond the city, rising skyward in a churning, towering column, the storm-cloud was tearing itself apart even as it rose – rose, shreds spinning away, sunlight shafting through—

Moon's Spawn . . . not within – the cloud hid nothing. Nothing but senseless, empty violence. Dissipating.

Call him? Despair ripped through her. She heard her own dull reply, 'Anomander Rake is no more, Warlord.' He is dead. He must be—

'Then help your damned brother, woman! He is assailed—'

She looked up, saw Orfantal high above, harried by specks. Sorcery lanced at the black dragon like darts.

Brother . . . Korlat looked back down, at the Malazan ranks that had now closed with the K'Chain Che'Malle. Darkness shrouded them – Kurald Galain's whisper. A whisper . . . and no more than a whisper—

'Korlat!'

'Move away from me, Warlord. I shall now veer ... and join my brother.'

'When you two are done with those condors, will you—'

She turned away from the killing field. 'This battle is lost, Caladan Brood. I fly to save Orfantal.' Without awaiting a reply, she strode down the slope, unfolding the power within her as she did so. Draconian blood, cold as ice in her veins, a promise of murder. Brutal, unwavering hunger.

Wings, into tine. sky.

Wedge-shaped head tilted, fixed on the condors circling her brother. Her talons twitched, then stretched in anticipation.

 

Caladan Brood stood on the very edge of the slope, the hammer in his hands. K'Chain Che'Malle had pulled away from the assault upon Trake's Legion – the giant tiger was dying, surrounded on all sides by flashing blades – and were now wading through the Malazan press, slaying soldiers by the score. Others pursued the Grey Swords, whose ranks had been scattered by the far too quick Hunters.

Barghast had closed from both flanks, to add their spilled blood to the slaughter.

Slowly, the warlord swung about and surveyed the hilltop behind him. Three bodies. Four Malazan soldiers who had carried an unconscious Kruppe to the summit and were now laying the Daru down.

Brood's eyes held on Kruppe, wondering at the man's sudden, inexplicable collapse, then he turned.

The T'lan Imass, in their tens of thousands, still kneeled, motionless, before Itkovian, who had himself sunk down, a mortal reflection of them. Whatever was happening there had taken them all far away, to a place from which it seemed there would be no return – not, in any case, until it was far too late.

No choice.

Burn . . . forgive me . . .

Caladan Brood faced the city once more. Eyes on the masses warring on the killing field below, the warlord slowly raised his hammer—

—then froze.

 

They came to yet another hallway filled with the dead and dying. Picker scowled. 'Mistress, how many in this Seguleh army you told us about?'

'Three, my dear. Clearly, we are on the right path—'

'The right path for what, Lady Envy?'

The woman turned. 'Hmm, an interesting point. The Seguleh are no doubt eagerly lobbying for an audience with the Seer, but who's to say the Seer has Toc the Younger with him? Indeed, is it not more likely that our friend lies in chains somewhere far below?'

Blend spoke from beside Picker. 'There looks to be a landing of some sort at the far end. Could be stairs . . .'

'Sharp-eyed,' Lady Envy murmured in appreciation. 'Baaljagg, dear pup, will you lead the way?'

The huge wolf slipped past noiselessly, somehow managing to stay silent even as it clambered over the bodies down the length of the corridor. At the far end, it halted, swung its long-snouted head back, eyes like smouldering coals.

'Ah, the all-clear,' Lady Envy sighed, softly clapping her hands. 'Come along, then, you grim-faced Malazans.'

As they approached, Blend plucked at Picker's sleeve. 'Lieutenant,' she whispered, 'there's fighting up ahead ...'

They reached the landing. Dead Urdomen lay heaped, their bodies sprawled on steps that led upward. A second flight of stone stairs, leading down, showed only the flow of thickening blood from the landing.

Blend edged forward to crouch before the descending steps. 'There's tracks here in the blood,' she said, 'three sets ... the first one, uh, bony, followed by someone in moccasins – a woman, I'd say—'

'In moccasins?' Lady Envy wondered, brows lifting. 'How peculiar. The bony ones are likely to be either Tool or Lanas Tog. Now who might be following either of them? Such mystery! And the last set?'

Blend shrugged. 'Worn boots. A man's.'

The sound of fighting that Blend had detected earlier was audible to everyone now – from somewhere up the flight of stairs, distant, possibly at the uppermost floor, which was at least a half-dozen levels above them.

Baaljagg had limped to stand beside Blend. The wolf lowered its head, nose testing the footprints leading down.

A moment later the animal was a grey flash, racing downward and out of sight.

'Well!' Lady Envy said. 'The issue seems decided, wouldn't you say? The ailing pup has a certain . . . feeling for Toc the Younger. An affinity, to be more precise.'

'Your pardon,' Picker snapped, 'but what in Hood's name are you going on about?' One more cryptic statement from this lady and I'll brain her.

'That was rude. None the less, I will acknowledge that the matter is a secret but not one of my own, so I shall freely speak of it.'

'Oh good,' one of the soldiers behind Picker muttered, 'gossip.'

Lady Envy wheeled. 'Who said that?'

No-one spoke.

'I abhor gossip, I will have you all know. Now, shall I tell you the tale of two ancient gods, who each in turn found mortal flesh – or, rather, somewhat mortal flesh in the case of Baaljagg, but all too mortal flesh in the case of dear Toc the Younger?'

Picker stared at the woman, and was about to speak when one of her soldiers cursed loud and with feeling – and blades clashed—

—shouts—

A score Urdomen had just arrived from behind the squads, and the hallway was suddenly filled with vicious, close-in fighting.

Picker snapped out a hand and caught Blend's blood-stiffened cloak, pulled. As the lieutenant dragged free her sword, she hissed: 'Head down the stairs, lass! We'll follow once we clear this up.' She shoved Blend towards the stairs, then spun.

'Will this take long?' Lady Envy asked, her voice somehow cutting through the tumult to echo in Picker's ears as she pushed into the press. The Urdomen were better armoured, fresher, and had had surprise on their side. Picker saw Bucklund reel, half his head cut away. 'No,' she grated, as two more Bridgeburners crumpled, 'it won't...'

 

Detoran had moved to point as the four Bridgeburners headed down the corridor. Mallet strode five paces behind the big Napan woman, Spindle trotting at his heels, followed by Antsy, with Trotts a dozen paces back as rearguard. Thus far, they'd found naught but bodies – Pannion bodies – cut down one and all by blades.

'Someone's a holy terror,' Spindle muttered behind the healer.

They could hear fighting, but the echoes were bouncing, making it difficult to determine the direction.

Detoran drew up and raised a hand, then waved Mallet forward.

'Stairs ahead,' she grunted. 'Going down.'

'Clear,' the healer observed.

'For now.'

Antsy joined them. 'What's the hold-up? We gotta keep moving.'

'We know, Sergeant,' Mallet said, then he swung back to the Napan. 'It'll have to do. Lead us down, Detoran.'

More corpses littered the stone steps, the blood making purchase uncertain.

They descended past two landings unchallenged. Halfway down the next flight, at a switchback in the stairs, Mallet heard the Napan grunt, and weapons suddenly rang.

A wordless shout from behind twisted into a Barghast warcry.

'Dammit!' Mallet snapped. Fighting above and below – they were in trouble. 'Spin, back up Antsy and Trotts! I'll lend Det a hand!'

'Aye, sir!'

The healer plunged down a half-dozen steps to the bend. Detoran had already pushed her attackers back to a landing. The healer saw, beyond the Napan, at least six Seerdomin, heavy, short-handled double-bladed axes in their gauntleted hands. Detoran, a shortsword in her left hand, broadsword in her right, had just cut down the warrior in front of her. Without hesitating, she stepped over the dying Seerdomin, reaching the landing.

The Seerdomin rushed her.

There was no way to get past the Napan. Swearing, Mallet sheathed his shortsword and unlimbered his crossbow. A quarrel already rested in the slot, held in place by a loop of leather that the healer now pulled clear. Ignoring the bellows and singing iron, he hooked the clawfoot over the braided string and cinched it back.

Up beyond the bend in the staircase, Trotts had begun chanting, broken only by an ominous shriek from Antsy. Fresh blood thinned with bile was streaming down the steps.

Mallet moved back to find a clear shot over Detoran.

The Napan had thrust her shortsword up into a Seerdomin's head from below. The blade jammed between the mandibles. Instead of pulling, Detoran pushed, sending the victim and weapon flying back to foul the two warriors beyond. With the broadsword in her right hand extended, she was keeping another Seerdomin at bay. He was swinging his shorter weapons at the blade in an effort to bat it aside so he could close, but Detoran made her heavy blade dance and weave as if it was a duellist's rapier.

Mallet's attention fixed on the two recovering Seerdomin. A third warrior was pulling the fallen Seerdomin away. The healer snapped the crossbow up and depressed the trigger. The weapon bucked in his hands.

One of the recovering Seerdomin shrieked, a quarrel buried to its leather fins in his chest. He sagged back.

A tumbling body knocked Mallet from his feet as he was about to reload. Cursing, the healer fell back against a side wall and made to kick the corpse away with his boots as he fumbled for a quarrel, then he saw that it was Antsy. Not yet dead, though his chest was sheathed in blood. From the sounds above, Trotts was pushing his way back up the stairs.

He twisted round at a shout from Detoran. She had lunged with her broadsword, breaking her timing to dip her blade round a desperate parry, then sliding the edge up and under the Seerdomin's helm, ripping open the side of the man's neck – even as his other axe stashed a wild arc, straight for Detoran's head.

The Napan threw her left shoulder into its path.

Chain snapped, blood sprayed. The axe-blade cut clear, carrying with it most of the muscle of Detoran's shoulder.

She reeled. Then, blood spurting, righted herself and rushed the remaining two Seerdomin.

The nearest one threw one of his axes.

The Napan chopped it aside then swung a backhand slash that the man barely managed to block. Detoran closed, dropping her sword and jamming her fingers into the helm's eye-slit. The momentum of her rush carried her round the man, twisting his head to follow.

Mallet heard an audible pop of vertebrae, even as he finished loading his crossbow. He raised it—

The last Seerdomin's axes flashed.

Detoran's right arm, stretched out with the fingers still snagged in the visor, was severed halfway between shoulder and elbow.

The second axe drove deep between her shoulder-blades, throwing her forward to slap face first against the landing's wall.

The Seerdomin moved forward to tug the second axe free.

Mallet's quarrel vanished into the man's right arm-pit. He buckled, then collapsed in a clatter of armour.

The healer, setting another quarrel into the slot, clambered to where Detoran still leaned, upright, face first against the wall. The rush of blood from her wounds had slowed to turgid streams.

He did not need to reach out to touch the Napan to know that she was dead.

Boots thumped on the stairs and the healer swung round to see Spindle stumbling onto the landing. He'd taken a blow against his pot-helm, snapping the brow-band and its rivets on one side. Blood painted that side of his face. His eyes were wild.

'A score of 'em up there, Mallet! Trotts is holding them off—'

'The damned idiot!' The healer finished loading his crossbow and scrambled to the stairs, pausing briefly to examine Antsy. 'Find yourself a new helm, Spin, then follow!'

'What about Antsy?'

'He'll live a while longer. Hurry, damn you!'

The staircase was crowded with fresh bodies, all the way up to the next landing.

Mallet arrived in time to find himself caught in a descending rush – Seerdomin and, in their midst, a snarling Trotts, tumbling in a thrashing wall of flesh straight down onto the healer. A blade – the Barghast's – plunged through Mallet's shoulder, then whipped back out as they one and all fell onto the hard stone steps. Axe-blades, daggers, gauntlets, helms and greaves made the human avalanche a vicious shock of pain that did not end even when they were brought to a flailing halt at the bend in the stairwell.

Trotts was the first one to extricate himself, stabbing down with his shortsword, kicking and stamping with his boots. Cursing, Mallet dragged himself clear of the Barghast's frenzy, fire lancing from the wound in his shoulder.

Moments later, there was only the sound of gasping breaths in the stairwell.

The healer twisted round, found a wall at his back, and slowly pushed himself upright – to glare up at Trotts. 'You stabbed me, you bastard!'

Even as he said it, his words fell away as he looked at the Barghast. The huge warrior had taken more wounds than Mallet had thought possible. He had been chopped to pieces. Yet he did not even so much as waver as he grinned down at the healer. 'Stabbed you, did I? Good.'

Mallet grimaced. 'I see your point, you blue-toothed cattle-dog. Why should you get all the fun?'

'Aye. Where's Antsy and Det and Spin?'

'Landing below. Det's dead. We'll have to carry Antsy. From the sound, Spin's still looking for a new helm.'

'They'll all be too big,' Trotts growled. 'We need to find the kitchen – a cup.'

Mallet pushed himself from the wall. 'Good idea. Let's get going, then.'

'I'll take point, now – cooks are dangerous.'

The Barghast, streaming blood, moved past the healer.

'Trotts.'

He paused. 'Aye?'

'Spin said a score.'

'Aye.'

'All dead?'

'Maybe half. The rest ran away.'

'You scared them off, did you?'

'Spin's hairshirt, is my guess. Come on, Healer.'

 

Toc's head lolled, the scene rising and falling as the T'lan Imass carried him down the torchlit corridor. Occasionally, Tool stepped over a body or two.

My brother. He called me that.

I have no brother.

Only a mother.

And a god. Seer, where are you? Will you not come for me, now? The wolf dies. You have won. Free me, Lord of All. Free me to walk through Hood's Gate.

They reached an arched doorway, the door lying shattered on this side. Wood still nailed to bronze bands shifted unsteadily underfoot as Tool crossed it. A large, domed chamber, twenty paces across, was before them. It had once been filled with strange mechanisms – machines used by torturers – but these had all been smashed into ruin, flung to the sides to lean like broken-boned beasts against the walls.

Victims of rage . . . was this Tool's work? This undead, emotionless . . . thing?

A sudden clang of blades from the arched doorway opposite.

The T'lan Imass stopped. 'I shall have to set you down, now.'

Down. Yes. It's time.

Toc twisted his head as Tool slowly lowered him to the flagstones. A figure stood in the doorway on the other side of the chamber. Masked, white enamel, twin-scarred. A sword in each hand. Oh, I know you, do I not?

The figure said nothing and simply waited until Tool had stepped away from Toc. The battered T'lan Imass drew the two-handed flint sword from his shoulder sling, then spoke, 'Mok, Third among the Seguleh, when you are done with me, would you take Toc the Younger from this place?'

Lying on his side, Toc watched as the masked warrior tilted his head in acknowledgement. Mok, you damned fool. You are about to kill my friend . . . my brother.

Blurred motion, two warriors closing too fast for Toc's lone eye to follow. Iron sang with stone. Sparks shooting through the gloom to light the broken instruments of torture surrounding them, in racing flashes of revelation – shadows dancing in the wood and metal tangle, and, to Toc, it was as if all the accumulated pain that these mechanisms had absorbed in their lifetimes was suddenly freed.

By the sparks.

By the two warriors ... and all that sheathed their hidden souls.

Freed, writhing, dancing, spider-bitten – mad, frantic in answer...

In answer . . .

Somewhere within him – as the battle continued on, the masked warrior driving the T'lan Imass back, back – the wolf stirred.

Trapped. In this bent but unbroken mechanism, this torturing cage of bone ... He saw, close, the shattered frame of ... something. A beam, massive, its end capped in black, bruised bronze. Where bits were smeared – flesh, flesh and hair.

Cage.

Toc the Younger drew his mangled legs under him, planted a pustuled, malformed elbow on the flagstones, felt flesh tear as he twisted round, pivoted, dragged his legs up to kneel – then, hands, frozen into fists, pushing down on the stone. Lifting, tilting back to settle weight on hips that ground and seemed to crumble beneath tendon and thin muscle.

He set his hands down once more, drew the knobbed things that had once been his feet under him, knees lifting.

Balance . . . now. And will.

Trembling, slick with sweat beneath the tattered remnants of his shapeless tunic, Toc slowly rose upright. His head spun, blackness threatening, but he held on.

 

Kruppe gasped, lifting her, pulling at her arm. 'You must touch, lass. This world – it was made for you – do you understand? A gift – there are things that must be freed.'

Freed.

