Fist Rythe Bude glanced over at the woman. Her colour was up, the Fist observed, eyes flashing. Clearly, the captain was not prepared to forget that punch in the jaw. Mind you, I probably wouldn't forgive something like that either.

'I think the Fists need to organize a meeting-'

'Captain,' Rythe Bude warned, 'you forget yourself.'

'My apologies, sir. But, now that we're trailing some kind of army, well, I don't want to end up like the Bridgeburners. That's all.'

'Dujek Onearm's confidence in Paran, and his admiration for the man, Captain, is sufficient for me. And my fellow Fists. I strongly advise you to suppress your anger and recall your own discipline. As for the army ahead of us, even a thousand mounted warriors hardly represents a significant threat to the Host. This rebellion is over – there's noone left to rebel, after all. And little left to fight over.' She gestured forward with one gauntleted hand. 'Even these pilgrims keep falling to the wayside.'

A low mound of stones was visible to one side of the rough track – another sad victim of this pilgrimage – and from this one rose a staff bedecked in crow feathers.

'That's eerie, too,' Sweetcreek said. 'All these Coltaine worshippers…'

'This land breeds cults like maggots in a corpse, Captain.'

Sweetcreek grunted. 'A most appropriate image, Fist, in this instance.'

Rythe Bude grunted. Aye, I stumble on those every now and then.

Behind the two riders, Corporal Futhgar said, 'Sirs, what are those?'

They twisted round in their saddles, then looked to where the man was pointing. The eastern sky. Voices were rising among the soldiers now, invoked prayers, a few shouts of surprise.

A string of suns, a dozen in all, each small but bright enough to burn blinding holes in the blue sky. From two stretched tails of fiery mist. The row of suns curved like a longbow, the ends higher, and above it was the blurred, misshapen face of the moon.

'An omen of death!' someone shouted.

'Captain,' Rythe Bude snapped, 'get that fool to shut his mouth.'

'Aye, sir.'

'The sky falls,' Noto Boil said as he fell back in beside the High Fist.

Scowling, Paran continued studying the strange appearance in the eastern sky, seeking some sense of what it was they were witnessing.

Whatever it is, I don't like it.

'You doubt me?' the healer asked. 'High Fist, I have walked the lands of Korel. I have seen the craters left behind by all that descended from the sky. Have you ever perused a map of Korel? The entire northern subcontinent and its host of islands? Fling a handful of gravel into mud, then wait whilst water fills the pocks. That is Korel, sir. The people still tell tales of the countless fires that fell from the sky, in the bringing down of the Crippled God.'

'Ride to the head of the column, Noto Boil,' Paran said.

'Sir?'

'Call a halt. Right now. And get me Hurlochel and his outriders. I need a sense of the surrounding area. We may need to find cover.'

For once, the healer made no complaint.

Paran stared at the string of fires, growing like a salvo from the Abyss. Damn, where's Ormulogun? I need to find him, and he'd better have that Deck ready – or at least the cards etched out, preferably scribed and ready for the threads of paint. Gods below, he'd better have something, because I don't have time to… his thoughts trailed away.

He could feel them now, coming ever closer – he could feel their heat – was that even possible?

The damned moon – I should have paid attention. I should have quested, found out what has happened up there, to that forlorn world. And then another thought struck him, and he went cold.

War among the gods.

Is this an attack? A salvo in truth?

Paran bared his teeth. 'If you're out there,' he whispered, glaring at the eastern sky as his horse shied nervously beneath him, 'you're not playing fair. And… I don't like that.' He straightened, stood in his stirrups, and looked about.

'Ormulogun! Where in Hood's name are you!'

'Against this,' Iskaral Pust muttered, 'I can do nothing.' He hugged himself. 'I think I should start gibbering, now. Yes, that would be highly appropriate. A crazed look in my eyes. Drool, then froth, yes.

Who could blame me? We're all going to die!'

These last words were a shriek, sufficient to shake Mappo from his insensate lethargy. Lifting his head, he looked across at the High Priest of Shadow. The Dal Honese was huddled beside his mule, and both were bathed in a strange light, green-hued – no, the Trell realized, that light was everywhere.

Spite descended from the forecastle, and Mappo saw in her expression cold rage. 'We are in trouble,' she said in a grating voice. 'Out of time – I had hoped… never mind-' Suddenly her head snapped round and she stared southwestward. Her eyes narrowed. Then she said, 'Oh… who in Hood's name are you? And what do you think you are up to?' Falling silent once more, her frown deepening.

Blinking, Mappo Runt pushed himself upright, and saw that the sky was on fire – almost directly above them. As if the sun had spawned a host of children, a string of incandescent pearls, their flames wreathed in haloes of jade. Growing… descending. What are those?

The sea seemed to tremble around them, the waves choppy, clashing in confusion. The air felt brittle, hot, and all wind had fallen away.

And there, above the mass of land to the east that was Otataral Island… Mappo looked back at Iskaral Pust. The High Priest, crouching now, had his hands covering his head. Bhoka'rala were converging, around him, mewling and whimpering, reaching out to touch the shivering old man. As he babbled, 'We didn't plan for this, did we? I don't remember – gods, I don't remember anything! Mogora, my dear hag, where are you? This is my moment of greatest need. I want sex! Even with you! I'll drink the white paralt later – what choice?

It's that, or the memory of most regrettable weakness on my part!

There is only so much I can suffer. Stop touching me, you vile apes!

Shadowthrone, you miserable insane shade – where are you hiding and is there room for me, your most devoted servant, your Magus? There'd better be! Come get me, damn you – never mind anyone else! Just me! Of course there's room! You mucus-smeared knee-in-the-groin fart-cloud!

Save me!'

'Spirits below,' Mogora muttered at Mappo's side, 'listen to that pathetic creature! And to think, I married him!'

Spite suddenly wheeled and ran back to the bow, bhok'arala scattering from her path. Once there, she spun round and shouted. 'I see them!

Make for them, fools! Quickly!'

And then she veered, rising above the wallowing, rocking ship, silveretched wings spreading wide. Swirling mists, writhing, growing solid, until an enormous dragon hovered before the ship, dwarfing the craft in its immensity. Lambent eyes flared like quicksilver in the eerie, emerald light. The creature's long, sinuous tail slithered down, snake-like, and coiled round the upthrust prow. The dragon then twisted in the air, a savage beat of the wings-and with an alarming jolt the ship lunged forward.

Mappo was flung back into the cabin wall, wood splintering behind him.

Gasping, the Trell regained his feet and clambered towards the bows.

She sees them? Who?

The sky was filling with spears of green fire, plunging towards them.

Iskaral Pust screamed.

Over a thousand leagues away, westward, Bottle stood with the others and stared at the eastern horizon – where darkness should have been, crawling heavenward to announce the unending cycle of day's death and night's birth. Instead they could see distinctly a dozen motes of fire, descending, filling a third of the sky with a lurid, incandescent, greenish glow.