Mathok's brows rose fractionally. 'Sha'ik Reborn, with the Book, you can do as you like. For my warriors, however, you have great need. A Malazan army approaches-'

'I know. But you are not enough. Besides, I have no need for warriors.

My army does not march in rank. My army carries no weapons, wears no armour. In conquering, my army kills not a single foe, enslaves noone, rapes no child. That which my army wields is salvation, Mathok.

Its promise. Its invitation.'

'And the Malazans?' T'morol demanded in his grating voice, baring his teeth. 'That army does carry weapons and wear armour. That army, Holy One, marches in rank, and right now they're marching right up our ass!'

'Kulat,' Felisin said. 'Find a place for the Holy Book. Have the artisans prepare a new one, the pages blank. There will be a second holy book. My Book of Salvation. On its first page, Kulat, record what has been said here, this day, and accord all present with the honour they have earned. Mathok, and T'morol, you are most welcome here, in the City of the Fallen. As are your warriors. But understand, your days of war, of slaughter, are done. Put away your scimitars and your shields, your bows. Unsaddle your horses and loose them to the high pastures in the hills at Denet'inar Spring. They shall live out their lives there, well and in peace. Mathok, T'morol, do you accept?'

The commander stared down at the ancient tome in his hands, and Felisin saw a sneer emerge on his features. He spread his hands. The book fell to the floor, landing on its spine. The impact broke it.

Ancient pages skirled out. Ignoring Felisin, Mathok turned to T'morol.

'Gather the warriors. We will resupply as needed. Then we leave.'

T'morol faced the throne, and spat onto the floor before the dais.

Then he wheeled and strode from the chamber.

Mathok hesitated, then he faced Felisin once more. 'Sha'ik Reborn, you will no doubt receive my shamans without the dishonour witnessed here.

I leave them with you. To you. As for your world, your bloated, disgusting world and its poisonous salvation, I leave that to you as well. For all of this, Leoman died. For all of this, Y'Ghatan burned.'

He studied her a moment longer, then he spun about and walked from the throne room.

Kulat scurried to kneel beside the broken book. 'It is ruined!' he said in a voice filled with horror.

Felisin nodded. 'Utterly.' Then she smiled at her own joke.

'I judge four thousand,' Fist Rythe Bude said.

The rebel army was positioned along a ridge. Horse-warriors, lancers, archers, yet none had readied weapons. Round shields remained strapped to backs, quivers lidded, bows unstrung and holstered on saddles. Two riders had moved out from the line and were working their horses down the steep slope to where Paran and his officers waited.

'What do you think, High Fist?' Hurlochel asked. 'This has the look of a surrender.'

Paran nodded.

The two men reached the base of the slope and cantered up to halt four paces from the Host's vanguard.

'I am Mathok,' the one on the left said. 'Once of Sha'ik's Army of the Apocalypse.'

'And now?' Paran asked.

A shrug. 'We dwelt in the Holy Desert Raraku, a desert now a sea. We fought as rebels, but the rebellion has ended. We believed. We believe no longer.' He unsheathed his scimitar and flung it onto the ground. '

Do with us as you will.'

Paran settled back in his saddle. He drew a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. 'Mathok,' he said, 'you and your warriors are free to go where you please. I am High Fist Ganoes Paran, and I hereby release you. As you said, the war is over, and I for one am not interested in reparation, nor punishment. Nothing is gained by inflicting yet more atrocities in answer to past ones.'

The grizzled warrior beside Mathok threw a leg over his horse's neck and slipped down to the ground. The impact made him wince and arch his lower back, grimacing, then he hobbled over to his commander's scimitar. Collecting it, he wiped the dust from the blade and the grip, then delivered it back to Mathok.

Paran spoke again: 'You have come from the place of pilgrimage.'

'The City of the Fallen, yes. Do you intend to destroy them, High Fist? They are defenceless.'

'I would speak with their leader.'

'Then you waste your time. She claims she is Sha'ik Reborn. If that is true, then the cult has seen a degradation from which it will never recover. She is fat, poisoned. I barely recognized her. She is indeed fallen. Her followers are sycophants, more interested in orgies and gluttony than anything else. They are disease-scarred and half-mad.

Her High Priest watches her sex acts from behind curtains and masturbates, and in both their energy is unbounded and insatiable.'

'Nonetheless,' Paran said after a moment, 'I sense power there.'

'No doubt,' Mathok replied, leaning to one side and spitting. '

Slaughter them, then, High Fist, and you will rid the world of a new kind of plague.'

'What do you mean?'

'A religion of the maimed and broken. A religion proffering salvation… you just have to die first. I predict the cult will prove highly contagious.'

He's probably right. 'I cannot slaughter innocents, Mathok.'

'Then, one day, the most faithful and zealous among them will slaughter you, High Fist.'

'Perhaps. If so, I will worry about it then. In the meantime, I have other tasks before me.'

'You will speak with Sha'ik Reborn?'

Paran considered, then he shook his head. 'No. As you suggest, there is little point. While I see the possible wisdom of expunging this cult before it gains a foothold, I admit I find the notion reprehensible.'

'Then where, if I may ask, High Fist, will you go now?'

Paran hesitated. Dare I answer? Well, now is as good as later for everyone to hear. 'We turn round, Mathok. The Host marches to Aren.'

'Do you march to war?' the commander asked.

Paran frowned. 'We're an army, Mathok. Eventually, yes, there will be fighting.'

'Will you accept our service, High Fist?'

'What?'

'We are a wandering people,' Mathok explained. 'But we have lost our home. Our families are scattered and no doubt many are dead of plague.

We have nowhere to go, and no-one to fight. If you should reject us now, and free us to go, we shall ride into dissolution. We shall die with our backs covered in straw and sand in our gauntlets. Or warrior will turn upon warrior, and blood will be shed that is without meaning. Accept us into your army, High Fist Ganoes Paran, and we will fight at your side and die with honour.'

'You have no idea where I intend to lead the Host, Mathok.'

The old warrior beside Mathok barked a laugh. 'The wasteland back of camp, or the wasteland few have ever seen before, what's the difference?' He turned to his commander. 'Mathok, my friend, the shamans said this one here killed Poliel. For that alone, I would follow him into the Abyss, so long as he promises us heads to lop off and maybe a woman or two to ride on the way. That's all we're looking for, right, before we dance in a god's lap one last time. Besides, I'm tired of running.'

To all of this, Mathok simply nodded, his gaze fixed on Paran.

Four thousand or so of this continent's finest light cavalry just volunteered, veterans one and all. 'Hurlochel,' he said, 'attach yourself as liaison to Commander Mathok. Commander, you are now a Fist, and Hurlochel will require a written compilation of your officers or potential officers. The Malazan army employs mounted troops in units of fifty, a hundred and three hundred. Adjust your command structure accordingly.'

'It shall be done, High Fist.'

'Fist Rythe Bude, see the Host turned round. And Noto Boil, find me Ormulogun.'

'Again?' the healer asked.