Yes, she understood that word. She longed for it, worshipped it, knelt, head bowed, before its altar. Freed. Yes, that made sense.

Like these memories of ice, raining, raining down upon us.

Freed . . . to feed the earth—

—deliverance, of meaning, of emotion, history's gift – the land underfoot, the layers, so many layers—

To feed the earth.

What place is this?

'Reach, dearest Mhybe, Kruppe begs you! Touch—'

She raised a trembling hand—

 

Upright.

To see Tool reeling beneath blows, the flint sword fending slower with each flashing blade that reached for him.

Upright. A step. One step. Will do.

The cage, the wolf stirring, the wolf seeking to draw breath – unable—

He lurched towards the beam and its upthrust, bronze-capped end.

One step, then toppling.

Forward, lifting his arms high – clear – the beam's end seeming to rise to meet him. Meet his chest – the ribs – bones shattering in an explosion of pain—

 

To touch—

 

The cage!

Broken!

Freed!

The wolf drew breath.

And howled.

 

The hammer held high in Brood's hands, trembling, iron shaking—

As a god's howl ripped the air, a howl climbing, a call—

Answered.

On the killing field, T'lan Ay rising from the ground, the beasts blurring forward in a silent, grey wave, cutting through K'Chain Che'Malle – tearing the undead reptiles down, rending – the giant, armoured reptiles buckling before the onslaught.

Other K'ell Hunters wheeling, racing for the gate – wolves pursuing.

Far overhead, condors breaking away from their deadly dance with two black dragons, speeding back towards the keep, Korlat and Orfantal following, and behind them, tens of thousands of Great Ravens—

—and above the keep, something was happening—

 

Holding the Mhybe, now unconscious, in his arms, Kruppe staggered back as Togg tore itself free of the shattered cage, the god's howl blistering the air.

The deluge of hail ceased. Abrupt. The sky darkened.

A pressure, a force, ancient and bestial. Growing.

Togg, huge, one-eyed, white, silver-tipped fur – howling -

The wolf-god, emerging with the force of heaving stone, his cry seeming to span the sky.

A cry that was answered.

On all sides.

 

Paran ducked even lower to a sudden descent of gloom, cold, a weight overwhelming the captain.

Beside him, Quick Ben groaned, then hissed. 'This is it, friend. Kurald Galain. I can use this – get us over this wall – we have to see—'

See what? Gods, I'm being crushed!

The pressure dimmed suddenly. Hands gripped his harness, dragged him up, metal scraping, leather catching, up and over the low wall to thump down on the other side.

The darkness continued its preternatural fall, dulling the sun to a grey, fitfully wavering disc.

Condors overhead, screaming—

—and in those screams, raw terror—

Paran twisted round, looked upon the scene on the parapet. Thirty paces away, on the far edge, crouching, was a figure the captain knew instinctively to be the Seer. Human flesh and skin had sloughed away, revealing a Jaghut, naked, surrounded in misty clouds of ice crystals. Clutched in the Seer's hands, an egg the size of a cusser. At his side, huge and misshapen, a K'Chain Che'Malle – no. The Matron. What flowed from her left Paran horrified and filled with pity. She was mindless, her soul stripped, filled with a pain he knew she could not even feel – the only mercy that remained.

Two heavily armoured K'ell Hunters had been guarding their mother, but were now moving forward, weapons rising, thumping across the roof as, at a stairwell fifteen paces to Paran's left, two figures appeared. Masked, painted from head to toe in blood, each wielding two swords, clambering free of a passageway strewn with the bodies of Urdomen and Seerdomin.

'Hood take us!' Quick Ben swore. 'Those are Seguleh!'

But Paran's attention had already left them, was oblivious of the battle as the K'ell Hunters closed with the Seguleh. The storm-cloud that had towered overhead for so long was still climbing, shredding apart, almost lost in darkness. Something, he realized with a chill, was coming.

'Captain! Follow me!'

Quick Ben was edging along the low wall, following its curve towards the harbourside.

Paran scrambled after the wizard. They halted where they had a full view of the harbour and the bay.

Far out in the bay, the horizon's line of ice was exploding all along its length, in white, spewing clouds.

The waters of the harbour had grown glass-smooth beneath the dark, now motionless air. The web of ropes spanning it – with its shacks and dangling lines and withered corpses – suddenly trembled.

'In Hood's name what's—'

'Shh! Oh, Abyss! Watch!'

And he did.

The glass-smooth waters of the harbour ... shivered ... swelled . . . bulged.

Then, impossibly, fled on all sides.

Black, enormous – something – rising from the depths.

Seas thrashed, a ring of foam racing outward. A sudden push of cold wind hammered the parapet, made the structure sway, then tremble.

Rock, ragged, scarred – a Hood-damned mountain! – rising from the harbour, lifting the vast net with it.

And the mountain grew larger, rose higher, darkness bleeding from it in radiating waves.

'They've unveiled Kurald Galain!' Quick Ben shouted through the roaring wind. 'All of them!'

Paran stared.

Moon's Spawn.

Rising.

Rake hid it—

—oh, Abyss below, did Rake hide it!

Rising, water descending down its battered sides in tumbling falls, into mist that flowed as the edifice climbed ever higher.

The Cut. Ortnal's Cut – that chasm—

'Look!' Quick Ben hissed. 'Those cracks...'

And now he saw the cost of Rake's gambit. Huge fissures scarred the face of Moon's Spawn, fissures from which water still poured in undiminished volume.

Rising.

Two-thirds now clear of the churned seas.

Slowly spinning, bringing into view, high on one side, a ledge—

Where stood a lone figure.

 

Memories . . . gone. In their wake, tens of thousands of souls. Silent.

'To me, then, I will take your pain, now.'

'You are mortal.'

'I am mortal.'

'You cannot carry our pain.'

'I can.'

'You cannot deliver it—'

'I shall.'

'Itkovian—'

'Your pain, T'lan Imass. Now.'

It rose before him, a wave of immeasurable height, rose, towering, then plunged towards him.

And they saw, one and all.

They saw Itkovian's welcoming smile.

 

Moon's Spawn rose, shrouded in darkness, beyond the city. Caladan Brood stared. Cascading clouds of mist, streams of water falling, fading. Dragons, now, wheeling outward, black, one crimson, waves of Kurald Galain, lashing out, incinerating the demonic condors.

Moon's Spawn, leaning – a massive chunk of midnight stone sloughing from one side, rocking the entire edifice – leaning, sliding, forward, towards the keep—

On the killing field below, scattered remnants of soldiers – Malazan, Barghast, Grey Swords, Gruntle and the handful of followers that were all that remained of his legion – had one and all crossed the stone bridge and were converging on the shattered north gate. Unimpeded. The wall east of the gate was empty of mages, of anyone – stripped clean.

Fires lit the city beyond the wall. The sky was filling with Black Moranth, Great Ravens – Kurald Galain spreading out, down, onto Coral—

A true unveiling. All of the Tiste Andii, joined in ritual magic – the world has never known this – in all. the millennia since their arrival – never known this. Burn's heart, what will come of this unveiling?

He continued staring, overcome with a vast, soul-numbing helplessness.

 

The power flowed towards Korlat. Her eyes flashed as she and her brother swept on the cold, familiar currents of Kurald Galain, towards Moon's Spawn.

Oh, it was dying – she could see that. Dying, but not yet completed its dreadful, deadly task.

She watched it moving, drawing closer to the keep's parapet – to where, she could now see, stood the Seer – the Jaghut, clutching the Matron's Finnest, staring upward, frozen, as the black, towering mountain inexorably approached.

Darkness, come to this world. To this place, this city.

Darkness, that would never dissipate.

Coral. Black, black Coral...

 

It took no more than a half-dozen heartbeats before Lady Envy realized – as she watched the Bridgeburners crumble before the Urdomen attack – that she had misunderstood Picker's last comment. Not confidence, not even bravado. Rather, a comment rife with fatalism, no doubt typical of these soldiers, but entirely new to Lady Envy.

As comprehension struck her, she acted. A small gesture with one hand.

Sufficient to rupture the flesh of the Urdomen warriors.

They crumpled en masse.

But the damage had already been done.

Two Bridgeburners remained standing, and both bore wounds.

She watched as they began checking their fallen comrades, finally gathering around one, pulling him clear. Only one among those fallen, then, who still breathed.

Heavy boots down the hallway, fast approaching.

Lady Envy scowled, raised her hand again—

'Wait!' Picker screamed. 'That's Mallet! Spin! Over here, you bastards!'

Behind the first two who had appeared – Mallet and Spin, she presumed – staggered two more soldiers in the garb of the Bridgeburners. All were terribly wounded – the Barghast in particular, whose armour was nothing more than fragments and whose body was a mass of cuts and gaping holes. Even as she watched, he staggered, sank to his knees, teeth bared in a smeared grin.

And died.

'Mallet!'

The large man in the lead spun round, reeled at the sudden motion – and Lady Envy noted that he had taken a sword thrust that had gone right through him, just below the right shoulder. He stumbled back towards the Barghast.

'It is too late for him, I am afraid,' Lady Envy called out. 'And you, Healer – Mallet – you are done with your warren and you know it. Gather to me, then, and I shall oblige. As for you, Picker, a more honest answer to my question earlier would have resulted in a far less horrible episode.'

Wiping blood from her eyes, Picker simply stared.

'Ah, well,' Lady Envy sighed, 'perhaps it is best that you have no recollection of that sardonic quip. Come forward all of you – oh!'

She swung about suddenly, as sorcery descended – Kurald Galain – overwhelming in its power.

'Down those stairs!' she cried. 'We must work clear of this! Quickly!'

Four dragging one, the surviving Bridgeburners followed Lady Envy.

 

Splinters of bone struck the wall. Tool staggered back, crashing against the stone, sword falling from his hands, ringing on the flagstones.

Mok raised both weapons—

—and flew to one side, through the air, spinning, weapons sailing from his hands – to collide with a wall, then slide in a heap among shattered wood and metal.

Tool raised his head.

A huge black panther, lips peeled back in a silent snarl, slowly padded towards the unconscious Seguleh.

'No, sister.'

The Soletaken hesitated, then glanced back.

'No. Leave him.'

The panther swung round, sembled.

Yet the rage remained in Kilava's eyes as she strode towards Tool. 'You were defeated! You! The First Sword!'

Tool slowly lowered himself to collect his notched sword. 'Aye.'

'He is a mortal man!'

'Go to the Abyss, Kilava.' He straightened, back scraping as he continued leaning against the wall.

'Let me kill him. Now. Then once more you shall have no worthy challenger.'

'Oh, sister,' Tool sighed. 'Do you not realize? Our time – it has passed. We must relinquish our place in this world. Mok – that man you so casually struck from behind – he is the Third. The Second and the First are his masters with swords. Do you understand me, Kilava? Leave him . . . leave them all.'

He slowly turned until he could see Toc the Younger.

The body, speared through on a shaft of wood, did not move.

'The ancient wolf-god is free,' Kilava said, following his gaze. 'Can you not hear it?'

'No. I cannot.'

'That howl now fills another realm, the sound of birth. A realm ... brought into existence by the Summoner. As for what now gives it life, something else, something else entire.'

A scrape from the doorway.

Both swung their heads.

Another T'lan Imass stood beneath the arch. Impaled with swords, cold-hammered copper sheathing canines. 'Where is she?'

Tool tilted his head. 'Who do you seek, kin?'

'You are Onos T'oolan.' The attention then shifted to Kilava. 'And you are his sister, the One who Defied—'

Kilava's lip curled in contempt. 'And so I remain.'

'Onos T'oolan, First Sword, where is the Summoner?'

'I do not know. Who are you?'

'Lanas Tog. I must find the Summoner.'

Tool pushed himself from the wall. 'Then we shall seek her together, Lanas Tog.'

'Fools,' Kilava spat.

The patter of claws behind Lanas Tog – she wheeled, then backed away.

Baaljagg limped into the chamber. Ignoring everyone but Toc the Younger, the wolf approached the body, whimpered.

'He is free,' Tool said to Baaljagg. 'Your mate.'

'She is not deaf to that howl,' Kilava muttered. 'Togg has passed into the Warren of Tellann. Then ... to a place beyond. Brother, take that path, since you are so determined to find the Summoner. They converge, one and all.'

'Come with us.'

Kilava turned away. 'No.'

'Sister. Come with us.'

She spun, face dark. 'No! I've come for the Seer. Do you understand me? I've come—'

Tool's gaze fell to Toc's broken corpse. 'For redemption. Yes. I understand. Find him, then.'

'I shall! Now that I've saved you, I am free to do as I please.'

Tool nodded. 'And when you are done, sister, seek me out once more.'

'And why should I?'

'Kilava. Blood-kin. Seek me out.'

She was silent for a long moment, then she gave a curt nod.

Lanas Tog strode to Tool's side. 'Lead me, then, First Sword.'

The two T'lan Imass fell to dust, then that, too, vanished.

Kilava was alone in the chamber.

Barring an unconscious Seguleh.

And an ay now lying beside a corpse.

She hesitated, took a step towards Mok's inert form, then sighed, wheeled about and approached Baaljagg.

'You grieve for this mortal,' she whispered, reaching down to rest her hand on the beast's lowered head. 'For him, you hold back on what you so long for – your reunion with your lost mate. Was this man truly worthy of such loyalty? No, answer not – that is plain enough in your eyes.

'And so I will tell you something, Baaljagg, that you clearly fail to realize. This mortal's soul – it rides Togg's own – and your mate would deliver it, but not to Hood's Gate. Go, then, pursue that trail. Here, I shall open the way.'

She straightened, gestured.

The Warren of Tellann opened. The chamber's musty air was swept away. A sweet smell of wet tundra, acrid mosses and softened lichen flowed in on a soft, warm breeze.

The ay bound through the portal.

Kilava closed it after the beast.

Then walked from the chamber.

 

A moment later, Blend stepped from the shadows. She strode to where Mok lay amidst broken wood and twisted metal, looked down on the unconscious figure. Oh, that mask. So . . . tempting—

Startled shouts from the corridor behind her, the sound of soldiers scattering, then heartfelt curses.

'—a damned panther!'

'Kilava,' Lady Envy replied. 'I have crossed paths with her before. Rude, indeed, to push us all aside in such contemptuous fashion.'

Blend turned as the troop arrived.

Lady Envy paused, veiled eyes flicking from Mok to Toc the Younger. 'Oh,' she said in a low voice, 'my dear lad ... Would that you had remained in our company.'

Picker. Mallet. Spindle. Antsy. Bluepearl.

Blend closed her eyes.

'Well, that settles it, then,' Lady Envy said. 'We return to the keep's roof. Swiftly, before Kilava robs me of my vengeance against the Seer.'

'You can return to the roof,' Picker growled. 'We're leaving.'

Leaving, oh, my love . . .

Lady Envy crossed her arms. 'I exhaust myself healing you ungracious soldiers, and this is your answer? I want company!'

Mallet and Spindle moved to retrieve Toc's body.

Picker slumped against a wall, studied Lady Envy with red-shot eyes. 'Our thanks for the healing,' she muttered. 'But we need to rejoin Onearm's Host.'

'And what if still more Pannion soldiers are lurking about?'

'Then we join our slain brothers and sisters. What of it?'

'Oh, you're all the same!'

With that, and a flurry of white robes, Lady Envy stormed from the chamber.

Blend drew closer to Picker, quietly said, 'There's a hint of fresh air ... coming from the doorway beyond.'

The lieutenant nodded. 'Lead on.'

 

Canted to one side, shrouded in black mist, the ruptured basalt groaning like a living thing, Moon's Spawn drew ever closer to the keep's parapet.

Beneath the vast, overwhelming weight of Kurald Galain, the Seer crouched in his madness, head tilted to stare up at the edifice, the Finnest cradled with desperate possessiveness in his arms. Off to one side, the Matron seemed to be trying to claw her way through the tiles beneath her. The pressure was unrelenting.

The two Seguleh had not reached the rooftop unscathed, and the K'ell Hunters were proving more than their match. Both masked warriors had been driven back over the low ringwall, leaving trails of blood. Even so, Paran had never before seen such a display of skill. The swords were a blur, seemingly everywhere at once, and the K'ell Hunters were being hacked to shreds even as they pressed on. The captain had thought to help the two strangers, but had concluded that he'd prove more a hindrance.

