Bodies and shields, appearing in a seemingly unending stream.

Building, there in the last six strides, a floor of flesh, leather, wood and armour.

Javelins sleeted into those wedges, driving soldiers back and down, only to have their bodies thrust forward with chilling disregard. The wounded bled out. The wounded drowned screaming in the mud. And each wedge seemed to lift itself up and out of the mud, although the cadence did not change.

Four steps. Three.

And, at a bellowing shout, the points of those enormous wedges suddenly drove forward.

Into human flesh, into set shields, spears. Into the Awl.

Each and every mind dreamed of victory. Of immortality. And, among them all, not one would yield.

The sun stared down, blazing with eager heat, on Q’uson Tapi, where two civilizations locked throat to throat.

One last time.

A fateful decision, maybe, but he’d made it now. Dragging with him all the squads that had been in the village, Fiddler took over from some of Keneb’s more beat-up units the west-facing side of their turtleback defence. No longer standing eye to eye with that huge Letherii army and its Hood-cursed sorcerers. No, here they waited, and opposite them, drawing up in thick ranks, the Tiste Edur.

Was it cowardice? He wasn’t sure, and from the looks he caught in the eyes of his fellow sergeants-barring Hellian who’d made a temporarily unsuccessful grab at Skulldeath, or more precisely at his crotch, before Primly intervened-they weren’t sure, either.

Fine, then, I just don’t want to see my death come rolling down on me. Is that cowardly? Aye, by all counts it couldn’t be anything but. Still, there’s this. I don’t feel frightened.

No, all he wanted right now, beyond what Hellian so obviously wanted, of course, all he wanted, then, was to die fighting. To see the face of the bastard who killed him, to pass on, in that final meeting of eyes, all that dying meant, must have meant and would always mean… whatever that was, and let’s hope I do a better job of letting my killer know whatever it is-better, that is, than all those whose eyes I’ve looked into as they died at my hand. Aye, seems a worthy enough prayer.

But I ain’t praying to you, Hood.

In fact, damned if I know who I’m praying to, but even that doesn’t seem to matter.

His soldiers were digging holes but not saying much. They’d received a satchelful of munitions, including two more cussers, and while that wasn’t nearly enough it made it advisable to dig the holes where they could crouch for cover when those sharpers, cussers and all the rest started going off.

All of this, dammit, assumed there would be fighting.

Far more likely, magic would sweep over the Malazans, one and all, grabbing at their throats even as it burned away skin, muscle and organs, burned away even their last desperate, furious screams.

Fiddler vowed to make his last scream a curse. A good one, too.

He stared across at the rows of Tiste Edur.

Beside him, Cuttle said, ‘They don’t like it neither, you know.’

Fiddler replied with a wordless grunt.

‘That’s their leader, that old one with the hunched shoulders. Too many paying him too much attention. I plan to take him out, Fid-with a cusser. Listen-are you listening? As soon as that wave of magic starts its roll, we should damn well up and charge these bastards.’

Not a bad idea, actually. Blinking, Fiddler faced the sapper, and then nodded. ‘Pass the word, then.’

At that moment one of Thorn Tissy’s soldiers jogged into their midst. ‘Fist’s orders,’ he said, looking round. ‘Where’s your captain?’

‘Holding Beak’s hand, somewhere else,’ Fiddler replied. ‘You can give those orders to me, soldier.’

‘All right. Maintain the turtleback-do not advance on the enemy-’

‘That’s fucking-’

‘Enough, Cuttle!’ Fiddler snapped. To the runner he nodded and said, ‘How long?’

A blank expression answered that question.

Fiddler waved the idiot on, then turned once more to stare across at the Tiste Edur.

‘Damn him, Fid!’

‘Relax, Cuttle. We’ll set out when we have to, all right?’

‘Sergeant?’ Bottle was suddenly crawling out of the hole he’d dug, and there was a strained look on his face. ‘Something… something’s happening-’

At that moment, from the ridge to the east, a blood-chilling sound-like ten thousand anchor chains ripping up from the ground, and there rose a virulent wall of swirling magic. Dark purple and shot through with crimson veins, black etchings like lightning darting along the crest as it rose, higher, yet higher-

‘Hood’s balls!’ Cuttle breathed, eyes wide.

Fiddler simply stared. This was the sorcery they’d seen off the north coast of Seven Cities. Only, then they’d had Quick Ben with them. And Bottle had his-he reached out and pulled Bottle close. ‘Listen! Is she-’

‘No, Fid! Nowhere! She’s not been with me since we landed. I’m sorry-’

Fiddler flung the man back down.

The wall heaved itself still higher.

The Tiste Edur along the western edge of the killing field were suddenly pulling back.

Cuttle yelled, ‘We need to go now! Fiddler! Now!’

Yet he could not move. Could not answer, no matter how the sapper railed at him. Could only stare, craning, ever upward. Too much magic. ‘Gods above,’ he muttered, ‘talk about overkill,’

Run away from this? Not a chance.

Cuttle dragged him round.

Fiddler scowled and pushed the man back, hard enough to make the sapper stumble. ‘Fuck running, Cuttle! You think we can out-run that1’

‘But the Edur-’

‘It’s going to take them too-can’t you see that?’ It has to-no-one can control it once it’s released-no-one. ‘Those Hood-damned Edur have been set up, Cuttle!’ Oh yes, the Letherii wanted to get rid of their masters-they just didn’t want to do it with us as allies. No, they’ll do it their way and take out both enemies at the same damned time…

Three hundred paces to the west, Hanradi stared up at that Letherii magic. And understood, all at once. He understood.

‘We have been betrayed,’ he said, as much to himself as to the warriors standing close by. ‘That ritual-it has been days in the making. Maybe weeks. Once unleashed…’ the devastation will stretch for leagues westward.

What to do?

Father Shadow, what to do? ‘Where are my K’risnan?’ he suddenly demanded, turning to his aides.

Two Edur hobbled forward, their faces ashen.

‘Can you protect us?’

Neither replied, and neither would meet Hanradi’s eyes.

‘Can you not call upon Hannan Mosag? Reach through to the Ceda, damn you!’

‘You do not understand!’ one of the once-young K’risnan shouted. ‘We are-all-we are all abandoned!’

‘But Kurald Emurlahn-’

‘Yes! Awake once more! But we cannot reach it! Nor can the Ceda!’

‘And what of that other power? The chaos?’

‘Gone! Fled!’

Hanradi stared at the two warlocks. He drew his sword and lashed the blade across the nearest one’s face, the edge biting through bridge of nose and splitting both eyeballs. Shrieking, the figure reeled back, hands at his face. Hanradi stepped forward and drove his sword into the creature’s twisted chest, and the blood that gushed forth was almost black.

Tugging the weapon free, Hanradi turned to the other one, who cowered back. ‘You warlocks,’ the once-king said in a grating voice, ‘are the cause of this. All of this.’ He took another step closer. ‘Would that you were Hannan Mosag crouched before me now-’

‘Wait!’ the K’risnan shrieked, suddenly pointing eastward. ‘Wait! One gives answer! One gives answer!’

Hanradi turned, eyes focusing with some difficulty on the Malazans-so overwhelming was the wave of Letherii magic that a shadow had descended upon the entire killing field.

Rising from that huddled mass of soldiers, a faint, luminous glow. Silver, vaguely pulsing.