Paran glanced back at the sky to the north.

Dragons, diving towards the city, waves of power lashing down to thunder in the streets, against buildings, darkness billowing.

Great Ravens, wheeling, voicing triumphant cries.

'Uh, it's not going to clear ...'

The captain frowned at Quick Ben's strange statement. Clear? What's not – he snapped his head round, back to Moon's Spawn. Oh.

The base of the floating mountain was directly opposite, sliding ever closer. So close – towering, filling the sky.

'I thought Rake would at least come down in person for this,' the wizard went on. 'Instead, he's elected something ... uh, less subtle.'

Like obliterating this entire keep and everyone in it. 'Quick Ben—'

'Aye, we'd better make our move.'

A huge black panther flowed from the stairwell, paused, lambent eyes taking in the scene on the rooftop, then fixing on the Seer.

Quick Ben was suddenly on his feet. 'No!' he shouted to the beast. 'Wait!'

The panther's huge head swung to the wizard, eyes blazing, lips peeling back.

'I don't think it wants to wait.'

Tail lashing, the panther drew a step closer to the cowering Seer – whose back was to them all—

'Damn!' Quick Ben hissed. 'Time's now, Talamandas!'

Who?

Moon's Spawn struck the parapet roof's wall with a grinding, grating crunch. The inexorable wall of stone ploughed forward—

The Matron screamed—

Wet, streaming basalt pinned the K'Chain Che'Malle where she lay, then seemed to gather her in. Blood sprayed, bones snapped, Moon's Spawn's apex edging across the rooftop, leaving in its wake chewed tiles and smears of blood and flesh.

The Seer shrieked, back-pedalled – directly towards the panther, which suddenly coiled—

Moon's Spawn sank suddenly, dropping a man's height, punching through the roof.

Tiles dipped beneath Paran, bricks buckling on all sides – the world swayed.

Quick Ben struck. Sorcery tumbling out, hammering into the panther's flank – sending it flying, claws skittering—

'Follow me!' the wizard screamed, lunging forward.

Paran, struggling to maintain his balance, reached and grasped the wizard's rain-cape, was pulled along. So it's now – to cheat them all. Gods forgive us.

The Seer spun to them – 'What?'

'Talamandas!' Quick Ben roared as they closed with the Seer, the wizard throwing himself onto the Jaghut-

Warren opening round them—

—and away.

Portal closing – then flaring as the panther plunged through it in pursuit.

Moon's Spawn settled further, and the parapet burst apart, bricks snapping out to all sides. The two Seguleh darted back from the K'ell Hunters, leapt the low wall behind which Paran and Quick Ben had hidden, and raced for the far end of the roof. Behind them, where the Seer had crouched, a massive chunk of basalt split away from the apex in a gush of saltwater, plunged down to bury the two K'ell Hunters, down, through floor after floor, into the bowels of the keep.

 

Gruntle staggered, shoulder striking a wall, leaving a red stain as he slowly slid to a crouch. Before him, bent over in exhaustion or pain, kneeling, or standing, blank-faced and ashen, were eight Capan women. Three little more than children, two others with grey in their tangled, sweat-matted hair, their weapons hanging from trembling hands. All he had left.

His Lestari officer was gone, dead, what was left of his body somewhere out in the killing field beyond the wall.

Gruntle lowered his swords, leaned his head back against the dusty stone facing, and closed his eyes.

He could hear fighting to the west. The Grey Swords had ridden in that direction, searching for Dujek. The Black Moranth had returned to the sky above the westernmost third of the city, and seemed to be concentrated in one particular area, plunging in small groups down into streets as if participating in a desperate defence. The snap of sharpers echoed.

Closer at hand, directly opposite Gruntle and what was left of his legion, a cusser had struck a large tenement. The building was moments from collapsing, raging with flames. Bodies of Pannion soldiers lay amidst rubble in the street.

And, slowly tearing its way through the keep, Moon's Spawn, bleeding its darkness out into the city, the path of its destruction a chorus of demolition.

His eyes remained closed.

Boots kicked through broken masonry, then one nudged Gruntle's thigh.

'Lazy pig!'

The Mortal Sword sighed. 'Stonny—'

'This fight ain't over.'

He opened his eyes, stared up at her. 'It is. Coral's fallen – ha, no, it's falling. And isn't the victory sweet. Where have you been?'

The dusty, sweat-streaked woman shrugged, glanced down at the rapier in her hand. 'Here and there. Did what I could, which wasn't much. The Mott Irregulars are here, did you know that? How in Hood's name did they manage that? Damn if they weren't there, inside the gate, when me and the Grey Swords showed up – and we thought we were first.'

'Stonny—'

The preternatural darkness deepened suddenly.

Moon's Spawn had drawn clear of the keep in a final toppling of walls. Still canted, still raining water and chunks of black rock, it drifted closer, a few men's heights above the city's buildings, filling the sky – now almost above them.

On the high ledge, no-one remained visible. Great Ravens were swinging close to the Moon's sides, then wheeling away again with loud, echoing shrieks.

'Abyss take us,' Stonny whispered, 'that thing looks like it could fall at any moment. Just drop. Straight down – or in pieces. It's finished, Gruntle. Finished.'

He could not disagree. The edifice looked ready to break apart.

Salty rain soaked his upturned face, mist from the mountain looming directly overhead. It was, all at once, as dark as an overcast night, and if not for the reflection from the fires spotting the city, Moon's Spawn would have been virtually invisible. Gods, I wish it was.

The sound of fighting to the west fell away, strangely sudden.

They heard horse hooves pounding the cobbles. A moment later, riding into the glare of the burning buildings opposite, the Destriant of the Grey Swords.

She saw them, slowed her canter and swung her warhorse round to approach, then halt.

'We have found the High Fist, sirs. He lives, as well as at least eight hundred of his soldiers. The city is taken. I return, now, to our staging area beyond the killing field. Will you accompany me, sirs? There will be a gathering . . .'

Of survivors. He looked around once more. The T'lan Ay were gone. Without those undead wolves, the K'Chain Che'Malle would have killed everyone outside the city. Perhaps they, too, are gathering around that hill. And what of Itkovian! That damned fool. Does he still kneel before the T'lan Imass? Does he still live? Gruntle sighed, slowly pushed himself upright. His gaze fell once more on his few remaining followers. All this, just to get fifty paces inside the gate. 'Aye, Destriant, we'll follow.'

 

Wings spread wide, flowing across power-ridden air, Korlat sailed in a slow bank around Moon's Spawn. Blood-matted feathers and bits of flesh still clung to her claws. At the end, the demonic condors had died easily – proof enough that the Seer had either fled or had been killed. Perhaps her Lord had descended, had drawn Dragnipur to take the Jaghut's soul. She would discover the truth soon enough.

Head twisting, she glanced at her brother flying beside her, guarding her flank. Orfantal bore wounds, yet did not waver, his power and will still formidable weapons should any surprises rise up to challenge them.

None did.

Their path took them out towards the sea, east of Coral, and within sight of the ocean. Late afternoon's light still commanded the distance.

And she saw, half a league from shore, four ships of war, sails out, flying the colours of the Malazan Imperial Navy as they skirted the periphery of dying ice floes.

Artanthos – Tayschrenn . . . oh, the plans within plans, the games of deceit and misdirection ...

Our history, my lost love, our history destroyed us all.

Swinging around yet further, until they approached Coral once more, angling down and away from Moon's Spawn's slow path as it continued drifting northward. Below, the shattered gate. Figures, torchlight.

Her eyes found Caladan Brood, soldiers of the Grey Swords, Barghast and others.

Orfantal spoke within her mind. 'Go down, sister. I will guard the skies. I, our Soletaken kin, and Silanah. Look, Crone descends. Join her.'

I would guard you, Brother—

'The enemy is destroyed, Korlat. What you would guard, staying with me, is the heart within you. You would fend it from pain. From loss. Sister, he deserves more. Go down, now. To grieve is the gift of the living – a gift so many of our kin have long lost. Do not retreat. Descend, Korlat, to the mortal realm.'

Korlat crooked her wings, spiralled earthward. Brother, thank you.

She sembled as she landed in the modest concourse onto which the north gate opened. Her arrival had forced soldiers to scatter, if only momentarily. Tiste Andii once more, suddenly weak from the wound that Brood had managed to heal but superficially, she stumbled slightly as she made her way to where the Warlord waited just inside the gate. Crone had reported something to him and now rose once more into the darkness.

She had never seen Brood look so ... defeated. The notion of victory seemed . . . irrevelant, in the face of such personal loss. For us all.

As she drew nearer, a man walked up to the warlord. Lean, slope-shouldered, his long, pale hair a tangled mess that sat strangely high on his head.

Korlat watched the man salute, heard him say, 'High Marshal Stump, sir. Mott Irregulars. About that order—'

'What order?' Brood snapped.

The man's smile revealed long, white teeth. 'Never mind. We were there, you see—'

'Where?'

'Uh, this side of the wall, east of the gate, sir, and there was mages up top. The Bole brothers didn't like that, so they roughed them up some. Ain't none breathing any more. Anyway, what do you want us to do now?'

Caladan Brood stared at the man, expressionless, then he shook his head. 'I have not a clue, High Marshal Stump.'

The man from Mott nodded. 'Well, we could put out some fires.'

'Go to it, then.'

'Yes sir.'

Korlat, who had held back during the exchange, now stepped forward as the High Marshal ambled off.

Brood was staring after the man.

'Warlord?'

'We'd left them behind, I'd thought,' he muttered. 'But then . . . they were in the city. They were on the other side of the K'Chain Che'Malle – through the gate or over the wall, taking out mages. Now, how did they ...'

'Warlord, there are Malazan ships. Approaching.'

Brood slowly nodded. 'So Artanthos informed me, before he travelled by warren to the deck of the command ship. There is an imperial delegation aboard, an ambassador, a legate, a governor—'

'All three?'

'No, just one. Lots of titles, depending on the negotiations to follow.'

Korlat drew a deep breath. Hold hack on the pain, on the loss – just a short while longer. 'With Onearm's Host so badly ... damaged ... the Malazans won't be bargaining from a position of strength.'

Brood's eyes narrowed on her. 'Korlat,' he said softly, 'as far as I am concerned, the Malazans have earned all they might ask for. If they want it, Coral is theirs.'

Korlat sighed. 'Warlord, the unveiling of Kurald Galain ... is a permanent manifestation. The city now lies as much within the Tiste Andii warren as within this world.'

'Aye, meaning the negotiations are properly between Rake and the Malazans. Not me. Tell me, will your Lord claim Coral? Moon's Spawn ...'

There was no need to continue. The city within the mountain of rock still held, trapped in its deepest chambers, massive volumes of water, weight that could not be withstood for much longer. Moon's Spawn was dying. It would, she knew, have to be abandoned. A place, our home for so long. Will I grieve? I know not.

'I have not spoken with Anomander Rake, Warlord. I cannot anticipate his disposition.' She turned away, began walking towards the gate.

Brood called after her.

Not yet.

She continued on, beneath the gate's arch, her eyes fixing on the hilltop beyond the shattered corpses carpeting the killing field. Where I will find him. All that is left. His face, gift of memories, now grown cold. I saw the life flee his eyes. That moment of death, of dying. Withdrawing, away from those eyes, withdrawing, back and away. Leaving, leaving me.

Her steps slowed, the pain of loss threatening to overwhelm her.

Dear Mother Dark, do you look down upon me, now? Do you see me, your child? Do you smile, to see me so broken? I have, after all, repeated your fatal errors of old. Yielding my heart, succumbing to the foolish dream – Light's dance, you longed for that embrace, didn't you?

And were betrayed.

You left us, Mother . . . to eternal silence.

Yet. . .

Mother Dark, with this unveiling, I feel you close. Was it grief that sent you away, sent you so far from your children? When, in our deadly, young way – our appalling insensitivity – we cursed you. Added another layer to your pain.

These steps . . . you walked them once.

How can you help but smile?

Rain struck her brow, stung the ragged, open gash of her wound. She halted, looked up, to see Moon's Spawn directly overhead ... weeping down upon her ...

... and upon the field of corpses surrounding her, and, beyond and to the right, upon thousands of kneeling T'lan Imass. The dead, the abandoned, a wash of deepening colours, as if in the rain the scene, so softly saturated, was growing more solid, more real. No longer the faded tableau of a Tiste Andii's regard. Life, drawn short, to sharpen every detail, flush every colour, to make every moment an ache.

And she could hold back no longer. Whiskeyjack. My love.

Moments later, her own tears joined the salt-laden water running down her face.

 

In the gate's gloom, Caladan Brood stared out, across the stone bridge, over the mangled plain to where Korlat stood halfway to the hill, surrounded by corpses and shattered K'Chain Che'Malle. Watched as her head tilted back, face slowly lifting to the grey shroud of the rain. The black mountain, fissures widening, groans issuing from the dying edifice, seemed to pause directly over her. A heart, once of stone, made mortal once more.

This image – what he now saw – he knew, with bleak certainty, would never leave him.

 

Silverfox had walked for what seemed a long time, heedless of direction, insensate to all that surrounded her, until distant movement caught her attention. She now stood on the barren tundra, beneath solid white overcast, and watched the approach of the Rhivi spirits.

A small band, pitifully small, less than forty individuals, insignificant in the distance, almost swallowed by the immense landscape, the sky, this damp air with its unforgiving chill that had settled into her bones like the blood of failure.

Events had occurred. Elsewhere in this nascent realm. She could sense that much – the hail, deluge of memories, born from she knew not where. And though they had struck her with the same indiscriminate randomness as they struck the ground on all sides, she had felt but the faintest hint of all that they had contained.

If a gift, then a bitter one.

If a curse, then so too is life itself a curse. For there were lives within that frozen rain. Entire lives, sent down to strike the flesh of this world, to seep down, to thaw the soil with its fecundity.

But it has nothing to do with me.

None of this. All that I sought to fashion . . . destroyed. This dreamworld was itself a memory. Ghostworld of Tellann, remembrance of my own world, from long, long ago. Remembrances, taken from the Bonecaster who was there in my refashioning, taken from the Rhivi spirits, the First Clan, taken from K'rul, from Kruppe. Taken from the slumbering land itself – Burn's own flesh.

I myself. . . possessed nothing. I simply stole.

To fashion a world for my mother, a world where she could be young once more, where she could live out a normal life, growing old through the normal span of seasons.

All that I stole from her, I would give back.

Bitterness filled Silverfox. It had begun with that first barrow, outside Pale. This belief in the righteousness, the efficacy, of theft. Justified by the worthiest of ends.

But ownership bereft of propriety was a lie. All that she hoarded was in turn stripped of value. Memories, dreams, lives.

Gone to dust.

The hapless band of Rhivi spirits drew closer, cautiously, hesitating.

Yes. I understand. What demands will I make of you now? How many more empty promises will I voice? I had a people for you, a people who had long since lost their own gods, their own spirits to whom they had once avowed allegiance, were less than the dust they could make of themselves. A people.

For you.

Lost.

What a lesson for four bound souls – no matchmaker, we four.

She did not know what to tell them – these modest, timid spirits.

'Bonecaster, we greet you.'

Silverfox blinked her eyes clear. 'Elder Spirit. I have—'

'Have you seen?'

She saw then, in all their faces, a kind of wonder. And frowned in reply.

'Bonecaster,' the foremost Rhivi continued, 'we have found something. Not far from here – do you know of what we speak?'

She shook her head.

'There are thrones, Bonecaster. Two thrones. In a long hut of bones and hide.'

Thrones? 'What – why? Why should there be thrones in this realm? Who—?'

The elder shrugged, then offered her a soft smile. 'They await, Bonecaster. We can feel the truth of that. Soon. Soon, will come this warren's true masters.'

'True masters!' Anger flared in Silverfox. 'This realm – it was for you! Who dares seek to usurp—'

'No,' the spirit's quiet denial cut through her, swept the breath from her lungs. 'Not for us. Bonecaster, we are not powerful enough to command such a world as this. It has grown too vast, too powerful. Do not fear – we do not wish to leave, and we will endeavour to treat with the new masters. I believe they will permit us to remain. Perhaps indeed we will find ourselves pleased to serve them.'

'No!' No! Not how it was supposed to be!

'Bonecaster, there is no need for such strong feelings within you. The shaping continues. The fulfilment of your desires is still possible – perhaps not in the manner you originally intended ...'

She no longer heard him. Despair was sundering her soul. As I stole . . . so it has been stolen from me. There is no injustice here, no crime. Accept the truth.

Nightchill's strength of will.

Tattersail's empathy.

Bellurdan's loyalty.

A Rhivi child's wonder.

None were enough. None could of themselves – or together – absolve what has been done, the choices made, the denials voiced.

Leave them. Leave them to this, to all of this, and all that is to come. Silverfox turned away. 'Find her, then. Go.'

'Will you not walk with us? Your gift to her—'

'Go.'

My gift to her. My gift to you. They are all as one. Grand failures, defeats born from the flaws within me. I will not stand witness to my own shame – I cannot. I have not the courage for that.

I'm sorry.

She walked away.

Brief flower. Seed to stalk to deadly blossom, all in the span of a single day. Bright-burning poison, destroying all who came too close.

An abomination.

 

The Rhivi spirits – a small band, men, women, children and elders, wearing hides and furs, their round faces burnished by sun and wind – watched Silverfox leave them. The elder who had spoken with her did not move until she slipped out of sight beneath the rim of a worn beach ridge, then he ran the back of four spread fingers across his eyes in a gesture of sad departing, and said, 'Build a fire. Prepare the ranag's shoulder blade. We have walked this land enough to see the map within.'

'Once more,' an old woman sighed.

The elder shrugged. 'The Bonecaster commanded that we find her mother.'

'She will simply flee us again. As she did the ay. Like a hare—'

'None the less. The Bonecaster has commanded. We shall lay the blade upon the flames. We shall see the map find its shape.'

'And why should it be true this time?'

The elder slowly lowered himself to press a hand down on the soft mosses. 'Why? Open your senses, doubting one. This land ...' he smiled, 'now lives.'

 

Running.

Free!

Riding the soul of a god, within the muscles of a fierce, ancient beast. Riding a soul—

— suddenly singing with joy. Mosses and lichen beneath the paws, spray of old rain water to streak the leg-fur. Smell of rich, fertile life – a world—

Running. Pain already a fading memory, vague recollections of a cage of bone, growing pressure, ever more shallow breaths.

Throwing head back, loosing a thunderous howl that trembled the sky.

Distant answers.

Which drew closer.

Shapes, grey, brown and black flashes of movement on the tundra, streaming over ridges, sweeping down into shallow valleys, broad moraines. Ay. Kin. The children of Baaljagg – of Fanderay – ghost memories that were the souls of the T'lan Ay. Baaljagg had not released them, had held to them, within herself, within her dreams – in an ageless world into which an Elder God had breathed eternal life.

Ay.

Their god had challenged the heavens with his bestial voice, and now they came to him.

And . . . another.

Togg slowed, head lifting – the ay all around him now, clan after clan, long-legged tundra wolves, swirling—

She was here. She had come.

She had found him.

Running. Coming nearer. Shoulder to shoulder with Baaljagg, with the ay who had carried her wounded, lost soul for so long. Baaljagg, coming to rejoin her kin – the kin of her dreams.

Emotions. Beyond measure—

Then, Fanderay was padding at his side.

Their beast-minds touched. A moment. Nothing else. Nothing more was needed.

Together, shoulders brushing—

Two ancient wolves. God and goddess.

He looked upon them, without knowing who he, himself, was; nor even where he might be, that he might so witness this reunion. Looked, and, for these two, knew nothing but gentle joy. Running.

Ahead awaited their thrones.

 

The Mhybe's head snapped up, her body stiffening, writhing in an attempt to break his grip. Small as he was, his strength defeated her.

'Wolves, lass. We've nothing to fear.'

Nothing to fear. Lies. They have hunted me. Again and again. Pursuing me across this empty land. And now, listen, they come once more. And this Daru who drags me, he has not even so much as a knife.

'Something ahead,' Kruppe gasped, shifting his awkward embrace as he staggered under her weight. 'Easier,' he panted, 'when you were but a hag! Now, but you found the will, you could throw me down – nay! You could carry me!'

Will. Need I only find the will? To break from this grip? To flee?

Flee where?

'Lass, hear Kruppe's words! He begs you! This – this world – Kruppe's dream no longer! Do you understand? It must pass from me. It must be passed on!'

They were stumbling up a gentle slope.

Wolves howled behind them, fast approaching.

Leave me.

'Dearest Mhybe, so aptly named! You are the vessel in truth, now! Within you – take this dream from me. Allow it to fill your spirit. Kruppe must pass it on to you – do you understand?'

Will.

She twisted suddenly, threw an elbow into Kruppe's stomach. He gasped, doubled over. She pulled herself free as he fell, leapt to her feet—

Behind them, tens of thousands of wolves. Charging towards her. And, leading them, two gigantic beasts that radiated blinding power.

The Mhybe cried out, spun.

A shallow depression before her. A long, low hut of arched bones, hides, bound with hemp rope, the entrance yawning wide.

And, standing in a clump before the hut, a band of Rhivi.

The Mhybe staggered towards them.

Wolves were suddenly all around, flowing in a wild, chaotic circle around the hut. Ignoring the Rhivi. Ignoring her.

Groaning, Kruppe levered himself, after a couple of tries, to his feet. Weaving, he joined her. She stared at him without comprehension.

He drew a faded handkerchief from his sleeve and daubed the sweat from his brow. 'Any lower with that elbow, dear ...'

'What? What is happening?'

Kruppe paused, looked around. 'They are within, then.'

'Who?'

'Why, Togg and Fanderay, of course. Come to claim the Beast Throne. Or, in this case, Thrones. Not that, should we enter the hut, we will see two wolves perched on chairs, of course. Presence alone asserts possession, no doubt. Kruppe's imagination tempts other, shall we say, prosaic images, but best avoid those, yes? Now, lass, permit Kruppe to edge back. Those who approach you now – well, this is the passing of a dream, from one to the other, and into the background noble Kruppe must now go.'

She swung round.

A Rhivi elder faced her, face creasing in a sad smile. 'We asked her to come with us,' he said.

The Mhybe frowned. 'Asked who?'

'Your daughter. This world – it is for you. Indeed, it exists within you. With this world, your daughter asks for forgiveness.'

'S-she made this—'

'There were many participants, each and all driven by the injustice that befell you. There was... desperation, the day your daughter was ... created. The one known as Kruppe. The Elder God, K'rul. The one named Pran Chole. And yourself. And, when she gathered us within her, ourselves as well. Silverfox sought to answer yet more – the tragedy that are the T'lan Imass and the T'lan Ay. It may be,' he added, one hand making a faint gesture of bereavement, 'that what her heart sought has proved too vast—'

'Where is she? Where is my daughter?'

The elder shook his head. 'Despair has taken her. Away.'

The Mhybe fell silent. I was hunted. You were hunting me. And the ay. She looked down, slowly raised her youthful limbs. Is this real, then? She slowly turned about, looked across to meet Kruppe's eyes.

The Daru smiled.

The old woman . . .

'Will I awaken?'

Kruppe shook his head. 'That woman now sleeps eternal, lass. Warded, guarded. Your daughter spoke with Hood. Reached an agreement, yes? She believes, having lost the T'lan Imass, that she has broken it. Yet, one cannot but think that there are facets to this ... resolution. Kruppe remains confident.'

An agreement. Freedom for the T'lan Imass. An end. Their souls . . . delivered to Hood.

Spirits below – she has lost them? Lost the T'lan Imass? 'Hood will not abide—'

'Ah, but won't he? Whyever not, dear? If the Lord of Death is without patience, then Kruppe can dance on Coll's pointy head! Which he most assuredly cannot. You shall not return to that ancient body.'

The Mhybe glanced back at the Rhivi spirits. 'Will I age here? Will I eventually . . .'

The elder shrugged. 'I do not know, but I suspect not. You are the vessel. The Mhybe.'

The Mhybe . . . Oh, Silverfox. Daughter. Why are you not here? Why can I not look now into your eyes. The begging for forgiveness goes both ways. She drew a deep breath, tasted the sweet life filling the cool, moist air. So easily, then, to take this world into myself. She removed the first copper bracelet, held it out to the Rhivi. 'This is yours, I believe.'

The elder smiled. 'Did its power serve you well?'

She nodded. 'Without measure ...'

A presence filled her mind. 'Mhybe.'

Togg, a rumbling power, the will of winter itself.

'We reside within this realm, realm of the Beast Thrones, but you are its mistress. There is one within me. A mortal spirit. Cherished spirit. I would release him. We would release him. From this realm. Do you give us—'

Yes. Release him.

 

Benediction. Godless, he could not give it. Not in its truest form.

But he had not comprehended the vast capacity within him, within a mortal soul, to take within itself the suffering of tens of thousands, the multitudes who had lived with loss and pain for almost three hundred thousand years.

He saw faces, countless faces. Desiccated, eyes nothing more than shadowed pits. Dry, torn skin. He saw bone glimmering from between layers of root-like tendons and muscles. He saw hands, chipped, splintered, empty now – yet the ghost of swords lingered there still.

He was on his knees, looking out upon their ranks, and it was raining, a wavering deluge accompanied by reverberating groans, splintering cracks filling the darkness above.

He looked upon them, and they were motionless, heads bowed.

Yet he could see their faces. Each face. Every face.

I have your pain.

Heads slowly lifted.

He sensed them, sensed the sudden lightness permeating them. I have done all I am able to do. Yes, it was not enough, I know. Yet. I have taken your suffering—

'You have taken our suffering, mortal.'

Into myself—

'We do not understand how.'

And so I will now leave you—

'We do not understand . . . why.'

For all that my flesh cannot encompass—

'We cannot answer the gift you have given.'

I will take with me.

'Please, mortal—'

Somehow.

'The reason. Please. That you would so bless us—'

I am the .

'Mortal?'

Your pardon, sirs. You wish to know of me. I am ... a mortal, as you say. A man, born three decades ago in the city of Erin. My family name, before I surrendered it to Fener's Reve, was Otanthalian. My father was a hard, just man. My mother smiled but once in all the years I knew her. The moment when I departed. Still, it is the smile I remember. I think now that my father embraced in order to possess. That she was a prisoner. I think, now, that her smile answered my escape. I think now that in my leaving, I took something of her with me. Something worthy of being set free.

Fener's Reve. In the Reve ... I wonder, did I simply find for myself another prison?

'She is free within you, mortal.'

That would be ... a good thing.

'We would not lie to you, Itkovian Otanthalian. She is free. And smiles still. You have told us what you were. But we still do not understand – your . . . generosity. Your compassion. And so we ask again. Why have you done this for us?'

Sirs, you speak of compassion. I understand something, now, of compassion. Would you hear?

'Speak on, mortal.'

We humans do not understand compassion. In each moment of our lives, we betray it. Aye, we know of its worth, yet in knowing we then attach to it a value, we guard the giving of it, believing it must be earned. T'lan Imass. Compassion is price' less in the truest sense of the word. It must be given freely. In abundance.

'We do not understand, but we will consider long your words.'

There is always more to do, it seems.

'You do not answer our question—'

No.

'Why?'

Beneath the rain, as darkness gathered, with every face raised to him, Itkovian closed himself about all that he held within him, closed himself, then fell back.

Back.

Because. I was the Shield Anvil. But now . . .

I am done.

And beneath the Moon's torrential rain, he died.

 

On the vast, reborn tundra with its sweet breath of spring, Silverfox looked up.

Standing before her were two T'lan Imass. One speared through with swords. The other so badly battered that it could barely stand.

Beyond them, silent, motionless, the T'lan Ay.

Silverfox made to turn away.

'No. You shall not.'

Silverfox glared back at the battered warrior who'd spoken. 'You dare torment me?' she hissed.

The T'lan Imass seemed to rock in the face of her vehemence, then steadied. 'I am Onos T'oolan, First Sword. You are the Summoner. You shall listen to me.'

Silverfox said nothing for a long moment, then she nodded. 'Very well. Speak.'

'Free the T'lan Ay.'

'They have denied me—'

'They are here before you, now. They have come. Their spirits await them. They would be mortal once more, in this world that you have created. Mortal, no longer lost within dreams, Summoner. Mortal. Gift them. Now.'

Gift them . . . 'And this is what they wish?'

'Yes. Reach to them, and you will know the truth of that.'

No, no more pain. She raised her arms, drew on the power of Tellann, closed her eyes – for too long have they known chains. For too long have these creatures known the burden of loyalty—

—and released them of the Ritual. An effort demanding so little of herself, she was left feeling appalled. So easy, then, to release. To make free once more.

She opened her eyes. The undead wolves were gone.

Not into oblivion, however. Their souls had been reunited, she knew, with flesh and bone. Extinct no longer. Not here, within this realm and its wolf gods. She was a Bonecaster, after all. Such gifts were hers to give. No, they are not gifts. They are what I was fashioned to do, after all. My purpose. My sole purpose.

Onos T'oolan's bones creaked as he slowly looked around, scanning the now empty barrens surrounding them. His shoulders seemed to slump. 'Summoner. Thank you. The ancient wrong is righted.'

Silverfox studied the First Sword. 'What else do you wish of me?'

'She who stands beside me is Lanas Tog. She will lead you back to the T'lan Imass. Words must be exchanged.'

'Very well.'

Onos T'oolan made no move.

Silverfox frowned. 'What are we waiting for, then?'

He was motionless a moment longer, then he reached up and slowly drew his flint sword. 'For me,' he rasped, raising the sword—

— then releasing it, to fall to the ground at his feet.

She frowned down at the weapon, wondering at the significance of the gesture – from the warrior who was called the First Sword.

Slowly, as comprehension filled her, her eyes widened.

What, after all, I was fashioned to do . . .

 

'The time has come.'

Coll started. He had been dozing. 'What? What time?'

Murillio rushed over to the Mhybe.

The Knight of Death continued, 'She is ready for interment. My Lord has avowed his eternal protection.'

The Elder God, K'rul, was studying the huge, undead warrior. 'I remain bemused. No – astonished. Since when has Hood become a generous god?'

The Knight slowly faced K'rul. 'My Lord is ever generous.'

'She's still alive,' Murillio pronounced, straightening to place himself between the Mhybe and the Knight of Death. 'The time has not come.'

'This is not a burial,' K'rul said to him. 'The Mhybe now sleeps, and will sleep for ever more. She sleeps, to dream. And within her dream, Murillio, lives an entire world.'

'Like Burn?' Coll asked.

The Elder God smiled in answer.

'Wait a moment!' Murillio snapped. 'Just how many sleeping old women are there?'

'She must be laid to rest,' the Knight of Death pronounced.

Coll stepped forward, settled a hand on Murillio's shoulder. 'Come on, let's make sure she's comfortable down there – furs, blankets ...'

Murillio seemed to shiver under Coll's hand. 'After all this?' He wiped at his eyes. 'We just. . . leave her? Here, in a tomb?'

'Help me with the bedding, my friend,' Coll said.

'There is no need,' the Knight said. 'She will feel nothing.'

'That's not the point,' Coll sighed. He was about to say something more, then he saw that Rath'Fanderay and Rath'Togg had both removed their masks. Pallid, wrinkled faces, eyes closed, streaming with tears. 'What's wrong with them?' he demanded.

'Their gods have finally found each other, Coll. Within the Mhybe's realm, home now to the Beast Thrones. You do not witness sorrow, but joy.'

After a moment, Coll grunted. 'Let's get to work, Murillio. Then we can go home.'

'I still want to know about these old women dreaming up worlds like this!'

 

The warren flared, the three figures emerging from it spilling onto dusty grey earth in a tangle.

Paran rolled clear of Quick Ben and the Seer as sorcery roiled around the two grappling men. As the captain drew his sword, he heard the Jaghut shriek. Black webs raced, wrapped tight about the thrashing Seer.

Gasping, Quick Ben kicked himself away, the Finnest in his hands.

Crouched on the Jaghut's chest was a tiny figure of twigs and knotted grasses, cackling with glee.

'Who in Hood's name—'

A massive black shape exploded from the portal with a hissing snarl. Paran cried out, wheeled, sword swinging in a desperate horizontal slash.

Which bit muscle then bone.

Something – a paw – hammered Paran's chest, throwing him from his feet.

'Stop – you damned cat!'

Quick Ben's frantic shout was punctuated by a sorcerous detonation that made the panther scream in pain.

'On your feet, Paran!' the wizard gasped. 'I've nothing left.'

On my feet? Gods, I feel broken into a thousand pieces, and the man wants me on my feet. Somehow, he pushed himself upright, tottering as he faced the beast once more.

It crouched six paces away, tail thrashing, coal-lit eyes fixed on his own. It bared its fangs in a silent snarl.

From somewhere within the captain emerged an answering growl. Deeper than a human throat could manage. A brutal strength flowed into him, stealing from him all awareness of his own body – except that now, he realized, he was – somehow – on eye-level with the gigantic panther.

He heard Quick Ben's ragged whisper behind him: 'Abyss below!'

The cat, ears laid back flat, was clearly hesitating.

What in Hood's name is it seeing?

'Bonecaster!' Quick Ben snapped. 'Hold. Look around you – see where we are! We're not your enemies – we seek what you seek. Here. Right now.'

The panther drew back another step, and Paran saw it tensing for a charge.

'Vengeance is not enough!' the wizard cried.

The cat flinched. A moment later, Paran saw its muscles relax, then the entire beast blurred, changed shape – and a small, dark, heavy-boned woman stood before them. On her right shoulder was a deep gash, the blood freely flowing down to paint her arm, dripping from her fingertips to the dusty ground. Black, extraordinarily beautiful eyes regarded him.

Paran slowly sighed, felt something subside within him – and he could sense his own body once more, limbs trembling, sword-grip slick in his hand.

'Who are you?' she asked.

The captain shrugged.

Her gaze dismissed him, lifted past him. 'Morn,' she said.

Paran slowly turned.

He felt the rent like a physical blow against his heart. A welt in the air, almost within reach of the ragged roof of an abandoned tower. A wound, bleeding pain – such pain . . . an eternity – gods below, there is a soul within it. A child. Trapped. Sealing the wound. I remember that child – the child of my dreams ...

Quick Ben had regained his feet, stood looking down on the magically imprisoned Seer, the sticksnare crouched on the man's chest.

The Jaghut, unhuman eyes filled with terror, stared back up at him.

The wizard smiled. 'You and I, Seer. We are going to come to an arrangement.' He still held the Finnest and now slowly raised it. 'The Matron's power ... resides within this egg. Correct? A power unable to sense itself, yet alive none the less. Torn from the body that once housed it, presumably it feels no pain. It simply exists, here in this Finnest, for anyone to use it. Anyone at all.'

'No,' the Jaghut rasped, eyes widening with fear. 'The Finnest is aspected to me. To me alone. You foolish—'

'Enough of the insults, Seer. Do you want to hear my proposal? Or will Paran and I simply step back and leave you to this Bonecaster's tender talons?'

The dark-haired woman approached them. 'What do you plan, Wizard?'

Quick Ben glanced back at her. 'An arrangement, Bonecaster, where everyone wins.'

She sneered. 'No-one wins. Ever. Leave him to me now.'

'The T'lan Vow is that important to you? I think not. You are flesh and blood—you did not participate in that ritual.'

'I am not bound to any vow,' she replied. 'I act now for my brother.'

'Your brother?' Paran asked, sheathing his sword and joining them.

'Onos T'oolan. Who knew a mortal, and called him kin.'

'I imagine such an honour is ... rare,' Paran acknowledged, 'but what has that to do with the Seer?'

She looked down at the bound Jaghut. 'To answer the death of Toc the Younger, brother to Onos T'oolan, I must kill you, Seer.'

Paran stared, disbelieving the name he had just heard.

The Jaghut's response was a grim unsheathing of his lower tusks. Then he said, 'You should have killed us the first time. Yes, I remember you. Your lies.'

'Toc the Younger?' Quick Ben asked. 'From Onearm's Host? But—'

'He was lost,' Paran said. 'Thrown into a chaotic warren by Hairlock.'

The wizard was scowling. 'To land in the Seer's lap? That hardly seems—'

'He appeared here,' the woman cut in. 'At Morn. The Seer interrupted his journey north to rejoin his people, a journey that, for a time, he shared with Onos T'oolan. The Seer tortured the mortal, destroyed him.'

'Toc's dead?' Paran asked, his mind feeling rocked in every direction.

'I saw his body, yes. And now, I will deliver unto this Jaghut pain to match.'

'Have you not already done so?' the Jaghut hissed.

The Bonecaster's face tightened.

'Wait,' Quick Ben said, looking now to both her and Paran. 'Listen to me. Please. I knew Toc as well, and I grieve for the loss. But it changes nothing, not here, not now.' He turned once more back to the Seer. 'She is still in there, you know.'

The Jaghut flinched, eyes widening.

'Didn't you understand that? The Matron could only take one. You.'

'No—'

'Your sister is still there. Her soul seals that wound. It's the way warrens heal themselves, to keep from bleeding into each other. The first time, it was the Matron – the K'Chain Che'Malle. Time's come, Seer, to send her back. Hood knows what that Finnest will do – once you release it, once you send it into that rent—'

The Jaghut managed a ghastly smile. 'To free my sister? To what? You fool. You blind, stupid fool. Ask the Bonecaster – how long would we survive in this world? The T'lan Imass will hunt us in earnest now. I free my sister, to what? A short life, filled with flight – I remember, mortal. I remember! Running. Never enough sleep. Mother, carrying us, slipping in the mud—' He shifted his head a fraction, 'And oh how I remember you, Bonecaster! You sent us into that wound – you—'

'I was mistaken,' the woman said. 'I thought – I believed – it was a portal into Omtose Phellack.'

'Liar! You may be flesh and blood, but in your hatred for the Jaghut you are no different from your undead kin. No, you'd discovered a more horrible fate for us.'

'No. I believed I was saving you.'

'And you never knew the truth? You never realized?'

Paran watched the woman's expression close, her eyes flattening. 'I saw no way of undoing what I had done.'

'Coward!' the Jaghut shrieked.

'Enough of all this,' Quick Ben cut in. 'We can fix it now. Return the Matron to the wound, Seer. Retrieve your sister.'

'Why? Why should I? To see us both cut down by the T'lan Imass?'

'He is right,' the woman said. 'Even so, Jaghut, better that than an eternity of pain, such as your sister is now suffering.'

'I need only wait. One day,' the Seer hissed, 'some fool will come upon this site, will probe, will reach into the portal—'

'And will make the exchange? Freeing your sister.'

'Yes! Beyond the sight or knowledge of the T'lan Imass! Beyond—'

'A small child,' Quick Ben said. 'Alone. In a wasteland. I have a better idea.'

The Jaghut bared his teeth in a silent snarl.

The wizard slowly crouched down beside the Seer. 'Omtose Phellack. Your warren is under siege, isn't it? The T'lan Imass long ago breached it. And now, whenever it is unveiled, they know about it. They know where, and they come ...'

The Jaghut simply glared.

Quick Ben sighed. 'The thing is, Seer, I have found a place for it. A place that can remain ... hidden. Beyond the ability of the T'lan Imass to detect. Omtose Phellack can survive, Seer, in its fullest power. Survive, and heal.'

'Lies.'

The sticksnare on his chest spoke, 'Listen to this wizard, Jaghut. He offers a mercy you do not deserve.'

Paran cleared his throat, said, 'Seer. Were you aware that you have been manipulated? Your power – it wasn't Omtose Phellack, was it?'

'I used,' the Jaghut grated, 'what I could find.'

'The Warren of Chaos, yes. Wherein is trapped a wounded god. The Chained One, a creature of immense power, a creature in pain, who seeks only the destruction of this world, of every warren – including Omtose Phellack. He is indifferent to your desires, Seer, and he has been using you. Worse, the venom of his soul – he's been speaking ... through you. Thriving on pain and suffering . . . through you. Since when were Jaghut interested only in destruction? Not even the Tyrants ruled with such cruelty as you have. Tell me, Seer, do you still feel as twisted inside? Do you still delight in thoughts of delivering pain?'

The Jaghut was silent for a long moment.

Gods, Quick Ben, I hope you're right. I hope the madness of this Seer was not his own. That it's now gone – torn away—

'I feel,' the Jaghut rasped, 'empty. Still, why should I believe you?'

Paran studied the Jaghut, then said, 'Release him, Quick.'

'Now, wait—'

'Let him go. You can't negotiate with a prisoner and expect him to believe a thing you're saying. Seer, the place Quick Ben has in mind – no-one – no-one – will be able to manipulate you there. And perhaps more importantly, you will possess the opportunity to make the Chained One pay for his temerity. And, finally, you will have a sister – still a child – who will need to heal. Seer, she will need you.'

'You hold too much to this Jaghut's still retaining a shred of honour, integrity and the capacity for compassion,' the Bonecaster pronounced. 'With all that he has done – whether by his will or not – he will twist that child, as he himself has been twisted.'

Paran shrugged. 'Fortunate for that child, then, that she and her brother will not be entirely alone.'

The Seer's eyes narrowed. 'Not alone?'

'Free him, Quick Ben.'

The wizard sighed, then spoke to the sticksnare crouching on the Jaghut's chest. 'Let him go, Talamandas.'

'We'll likely regret it,' it replied, then clambered off. The sorcerous web flickered, then vanished.

The Seer scrambled to his feet. Then hesitated, eyes on the Finnest in Quick Ben's hands.

'This other place,' he finally whispered, looking to Paran, 'is it far?'

 

The Jaghut child, a girl of but a handful of years, wandered from the wounded warren as if lost, her small hands folded together on her lap in a manner she must have learned from her long-dead mother. A small detail, but it granted her a heart-breaking dignity that started tears in Paran's eyes.

'What will she remember?' Kilava whispered.

'Hopefully, nothing,' Quick Ben replied. 'Talamandas and I will, uh, work on that.'

A soft sound from the Seer drew Paran's attention. The Jaghut stood, trembling, unhuman eyes fixed on the approaching child – who had now seen them, yet was clearly seeking someone else, her steps slowing.

'Go to her,' Paran told the Seer.

'She remembers ... a brother—'

'So now she finds an uncle.'

Still he hesitated. 'We Jaghut are not ... not known for compassion among our blood-tied, our kin—'

Paran grimaced. 'And we humans are? You're not the only one who finds such things a struggle. There's much you have to repair, Pannion, starting with what is within yourself, with what you've done. In that, let the child – your sister – be your guide. Go, damn you – you need each other.'

He staggered forward, then hesitated once more and swung back to meet Paran's eyes. 'Human, what I have done – to your friend, to Toc the Younger – I now regret.' His gaze shifted to Kilava. 'You said you have kin, Bonecaster. A brother.'

She shook her head, as if anticipating his question. 'He is T'lan Imass. Of the Ritual.'

'It seems, then, that, like me, you have a great distance to travel.'

She cocked her head. 'Travel?'

'This path to redemption, Bonecaster. Know that I cannot forgive you. Not yet.'

'Nor I you.'

He nodded. 'We both have learning ahead of us.' With that, he turned once more. Back straightening, he strode to his sister.

She knew her own kind, and had not yet been shorn of her love, her need, for kin. And, before Pannion began lifting his hands towards her, she opened her arms to him.

 

The vast cavern's rippled, curved walls streamed watery mud. Paran stared up at the nearest diamond-studded giant with its massive arms raised to the ceiling. It seemed to be dissolving before his eyes. The infection in Burn's flesh was all too apparent as inflamed streaks, radiating away from a place almost directly above them.

The giant was not alone – the entire length of the cavern, in each direction for as far as the eye could see, revealed more of the huge, childlike servants. If they were aware of the arrival of newcomers, they showed no sign.

'She sleeps,' Kilava murmured, 'to dream.'

Quick Ben shot her a look, but said nothing. The wizard seemed to be waiting for something.

Paran glanced down at the sticksnare, Talamandas. 'You were Barghast once, weren't you?'

'I still am, Master of the Deck. My newborn gods are within me.'

Actually, there's more of Hood's presence within you than your Barghast gods. But the captain simply nodded. 'You were the reason why Quick Ben could use his warrens.'

'Aye, but I am much more than that.'

'No doubt.'

'Here she comes,' Quick Ben announced with relief.

Paran turned to see a figure approaching down the long, winding tunnel. Ancient, wrapped in rags, hobbling on two canes.

'Welcome!' Quick Ben called out. 'I wasn't sure—'

'The young lack faith, and you, Desert Snake, are no exception!' She leaned on a single cane and fumbled in the folds of her cloak for a moment, then withdrew a small stone. 'You left me this, yes? Your summons was heard, Wizard. Now, where are these fell Jaghut? Ah – and a Bonecaster Soletaken, too. My, such extraordinary company – what a tale it must be, that has seen you all brought together! No, don't tell it to me, I'm not that interested.' She halted in front of the Seer and studied the child in his arms for a moment before lifting her sharp gaze. 'I'm an old woman,' she hissed. 'Chosen by the Sleeping Goddess, to assist you in the care of your sister. But first, you must unveil your warren. With cold, you shall fight this infection. With cold, you shall slow the dissolution, harden this legion of servants. Omtose Phellack, Jaghut. Free it. Here. Burn will now embrace you.'

Paran grimaced. 'That's a poor choice of words.'

The ancient witch cackled. 'But words he will understand, yes?'

'Not unless you plan on killing him.'

'Don't be pedantic, soldier. Jaghut, your warren.'

The Seer nodded, unveiled Omtose Phellack.

The air was suddenly bitter cold, rime and frost misting the air.

Quick Ben was grinning. 'Chilly enough for you, witch?'

She cackled again. 'I knew you were no fool, Desert Snake.'

'Truth to tell, I'll have to thank Picker for giving me the idea. The night I crossed paths with the Crippled God. That, and your hints about the cold.'

The witch twisted to glare at Kilava. 'Bonecaster,' she snapped. 'Heed my words well – this warren is not to be assailed by you or your kin. You are to tell no-one of this, the final manifestation of Omtose Phellack.'

'I understand you, Witch. I begin, here, my own path to redemption, it seems. I have defied my own kin enough times to suffer few pangs doing so once more.' She turned to Quick Ben. 'And now, Wizard, I would leave. Will you guide us from this place?'

'No, better the Master of the Deck lead us out – that way, there'll be no trail.'

Paran blinked. 'Me?'

'Fashion a card, Captain. In your mind.'

'A card? Of what?'

The wizard shrugged. 'Think of something.'

 

Soldiers had drawn the three bodies to one side, covered them with standard-issue rain-capes. Gruntle saw Korlat standing near them, her back to him.

The Daru stood near the side closest to the trader road, beyond which, he could see, lay Itkovian. Motionless, forlorn in the distance.

The T'lan Imass were gone.

The surviving Grey Swords were slowly approaching Itkovian, on foot with the exception of one-eyed Anaster, who sat on his dray horse, seemingly unaffected by anything, including the massive floating mountain that loomed over the north ridge, throwing a deep shroud upon the parkland forest.

On the hilltop, facing the dark city, stood Caladan Brood, flanked by Humbrall Taur on his right, Hetan and Cafal on his left.

Gruntle could see, emerging in a ragged line from the north gate, Dujek's surviving army. There were so few left. Rhivi wagons were being driven into Coral, their beds cleared for the coming burden of bodies. Dusk was less than a bell away – the night ahead would be a long one.

A troop of Malazan officers, led by Dujek, had reached the base of the hill. Among them, a Seerdomin representing the now surrendered forces of the Domin.

Gruntle moved closer to where Brood and the Barghast waited.

The High Fist had heard the news – Gruntle could see it in his slumped shoulders, the way he repeatedly drew his lone hand down the length of his aged face, the spirit of the man so plainly, unutterably broken.

A warren opened to Brood's right. Emerging from it were a half-dozen Malazans, led by Artanthos. Bright, unsullied uniforms beneath grave expressions.

'Mortal Sword?'

Gruntle turned at the voice. One of the older women in his legion stood before him. 'Yes?'

'We would raise the Child's Standard, Mortal Sword.'

'Not here.'

'Sir?'

Gruntle pointed down to the killing field. 'There, among our fallen.'

'Sir, that is within the darkness.'

He nodded. 'So it is. Raise it there.'

'Aye, sir.'

'And no more of the titles or honorifics. The name's Gruntle. I'm a caravan guard, temporarily unemployed.'

'Sir, you are the Mortal Sword of Trake.'

His eyes narrowed on her.

Her gaze flicked away, down to the killing field. 'A title purchased in blood, sir.'

Gruntle winced, looked away, and was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded. 'All right. But I'm not a soldier. I hate war. I hate killing.' And I never want to see another battlefield ever again.

To that, she simply shrugged and set off to rejoin her meagre squad.

Gruntle returned his attention to the gathering of dignitaries.

Artanthos – Tayschrenn – was making introductions. Ambassador Aragan – a tall, battle-scarred man who seemed to be suffering from a headache – here to speak on behalf of Empress Laseen, regarding the governance of Black Coral. A handful of hangers-on.

Brood replied that the formal negotiations would have to await the arrival of Anomander Rake, who was expected shortly.

Gruntle's gaze returned to Dujek, who had just arrived with his officers. The High Fist's eyes were fixed on Korlat at the far end, and on the three covered bodies lying in the grasses. The rain still falling, the stench of burning heavy in the air, a shroud descending.

Aye, this day ends in ashes and rain.

In ashes and rain.

 

Running, memory's echo of glory and joy. He rode the sensation, the flight from pain, from prisons of bone, from massive arms damp and scaled, from a place without wind, without light, without warmth.

 

From chilled meat. Pale, boiled. Black, charred. From numbed, misshapen fingers pushing the morsels into a mouth that, as he chewed, filled with his own blood. From hard, cold stone with its patina of human grease.

 

Flesh fouled, the stench of smeared excrement—

Running—

An explosion of pain, swallowed in a sudden rush. Blood in veins. Breath drawn ragged – yet deep, deep into healthy lungs.

He opened his lone eye.

Toc looked around. He sat on a broad-backed horse. Grey-clad soldiers surrounded him, studying him from beneath war-worn helms.

I – I am . . . whole.

Hale.

I—

An armoured woman stepped forward. 'Would you leave your god, now, sir?'

My god? Dead flesh clothing, hard ]aghut soul – no, not a god. The Seer. Fear-clutched. Betrayal-scarred.

My god?

Running. Freed. The beast.

The wolf.

Togg.

My namesake . . .

'He has delivered you, sir, yet would make no demands. We know that your soul has run with the wolf-gods. But you are once more in the mortal realm. The body you now find yourself in was blessed. It is now yours. Still, sir, you must choose. Would you leave your gods?'

Toc studied his own arms, the muscles of his thighs. Long-fingered hands. He reached up, probed his face. A fresh scar, taking the same eye. No matter. He'd grown used to that. A young body – younger than he had been.

He looked down at the woman, then at the ring of soldiers. 'No,' he said.

The soldiers lowered themselves to one knee, heads bowing. The woman smiled. 'Your company welcomes you, Mortal Sword of Togg and Fanderay.'

Mortal Sword.

Then, I shall run once more . . .

 

In the Warren of Tellann, Lanas Tog led Silverfox to the edge of a broad valley. Filling it, the gathered clans of the T'lan Imass. Standing, motionless—

Yet different.

Unburdened?

Pain and regret filled her. I have failed you all . . . in so many ways . . .

Pran Chole strode forward. The undead Bonecaster tilted his head in greeting. 'Summoner.'

Silverfox realized she was trembling. 'Can you forgive me, Pran Chole?'

'Forgive? There is nothing to forgive, Summoner.'

'I'd never intended to deny your wish for very long – only until, until ...'

'We understand. You need not weep. Not for us, nor for yourself.'

'I – I will free you now, as I have done the T'lan Ay – I will end your Vow, Pran Chole, to free you ... through Hood's Gate, as you wished.'

'No, Summoner.'

She stared, shocked silent.

'We have heard Lanas Tog, the warrior at your side. There are kin, Summoner, who are being destroyed on a continent far to the south. They cannot escape their war. We would travel there. We would save our brothers and sisters.

'Summoner, once this task is completed, we will return to you. Seeking the oblivion that awaits us.'

'Pran Chole ...' Her voice broke. 'You would remain in your torment...'

'We must save our kin, Summoner, if we are so able. Within the Vow, our power remains. It will be needed.'

She slowly drew herself up, stilled her grief, her trembling. 'Then I will join you, Pran Chole. We. Nightchill, Tattersail, Bellurdan, and Silverfox.'

The Bonecaster was silent for a long moment, then he said, 'We are honoured, Summoner.'

Silverfox hesitated, then said, 'You are ... changed. What has Itkovian done?'

A sea of bone-helmed heads bowed at mention of that name, and seeing that stole the breath from her lungs. By the Abyss, what has that man done?

Pran Chole was long in replying. 'Cast your eyes about you, Summoner. At the life now in this realm. Reach out and sense the power, here in the earth.'

She frowned. 'I do not understand. This realm is now home to the Beast Thrones. There are Rhivi spirits here ... two wolf-gods ...'

Pran Chole nodded. 'And more. You have, perhaps unwitting, created a realm where the Vow of Tellann unravels. T'lan Ay... now mortal once more – that gesture was easier than you had expected, was it not? Summoner, Itkovian freed our souls and found, in this realm you created, a place. For us.'

'You have been ... redeemed!'

'Redeemed? No, Summoner. Only you are capable of that. The T'lan Imass have been awakened. Our memories – they live once more, in the earth beneath our feet. And they are what we will return to, the day you release us. Bonecaster – we expected nothing but oblivion, upon that release. We could not have imagined that an alternative was possible.'

'And now?' she whispered.

Pran Chole cocked his head. 'It surpasses us ... what one mortal man so willingly embraced.' He swung about to make his way back down to the ranks, then paused and looked back at her. 'Summoner.'

'Yes.'

'One task awaits us ... before we begin the long journey . . .'

 

Picker sat on a smoke-stained foundation stone, eyes dulled with exhaustion, and watched the Rhivi move through the rubble, seeking still more bodies. There were Pannion soldiers about, unarmed – seemingly the only citizens left in the city were either dead or gnawed down to little more than bones.

The Bridgeburners who had died within the keep had already left on a wagon – Picker and her meagre squad had retrieved most of them on the way out, even as the structure began to come down around them. A handful of other bodies had been found and recovered through sorcery, by the Tiste Andii, some of whom still lingered in the area, as if awaiting something, or someone. The only two no-one had yet found were Quick Ben and Paran, and Picker suspected it was because they weren't there.

Torches lit the area, feeble in their battling the unnatural darkness that shrouded the city. The air stank of smoke and mortar dust. Distant cries of pain rose every now and then, like haunting memories.

We were brittle. Destroyed months ago, outside Pale, it's just taken this long for the few of us left to realize it. Hedge, Trotts, Detoran. Corpses who kept saluting—

Blend spoke beside her. 'I told the Rhivi on our wagon to wait inside the north gate.'

Our wagon. The wagon carrying the dead Bridgeburners.

First in.

Last out.

For the last time.

A flash of light from the keep's rubble, a warren opening, through which figures emerged. A scarred hound – a cattle-dog, it looked like – followed by Lady Envy, and two Seguleh dragging a third masked warrior between them.

'Well,' Blend murmured, 'that about does it, doesn't it?'

Picker was unsure what Blend meant, did not pursue it.

Lady Envy had seen them. 'Lieutenant dear! What a relief to see you well. Could you believe the audacity of that white-haired, sword-stuffed—'

'Would you be referring to me?' a deep voice asked.

Through the gloom stepped Anomander Rake. 'Had I known you were within the keep, Lady Envy, I would have brought Moon's Spawn all the way down.'

'Oh, what a thing to say!'

'What are you doing here?' the Son of Darkness growled.

'Oh, this and that, my love. And aren't you looking very martial this afternoon – it's still afternoon, isn't it? Hard to tell here.'

'Oh,' Blend whispered, 'there's history between those two.'

'Really,' Picker quietly drawled, 'and how could you tell?' Damned lady – not a scuff on that telaba. Now there's a different world from mine. Yet there we stood, side by side, in that hallway.

Anomander Rake was eyeing the woman standing before him. 'What do you want, Envy?'

'Why, I have travelled half a continent, you ungrateful man, to deliver to you words of most vital import.'

'Let's hear them, then.'

Lady Envy blinked, looked around. 'Here, my love? Wouldn't you rather somewhere more ... private?'

'No. I have things to do. Out with it.'

She crossed her arms. 'Then I will, though the gods know why I bother bravely retaining this generous mood of mine—'

'Envy.'

'Very well. Hear me, then, Wielder of Dragnipur. My dear father, Draconus, plots to escape the chains within the sword. How do I know? Blood whispers, Anomander.'

The Lord of Moon's Spawn grunted. 'I am surprised he's taken this long. Well, what of it?'

Envy's eyes went wide. 'Is this bravado madness? In case you've forgotten, we worked damned hard to slay him the first time!'

Picker glanced over at Blend, saw the woman standing slack-jawed as she stared at Rake and Envy.

'I don't recall you doing much,' Anomander Rake was saying, 'at the time. You stood by and watched the battle—'

'Precisely! And what do you think my father thought of that?'

The Lord of Moon's Spawn shrugged. 'He knew enough not to ask for your help, Envy. In any case, I heed your warning, but there is scant little I can do about it, at least until Draconus actually manages to free himself.'

The woman's dark eyes narrowed. 'Tell me, my dear, what – if anything – do you know of the Master of the Deck?'

Rake's brows rose. 'Ganoes Paran? The mortal who walked within Dragnipur? The one who sent the two Hounds of Shadow into Kurlad Galain's gate?'

Envy stamped her foot. 'You are insufferable!'

The Tiste Andii Lord turned away. 'We've spoken enough, Envy.'

'They will seek a way to break the sword!'

'Aye, they might.'

'Your very life totters on the whim of a mortal man!'

Anomander Rake paused, glanced back at her. 'I'd best step careful, then, hadn't I?' A moment later, he continued on, into the loose crowd of Tiste Andii.

Hissing in exasperation, Envy set off in pursuit.

Blend slowly faced Picker. 'Ganoes Paran? The captain?'

'Mull on it some other time,' Picker replied. 'Either way, in the end, it's nothing to do with us.' She slowly straightened. 'Gather 'em up, Blend. We're for the north gate.'

'Aye, sir. Shouldn't take long.'

'I'll be at the arch.'

'Lieutenant? Picker?'

'What?'

'You did what you could.'

'Wasn't good enough, was it?' Without waiting for a reply, Picker set off. Tiste Andii parted to either side to let her pass. She neared the blackened arch.

'A moment.'

Picker turned to see Anomander Rake approach.

Picker's eyes involuntarily shied from the Tiste Andii's hard, unhuman gaze.

'I would walk with you,' he said.

Unsettled by the attention, she glanced back at Lady Envy, who was now busy examining the unconscious Seguleh warrior. You're a brave woman, Lady – you didn't even flinch.

The Son of Darkness must have followed her gaze, for he sighed. 'I've no interest in resuming that particular conversation, Lieutenant. And should she decide to awaken that Seguleh – and given her present mood she just might – well, I'm not inclined to resume that old argument, either. I assume you and your squad are marching to the command position north of the city.'

Were we? I hadn't thought that far. She nodded.

'May I join you, then?'

Gods below! Picker drew a deep breath, then said, 'We're not pleasant company at the moment, Lord.'

'No indeed. Yet you are worthy company.'

She met his eyes at that, wondering.

He grimaced, then said, 'I regret my late arrival. Nor was I aware that there were Malazan soldiers within the keep.'

'It wouldn't have mattered, Lord,' Picker said, managing a shrug. 'From what I've heard, Dujek's companies weren't spared any for not being in the keep.'

Anomander Rake glanced away for a moment, eyes tightening. 'A sad conclusion to the alliance.'

The remaining Bridgeburners had drawn close, listening in silence. Picker was suddenly aware of them, of the words they had heard in this exchange, and the things left unsaid. 'That alliance,' she said, 'was solid as far as we were concerned.' We. Us. The ones now standing before you.

Perhaps he understood. 'Then I would walk with my allies, Lieutenant, one more time.'

'We would be honoured, sir.'

'To the command position north of the city.'

'Aye, sir.'

The Lord of the Tiste Andii sighed. 'There is a fallen soldier to whom I would ... pay my respects . . .'

Aye, the saddest news we've heard yet this day. 'As will we all, Lord.'

Rake stayed at her side as she walked, the five surviving soldiers of the Bridgeburners falling in behind them.

 

She came to his side, her eyes, like his, on the figures gathering on the hilltop around them. 'Do you know what I wish?'

Gruntle shook his head. 'No, Stonny, what do you wish?'

'That Harllo was here.'

'Aye.'

'I'd settle for just his body, though. He belongs here, with these other fallen. Not under a small pile of stones in the middle of nowhere.'

Harllo, were you the first death in this war? Did our ragged troop represent the first allies to join the cause?

'Do you remember the bridge?' Stonny asked. 'All busted down, Harllo fishing from the foundation stones. We saw Moon's Spawn, didn't we? South horizon, drifting east. And now, here we are, in that damn thing's shadow.'

Caladan Brood and Dujek were approaching Korlat, who had remained standing over the three covered bodies. Two steps behind them, Tayschrenn, the sorcerous patina of youth gone from him.

There was an unnatural hush in the dark air, through which their voices easily carried.

Dujek had stepped past Korlat to kneel before the three fallen Malazans. 'Who was here?' he grated, hand reaching up to rub at his own face. 'Who saw what happened?'

'Myself,' Korlat replied without inflection. 'And Tayschrenn. The moment Silverfox appeared, Kallor struck the two of us down first, ensuring that we would be incapable of reacting. I do not think he anticipated that Whiskeyjack and the two marines would step into his path. They delayed him long enough for Tayschrenn to recover. Kallor was forced to flee to his new master – the Crippled God.'

'Whiskeyjack crossed swords with Kallor?' Dujek drew the rain-cape away from Whiskeyjack's body, silently studied his friend. 'This shattered leg – was it responsible ...'

Gruntle saw Korlat – who still stood behind Dujek – hesitate, then she said, 'No, High Fist. It broke after the mortal blow.'

After a long moment, Dujek shook his head. 'We kept telling him to have it properly healed. "Later," he'd say. Always "later". Are you certain, Korlat? That it broke after?'

'Yes, High Fist.'

Dujek frowned, eyes fixed on the dead soldier before him. 'Whiskeyjack was a superb swordsman ... used to spar with Dassem Ultor and it'd take a while for Dassem to get past his guard.' He glanced back over his shoulder, at Korlat, then at Tayschrenn. 'And with the two marines on his flanks. . . how long, High Mage, until you recovered?'

Tayschrenn grimaced, shot Korlat a glance, then said, 'Only moments, Dujek. Moments ... too late.'

'High Fist,' Korlat said, 'Kallor's prowess with the blade ... he is a formidable warrior.'

Gruntle could see the frown on Dujek's face deepening.

Stonny muttered under her breath, 'This doesn't sound right. That broken leg must've come first.'

He reached out and gripped her arm, then shook his head. No, Korlat must have a reason for this. This . . . deceit.

Stonny's eyes narrowed, but she fell silent.

With a rough sigh, Dujek straightened. 'I have lost a friend,' he said.

For some reason, the raw simplicity of that statement struck through to Gruntle's heart. He felt an answering stab of pain, of grief, within him.

Harllo . . . my friend.

Itkovian . . .

Gruntle turned away, blinking rapidly.

Anomander Rake had arrived, the Great Raven Crone flapping desultorily from his path. Beside the Son of Darkness, Picker. Gruntle saw other Bridgeburners behind them: Blend, Mallet, Antsy, Spindle, Bluepearl. Armour in tatters, old blood crusting them, and all the life gone from their eyes.

On the slopes, now, were gathered the survivors of Onearm's Host. Gruntle judged less than a thousand. Beyond them, Barghast and Rhivi, Tiste Andii and the rest of Brood's army. Silent, standing to honour the fallen.

The healer, Mallet, strode straight to where Whiskeyjack's body lay.

Gruntle saw the healer's eyes study the wounds, saw the truth strike home. The large man staggered back a step, arms wrapping around himself, and seemed to inwardly collapse. Dujek closed on him in time to take his weight, ease him into a sitting position on the ground.

Some wounds never heal, and that man has just taken such a wounding. Would that Dujek had left Whiskeyjack hidden beneath the rain-cape ...

Anomander Rake was at Korlat's side. He said nothing for a long time, then he turned away. 'Korlat, how will you answer this?'

She replied tonelessly, 'Orfantal makes ready, Lord. We will hunt Kallor down, my brother and I.'

Rake nodded. 'When you do, leave him alive. He has earned Dragnipur.'

'We shall, Lord.'

The Son of Darkness then faced the others. 'High Fist Dujek. High Mage Tayschrenn. Moon's Spawn is dying, and so has been abandoned by my people. It shall be sent eastward, over the ocean – the power within it is failing, and so it will soon settle beneath the waves. I ask that these three fallen Malazans – slain by a betrayer delivered here by myself and Caladan Brood – these three Malazans, be interred in Moon's Spawn. It is, I believe, a worthy sarcophagus.'

No-one spoke.

Rake then looked at Picker. 'And I ask that the dead among the Bridgeburners be interred there, as well.'

'Is there room for all our fallen?' Picker asked.

'Alas, no. Most of the chambers within are flooded.'

Picker drew a deep breath, then glanced at Dujek.

The High Fist seemed incapable of making a decision. 'Has anyone seen Captain Paran?'

No-one replied.

'Very well. As to the disposition of the fallen Bridgeburners, the decision is yours, Lieutenant Picker.'

'They were always curious about what was inside Moon's Spawn,' she said, managing a wry grin. 'I think that would please them.'

 

In the supply camp haphazardly assembled in the parkland north of the killing field, at one edge, the seven hundred and twenty-two Mott Irregulars were slowly gathering, each one carrying burlap sacks stuffed with loot taken from the city.

Leaning against a tree was a massive table, flipped over to reveal the painted underside. The legs had snapped off some time in the past, but that had simply made it easier to transport.

The painted image had been glowing for some time before anyone noticed, and a substantial crowd had gathered to stare at it by the time the warren within the image opened, and out stepped Paran and Quick Ben, followed by a short, robustly muscled woman with black hair.

All three were sheathed in frost, which began to fade immediately as the warren closed behind them.

One of the Mott Irregulars stepped forward. 'Greetings. I am High Marshal Jib Bole, and something's confusing me.'

Paran, still shivering from Omtose Phellack's brutally cold air, stared at the man for a moment, then shrugged. 'And what's that, High Marshal?'

Jib Bole scratched his head. 'Well, that's a table, not a door...'

 

A short while later, as Paran and Quick Ben made their way through the dusk towards the killing field, the wizard softly laughed.

The captain glanced over at him. 'What?'

'Backwoods humour, Paran. Comes with talking with the scariest mages we've ever faced.'

'Mages?'

'Well, maybe that's the wrong name for them. Warlocks might be better. Swamp-snuffling warlocks. With bits of bark in their hair. Get them into a forest and you won't find them unless they want you to. Those Bole brothers, they're the worst of the lot, though I've heard that there's a lone sister among them who you wouldn't want to meet, ever.'

Paran shook his head.

Kilava had departed their company immediately after their arrival. She had offered the two men a simple word of thanks, which Paran sensed was in itself an extraordinary lowering of her guard, then had slipped into the gloom of the forest.

The captain and the wizard reached the trader track and could see it straightening and climbing towards the ridge that faced the killing field and the city beyond. Moon's Spawn hung almost directly above them, shedding misty rain. A few fires still lit Coral, but it seemed that the darkness that was Kurald Galain was somehow smothering them.

He could not push the recent events from his mind. He was unused to being the hand of ... redemption. The deliverance of the Jaghut child from the wounded portal of Morn had left him numb.

So long ago, now . . . outside Pale. I'd felt her, felt this child, trapped in her eternal pain, unable to comprehend what she had done to deserve what was happening to her. She had thought she was going to find her mother – so Kilava had told her. She had been holding her brother's hand—

And then it had all been torn away.

Suddenly alone.

Knowing only pain.

For thousands of years.

Quick Ben and Talamandas had done something to the child, had worked their sorcery to take from her all memory of what had happened. Paran had sensed Hood's direct involvement in that – only a god could manage such a thing, not a simple blocking of memories, but an absolute taking away, a cleansing of the slate.

Thus. The child had lost her brother. Had found an uncle instead.

But not a kindly one. The Seer carries his own wounds, after all. . .

And now Burn's realm had found new denizens. Was now home to an ancient warren.

'Memories,' Quick Ben had said, 'of ice. There is heat within this chaotic poison – heat enough to destroy these servants. I needed to find a way to slow the infection, to weaken the poison.

'I'd warned the Crippled God, you know. Told him I was stepping into his path. We've knocked him back, you know . . .'

Paran smiled to himself at the recollection. The ego of gods was as nothing to Quick Ben's. Even so, the wizard had earned the right to some fierce satisfaction, hadn't he? They had stolen the Seer from under Anomander Rake's nose. They had seen an ancient wrong righted, and were fortunate enough to have Kilava present, to partake of the redemption. They had removed the threat of the Seer from this continent. And, finally, through the preservation of Omtose Phellack, they had slowed the Crippled God's infection to a turgid crawl.

And we gave a child her life back.

'Captain,' Quick Ben murmured, a hand reaching up to touch his shoulder.

Ahead, beyond the last of the trees, a mass of figures, covering the slopes of a broad, flat-topped hill. Torches like wavering stars.

'I don't like the feel of this,' the wizard muttered.

 

When the darkness dissipated, the bodies were gone, those on the hilltop and those on the bed of the wagon that Picker and her soldiers had guided onto the side of the road below. There had been nothing elaborate to the interment. The disposition of the fallen within the massive, floating edifice was left to the Tiste Andii, to Anomander Rake himself.

Gruntle turned and looked up to study Moon's Spawn. Leaning drunkenly, it drifted seaward, blotting the brightening stars that had begun painting the land silver. The night's natural darkness would soon swallow it whole.

As Moon's Spawn drew its shadow after it, there was revealed, on the ridge on the other side of the trader road, a small gathering of soldiers, positioned in a half-circle around a modest bier and a pile of stones.

It was a moment before Gruntle understood what he was seeing. He reached out and drew Stonny closer to him. 'Come on,' he whispered.

She did not protest as he led her from the hill, down the slope, through silent, ghostly ranks that parted to let them pass. Over the road, across the shallow ditch, then onto the slope leading to the ridge.

Where the remaining hundred or so Grey Swords stood to honour the man who had once been Fener's Shield Anvil.

Someone was following at a distance behind Gruntle and Stonny, but neither turned to see who it was.

They reached the small gathering.

Uniforms had been scrubbed clean, weapons polished. Gruntle saw, in the midst of the mostly Capan women and gaunt Tenescowri recruits, Anaster, still astride his horse. The Mortal Sword's feline eyes thinned on the strange, one-eyed young man. No, he is not as he was. No longer . . . empty. What has he become, that he now feels like my . . . rival?

The Destriant stood closest to the still form on the bier, and seemed to be studying Itkovian's death-pale face. On the other side of the bier a shallow pit had been excavated, earth heaped on one side, boulders on the other. A modest grave awaited Itkovian. Finally, the Capan woman turned.

'We mark the death of this man, whose spirit travels to no god. He has walked through Hood's Gate, and that is all. Through. To stand alone. He will not relinquish his burden, for he remains in death as he was in life. Itkovian, Shield Anvil of Fener's Reve. Remember him.'

As she made to gesture for the interment to begin, someone stepped round Gruntle and Stonny, and approached the Destriant.

A Malazan soldier, holding a cloth-wrapped object under one arm. In halting Daru, he said, 'Please, Destriant, I seek to honour Itkovian...'

'As you wish.'

'I would do ... something else, as well.'

She cocked her head. 'Sir?'

The Malazan removed the cloth to reveal Itkovian's helm. 'I – I did not wish to take advantage of him. Yet – he insisted that he fared better in the exchange. Untrue, Destriant. You can see that. Anyone can. See the helm he wears – it was mine. I would take it back. He should be wearing his own. This one ...'

The Destriant swung round, looked down at the body once more, said nothing for a long moment, then she shook her head. 'No. Sir, Itkovian would refuse your request. Your gift pleased him, sir. None the less, if you have now decided that the helmet you gave to him is indeed of greater value, then he would not hesitate in returning it to ...' She was turning as she spoke, and, her gaze travelling to the now weeping soldier, then past to something beyond them all, her words trailed away to silence.

Gruntle saw the young woman's eyes slowly widen.

The Grey Swords' Shield Anvil suddenly pivoted in a soft clatter of armour, then, a moment later, the other soldiers followed suit.

As did Gruntle and Stonny.

The lone Malazan had been but the first. Beneath the silver starlight, every surviving soldier of Dujek's Host had marched to position themselves at the base of the ridge's slope, forming ranks. Flanked by Tiste Andii, Rhivi, Barghast, Black Moranth – a vast sweep of figures, standing silent—

—and then Gruntle's scan continued eastward, down to the killing field, and there, once more, were the T'lan Imass, and they too were coming forward.

Silverfox stood off to the far side, watching.

The Grey Swords, stunned into silence, slowly parted as the first of the T'lan Imass reached the ridge.

A Bonecaster came first, holding in one hand a battered seashell hanging from a leather thong. The undead creature halted and said to the Destriant, 'For the gift this mortal has given us, we shall each offer one in turn. Together, they shall become his barrow, and it shall be unassailable. If you refuse us this, we will defy you.'

The Destriant shook her head. 'No, sir,' she whispered. 'There will be no refusal.'

The Bonecaster walked up to Itkovian, laid the shell down on the man's chest.

Gruntle sighed. Ah, Itkovian, it seems you have made yet more friends.

The solemn procession of modest gifts – at times nothing more than a polished stone, carefully set down on the growing pile covering the body – continued through the night, the stars completing their great wheel in the sky until fading at last to dawn's light.

When the Malazan soldier added Itkovian's helmet to the barrow, a second wave began, as soldier after soldier ascended the slope to leave the man a gift. Sigils, diadems, rings, daggers.

Through it all, Gruntle and Stonny stood to one side, watching. As did the Grey Swords.

With the last soldiers leaving the hill, Gruntle stirred. He stared at the massive, glittering barrow, seeing the faint emanation of Tellann sorcery that would keep it intact – every object in its place, immovable – then reached up with his left hand. A soft click, and the torcs fell free.

Sorry, Treach. Learn to live with the loss.

We do.

 

The gloom remained, suffusing the entire city of Coral, as the sun edged clear over the seas to the east. Paran stood with Quick Ben. They had both watched the procession, but had not moved from their position on the hill. They had watched Dujek join the silent line of gift-givers, one soldier honouring another.

The captain felt diminished by his inability to follow suit. In his mind, the death of Whiskeyjack had left him too broken to move. He and Quick Ben had arrived too late, had been unable to stand with the others in formal acknowledgement – Paran had not believed that so simple a ritual possessed such importance within himself. He had attended funerals before – even as a child in Unta, there had been solemn processions where he walked with his sisters, his mother and father, to eventually stand before a crypt in the necropolis, as some elder statesman's wrapped corpse was delivered into the hands of his ancestors. Ceremonies through which he had fidgeted, feeling nothing of grief for a man he had never met. Funerals had seemed pointless. Hood had already taken the soul, after all. Weeping before an empty body had seemed a waste of time.

His mother, his father. He had not been there for either funeral, had believed himself sufficiently comforted by the knowledge that Tavore would have ensured noble ceremony, proper respect.

Here, the soldiers had kept ceremony to a minimum. Simply standing at attention, motionless, each alone with their thoughts, their feelings. Yet bound together none the less. The binding that was shared grief.

And he and Quick Ben had missed it, had come too late. Whiskeyjack's body was gone. And Ganoes Paran was bereft, his heart a vast cavern, dark, echoing with emotions he would not, could not show.

He and the wizard, silent, stared at Moon's Spawn as it drifted ever farther eastward, out over the sea, now a third of a league distant. It rode low in the air, and some time soon – perhaps a month from now – it would touch the waves, somewhere in the ocean, and then, as water rushed once more into the fissures, filling the chambers within, Moon's Spawn would sink. Down, beneath the insensate seas ...

No-one approached them.

Finally, the wizard turned. 'Captain.'

'What is it, Quick Ben?'

'Moon's Spawn. Draw it.'

Paran frowned, then his breath caught. He hesitated, then crouched down, hand reaching to wipe smooth a small span of earth. With his index finger he etched a round-cornered rectangle, then, within it, a rough but recognizable outline. He studied his work for a moment, then looked up at Quick Ben and nodded.

The wizard took a handful of Paran's cloak in one hand, said, 'Lead us through.'

Right. Now how do I do that? Study the card, Paran – no, that alone will land us on its damned surface, a short but no doubt thoroughly fatal fall to the waves below. A chamber, Picker said. Rake's throne room. Think darkness. Kurald Galain, a place unlit, silent, a place with cloth-wrapped corpses . . .

Eyes closed, Paran stepped forward, dragging Quick Ben with him.

His boot landed on stone.

He opened his eyes, saw nothing but inky blackness, but the air smelled ... different. He moved forward another step, heard Quick Ben's sigh behind him. The wizard muttered something and a fitful globe of light appeared above them.

A high-ceilinged chamber, perhaps twenty paces wide and more than forty paces long. They had arrived at what seemed the formal entrance – behind them, beyond an arched threshold, was a hallway. Ahead, at the far end of the chamber, a raised dais.

The huge, high-backed chair that had once commanded that dais had been pushed to one side, two of its legs on a lower step, the throne leaning. On the centre of the dais three black-wood sarcophagi now resided.

Along the length of the approach, to either side, were additional sarcophagi, upright, on which black-webbed sorcery played.

Quick Ben hissed softly through his teeth. "Ware the looter who penetrates this place.'

Paran studied the sorcery's soft dance over the unadorned sarcophagi. 'Wards?' he asked.

'That, and a lot more, Captain. But we need not be worried. The Bridgeburners are within these ones flanking the approach. Oh, and one Black Moranth.' He pointed to a sarcophagus that, to Paran's eyes, looked no different from all the others. 'Twist. The poison in his arm took him a bell before the first wave of Dujek's companies.' Quick Ben slowly walked towards another sarcophagus. 'In here . . . what was left of Hedge. Not much. The bastard blew him-self up with a cusser.' The wizard stopped to stand before the coffin. 'Picker described it well, Hedge. And I will tell Fiddler. Next time I see him.' He was silent a moment longer, then he turned to Paran with a grin. 'I can picture him, his soul, crouching at the base of Hood's Gate, driving a cracker between the stones ...'

Paran smiled, but it was a struggle. He set off towards the dais. The wizard followed.

Quick Ben spoke names in a soft voice as they proceeded. 'Shank ... Toes ... Detoran ... Aimless ... Runter ... Mulch ... Bucklund ... Story ... Liss ... Dasalle ... Trotts – uh, I would've thought the Barghast ... no, I suppose not. He was as much a Bridgeburner as the rest of us. Behind that lid, Paran, he's still grinning ...'

As they walked, Quick Ben spoke aloud every name of those they passed. Thirty-odd Bridgeburners, Paran's fallen command.

They reached the dais.

And could go no further. Sorcery commanded the entire platform, a softly coruscating web of Kurald Galain.

'Rake's own hand,' the wizard murmured. 'These ... spells. He worked alone.'

Paran nodded. He had heard the same from Picker, but he understood Quick Ben's need to talk, to fill the chamber with his echoing voice.

'It was his leg, you know. Gave out at the wrong moment. Probably a lunge ... meaning he had Kallor. Had him dead. He would never have extended himself so fully otherwise. That damned leg. Shattered in that garden in Darujhistan. A marble pillar, toppling... and Whiskeyjack was just standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

'From then ... to this.'

And now, Picker and the others are watching Mallet. Every moment, someone's hovering close. The healer might try to fall on his knife at any time . . . given the chance. Ah, Mallet, he kept pushing you away. 'Another time, I've too much on my mind right now. Nothing more than a dull ache. When this is done, we'll get to it, then.' It wasn't your fault, Mallet. Soldiers die.

He watched Quick Ben remove a small pebble from his pouch and lay it on the floor in front of the dais. 'I may want to visit later,' he said, offering Paran a faint, sad smile. 'Me and Kalam ...'

Oh, Wizard . . .

Paran lifted his gaze to the three sarcophagi. He did not know which one held whom. For some reason, that didn't matter much. Whiskeyjack and two marines – they were there for Tattersail, at the last.

Always an even exchange, sorceress.

'I am ready to leave them, now, Captain.'

Paran nodded.

They turned and slowly retraced their steps.

Reaching the arched entrance, they stopped.

Quick Ben glanced into the hallway. 'They left everything, you know.'

'What? Who?'

'Rake. The Tiste Andii. Left their possessions. Everything.'

'Why would they do that? They are to settle in Black Coral, aren't they? The city's been stripped clean ...'

Quick Ben shrugged. 'Tiste Andii,' he said, in a tone that silently added: we'll never know.

A vague portal took shape before them.

The wizard grunted. 'You've certainly a particular style with these things, Captain.'

Yes, the style of awkward ignorance. 'Step through, Wizard.'

He watched Quick Ben vanish within the portal. Then Paran turned, one last time, to look upon the chamber. The globe of light was fast dimming.

Whiskeyjack, for all that you have taught me, I thank you. Bridgeburners, I wish I could have done better by you. Especially at the end. At the very least, I could have died with you.

All right, it's probably far too late. But I bless you, one and all.

With that, he turned back, stepped through the portal.

In the silent chamber, the light faded, the globe flickering, then finally vanishing.

But a new glow had come to the chamber. Faint, seeming to dance with the black web on the sarcophagi.

A dance of mystery.

 

The carriage of bone clattered its way down the trader road, Emancipor flicking the traces across the broad, midnight backs of the oxen.

Gruntle, halfway across the road, stopped, waited.

The manservant scowled, reluctantly halted the carriage. He thumped one fist on the wall behind him, the reptilian skin reverberating like a war drum.

A door opened and Bauchelain climbed out, followed by Korbal Broach.

Bauchelain strode to stand opposite Gruntle, but his flat grey eyes were focused on the dark city beyond. 'Extraordinary,' he breathed. 'This – this is a place I could call home.'

Gruntle's laugh was harsh. 'You think so? There are Tiste Andii there, now. More, it is now a part of the Malazan Empire. Do you believe that either will tolerate your friend's hobbies?'

'He's right,' Korbal Broach whined from beside the carriage. 'I won't have any fun there.'

Bauchelain smiled. 'Ah, but Korbal, think of all the fresh corpses. And look to this field below. K'Chain Che'Malle, already conveniently dismembered – manageable portions, if you will. Enough material, dear colleague, to build an entire estate.'

Gruntle watched Korbal Broach suddenly smile.

Gods, spare me the sight of that – never again, please.

'Now, barbed Captain,' Bauchelain said, 'kindly remove yourself from our path. But first, if you would be so kind, a question for you.'

'What?'

'I have but recently received a note. Terrible penmanship, and worse, written on bark. It would seem that a certain Jib Bole and his brothers wish to pay me a visit. Are you, by any chance, knowledgeable of these good sirs? If so, perhaps some advice on the proper etiquette of hosting them ...'

Gruntle smiled. 'Wear your best, Bauchelain.'

'Ah. Thank you, Captain. And now, if you would ...'

With a wave, Gruntle resumed crossing the road.

The Grey Swords had established a temporary encampment fifty paces east of the massive, glittering barrow that had already acquired the name of Itkovian's Gift. Ragged bands of Tenescowri, emaciated and sickly, had emerged from Black Coral, and from the woodlands, and were all congregating around the camp. Word of Anaster's . . . rebirth had spread, and with it the promise of salvation.

Recruitment. Those Tenescowri could never go back to what they had once been. They, too, need to be reborn. The stranger within Anaster – this new Mortal Sword of Togg and Fanderay – has much to do . . .

Time had come for Gruntle to take the man's measure. He'll likely prove a better Mortal Sword than I am. Likely smug, sanctimonious up there on that damned ugly horse. Aye, I'm ready to hate the bastard, I admit it.

Gruntle approached Anaster, who was guiding his horse through the decrepit camp of Tenescowri. Stick-limbed figures were reaching up on all sides, touching him, his horse. Trailing a half-dozen paces behind walked the Destriant, and Gruntle could feel healing sorcery swirling out from her – the embrace of the Wolf's Reve had begun.

Anaster finally rode clear of the camp. His lone eye noted Gruntle and the man reined in, waited for the Daru.

He spoke before Gruntle had a chance to do the same, 'You're Gruntle, Trake's Mortal Sword. The Destriant has told me about you. I'm glad you've come.' Anaster glanced back at the Tenescowri, who hung back, within their encampment, as if its edge was some kind of invisible, impassable barrier, then the young man dismounted. 'The Shield Anvil insisted I remain visible,' he grunted, wincing as he stretched his legs. 'Much more of this and I'll start walking like a Wickan.'

'You said you are glad that I've come,' Gruntle rumbled. 'Why?'

'Well, you're a Mortal Sword, right? They're calling me one, too. I guess, uh, well. What does that mean, anyway?'

'You don't know?'

'No. Do you?'

Gruntle said nothing for a long moment, then he grinned. 'Not really.'

The tension left Anaster in a heartfelt sigh. He stepped close. 'Listen. Before this – uh, before I arrived in this body, I was a scout in the Malazan army. And as far as I was concerned, temples were where poor people paid to keep the priests' wine cellars well stocked. I don't want followers. That Destriant back there, the Shield Anvil – gods, what a hard woman! They're piling expectations on me – I'm feeling like that man Itkovian is feeling right now, not that he's feeling anything, I suppose. Hood, just mentioning his name breaks my heart and I never even knew him.'

'I did, Anaster. Relax, lad – about everything. Did you think I asked to be Trake's Mortal Sword? I was a caravan guard, and a miserable one and I was happy with it—'

'You were happy being miserable?'

'Damned right I was.'

Anaster suddenly smiled. 'I stumbled on a small cask of ale – it's back in the camp of the Grey Swords. We should go for a walk, Gruntle.'

'Under the trees, aye. I'll find Stonny – a friend. You'll like her, I think.'

'A woman? I like her already. I'll get the ale, meet you back here.'

'A sound plan, Anaster. Oh, and don't tell the Destriant or the Shield Anvil—'

'I won't, even if they torture me ...' His voice fell away, and Gruntle saw the young man grow paler than usual. Then he shook his head. 'See you soon, friend.'

'Aye.' Friend ... Yes, I think so.

He watched Anaster swing back onto the horse – the man he had been knew how to ride.

No, not the man he had been. The man he is. Gruntle watched him riding away for a moment longer, then turned back to find Stonny.

 

Steam or smoke still drifted from the four Trygalle Trade Guild carriages waiting at the base of the hill. Quick Ben had gone ahead to speak with the train's master – an opulently dressed, overweight man whose bone-deep exhaustion was discernible from fifty paces away.

Paran, waiting with the Bridgeburners for Dujek on the crest of the hill, watched the wizard and the Trygalle mage engaging in a lengthy conversation the result of which seemed to leave Quick Ben bemused. The Daru, Kruppe, then joined them, and the discussion resumed once more. Heatedly.

'What's all that about?' Picker wondered beside the captain.

Paran shook his head. 'I have no idea, Lieutenant.'

'Sir.'

Something in her tone brought him round. 'Yes?'

'You shouldn't have left me in command – I messed it up, bad, sir.'

He saw the raw pain in her eyes, continued to meet them despite a sudden desire to look away. 'Not you, Lieutenant. The command was mine, after all. I abandoned all of you.'

She shook her head. 'Quick's told us what you two did, Captain. You went where you had to, sir. It was well played. It'd seemed to us that there was no victory to be found, in any of this, but now we know that's not true – and that means more than you might realize.'

'Lieutenant, you walked out of that keep with survivors. No-one could have done better.'

'I agree,' a new voice growled.

Dujek's appearance shocked both soldiers to silence. The man seemed to have aged ten years in the span of a single day and night. He was bent, the hand of his lone arm trembling. 'Lieutenant, call the Bridgeburners over. I would speak to you all.'

Picker turned and gestured the five soldiers closer.

'Good,' the High Fist grunted. 'Now, hear me. There's half a wagon of back pay being loaded onto one of those Trygalle carriages below. Back pay for the company known as the Bridgeburners. Full complement. Enough to buy each of you an estate and a life of well-earned idyll. The Trygalle will take you to Darujhistan – I don't recommend you head back to the Empire. As far as Tayschrenn and Fist Aragan and I are concerned, not one Bridgeburner walked out of that keep. No, say not a single word, soldiers – Whiskeyjack wanted this for you. Hood, he wanted it for himself, too. Respect that.

'Besides, you've one more mission, and it takes you to Darujhistan. The Trygalle has delivered someone. He's presently in the care of the High Alchemist, Baruk. The man's not well – he needs you, I think. Malazans. Soldiers. Do what you can for him when you're there, and when you decide that you can't do anything more, then walk away.'

Dujek paused, eyed them, then nodded and said, 'That's all, Bridgeburners. The Trygalle are waiting for you. Captain, remain a moment – I would a private word with you. Oh, Picker, send High Mage Quick Ben up here, will you?'

Picker blinked. 'High Mage?'

Dujek grimaced. 'That bastard can't hide any longer. Tayschrenn's insisted.'

'Yes, sir.'

Paran watched the small troop head down the hill.

Dujek drew a palsied hand across his face, turned away. 'Walk with me, Paran.'

Paran did. 'That was well done, sir.'

'No, it wasn't, Ganoes, but it was all I could do. I don't want the last of the Bridgeburners to die on some field of battle, or in some nameless city that's fighting hard to stay free. I'm taking what's left of my Host to Seven Cities, to reinforce Adjunct Tavore's retributive army. You are welcome—'

'No, sir. I'd rather not.'

Dujek nodded, as if he had expected that. 'There's a dozen or so columns for you, near the carriages below. Go with your company, then, with my blessing. I'll have you counted among the casualties.'

'Thank you, High Fist. I don't think I was ever cut out to be a soldier.'

'Not another word of that, Captain. Think what you like about yourself, but we will continue seeing you as you are – a noble man.'

'Noble—'

'Not that kind of noble, Ganoes. This is the kind that's earned, the only kind that means anything. Because, in this day and age, it's damned rare.'

'Well, sir, there I'll respectfully disagree with you. If there's but one experience I will carry with me of my time in this campaign, High Fist, it is that of being humbled, again and again, by those around me.'

'Go join your fellow Bridgeburners, Ganoes Paran.'

'Yes, sir. Goodbye, High Fist.'

'Goodbye.'

As Paran made his way down the slope, he stumbled momentarily, then righted himself. My fellow Bridgeburners, he said . . , well, the achievement is shortlived, but even so.

I made it.

 

Ignoring the grim-faced soldiers on all sides, Toc – Anaster – reined in beside the small tent the Grey Swords had given him. Aye, I remember Anaster, and this may be his body, but that's all. He slipped from the saddle and entered it.

He hunted until he found the cask, hid it within a leather sack and slung that over a shoulder, then hurried back outside.

As he drew himself into the saddle once more, a man stepped up to him.

Toc frowned down at him. This was no Tenescowri, nor a Grey Sword. If anything, he looked, from his faded, tattered leathers and furs, to be Barghast.

Covered in scars – more scars of battle than Toc had ever seen on a single person before. Despite this, there was a comfort, there in his face – a gentleman's face, no more than twenty years of age, the features pronounced, heavy-boned, framed in long black hair devoid of any fetishes or braids. His eyes were a soft brown as he looked up at Toc.

Toc had never met this man before. 'Hello. Is there something you wish?' he asked, impatient to be away.

The man shook his head. 'I only sought to look upon you, to see that you were well.'

He believes me to be Anaster. A friend of old, perhaps – not one of his lieutenants, though – I would have remembered this one. Well, I'll not disappoint him. 'Thank you. I am.'

'This pleases me.' The man smiled, reached up and laid a hand on Toc's leg. 'I will go, now, brother. Know that I hold you in my memory.' Still smiling, he turned and strode away, passing through the midst of curious Grey Swords, heading north towards the forest.

Toc stared after him. Something . . . something about that walk . . .

'Mortal Sword—'

The Shield Anvil was approaching.

Toc gathered the reins. 'Not now,' he called out. 'Later.' He swung his horse round. 'All right, you wretched hag, let's see how you gallop, shall we?' He drove his heels into the beast's flanks.

 

His sister awaited him at the edge of the forest. 'You are done?' she asked him.

'I am.'

They continued on, under the trees. 'I have missed you, brother.'

'And I you.'

'You have no sword ...'

'Indeed, I have not. Do you think I will need one?'

She leaned close to him. 'Now more than before, I would think.'

'Perhaps you are right. We must needs find a quarry.'

'The Barghast Range. A flint the colour of blood – I will invest it, of course, to prevent its shattering.'

'As you did once before, sister.'

'Long ago.'

'Aye, so very long ago.'

 

Under the impassive gaze of the two brothers, Lady Envy relinquished the sorcery that kept Mok from returning to consciousness. She watched as the Third slowly regained awareness, the eyes within the mask dulled with pain. 'There, now,' she murmured. 'You have suffered of late, haven't you?'

Mok struggled to sit upright, his gaze hardening upon finding his brothers.

Lady Envy straightened and glanced over at Senu and Thurule with an appraising eye. After a moment, she sighed. 'Indeed, they are a sight. They suffered in your absence, Third. Then again,' she noted brightly, 'you've not fared much better! I must inform you, Mok, that your mask has cracked.'

The Seguleh reached up, probed tentatively, finding then following the hairline fissure running two-thirds of the length on the left side.

Lady Envy continued, 'In fact, I reluctantly admit, none of our fa?ades has survived ... unfractured. If you can imagine it, Anomander Rake – the Seventh – has unceremoniously banished us from the city.'

Mok climbed unsteadily to his feet, looked around.

'Yes,' Lady Envy said, 'we find ourselves in the very same forest we spent days trudging through. Your punitive exercise is concluded, perhaps satisfactorily, perhaps not. The Pannion Domin is no more, alas. Time's come, my three grim servants, to begin the journey home.'

Mok examined his weapons, then faced her. 'No. We shall demand an audience with the Seventh—'

'Oh, you foolish man! He'll not see you! Worse, you'll have to carve your way through a few hundred Tiste Andii to get to him – and no, they won't cross blades with you. They will simply annihilate you with sorcery. They're a perfunctory people, the Children of Mother Dark. Now, I have decided to escort the three of you home. Isn't that generous of me?'

Mok regarded her, the silence stretching.

Lady Envy offered him a sweet smile.

 

On their long journey north, the White Face Barghast broke up into clans, then family bands, ranging far and wide as was their wont. Hetan walked with Cafal, lagging behind their father and his closest followers and angling some distance eastward.

The sun was warm on their heads and shoulders, the air fresh with the gentle surf brushing the shore two hundred paces to their right.

It was midday when she and her brother spotted the two travellers ahead. Close kin, Hetan judged as they drew nearer. Neither one particularly tall, but robust, both black-haired, walking very slowly side by side closer to the coastline.

They looked to be Barghast, but of a tribe or clan unknown to either Hetan or Cafal. A short while later they came alongside the two strangers.

Hetan's eyes focused on the man, studied the extraordinary scars crisscrossing his flesh. 'We greet you, strangers!' she called out.

Both turned, clearly surprised that they had company.

Hetan now looked upon the man's face. That the woman beside him was his sister could be no more obvious.

Good. 'You!' she called to the man, 'what is your name?'

The man's smile made her heart catch. 'Onos Toolan.'

Hetan strode closer, offering a wink to the dark-haired woman, then settling her eyes once more on the man called Onos Toolan. 'I see more than you imagine,' she said in a low voice.

The young warrior cocked his head. 'You do?'

'Aye, and what I see tells me you've not bedded a woman in a long time.'

The man's eyes widened – oh, such lovely eyes, a lover's eyes – 'Indeed,' he said, his smile broadening.

Oh yes, my lover's eyes . . .