She hesitated, then rose.

And, at a distance, she followed.

He walked towards the rising sun.

Scratching at the scarred, gaping hole where one eye had been, Toc watched the children running back and forth as the first cookfires were lit. Elders hobbled about with iron pots and wrapped foodstuffs-they were wiry, weathered folk, but days of marching had dulled the fire in their eyes, and more than a few snapped at the young ones who passed too close.

He saw Redmask, trailed by Masarch and Natarkas and another bearing the red face-paint, appear near the area laid out for the war leader’s yurt. Seeing Toc, Redmask approached.

‘Tell me, Toc Anaster, you flanked our march on the north this day-did you see tracks?’

‘What sort do you mean?’

Redmask turned to Natarkas’s companion. ‘Torrent rode to the south. He made out a trail that followed an antelope track-a dozen men on foot-’

‘Or more,’ the one named Torrent said. ‘They were skilled.’

‘Not Letherii, then,’ Toe guessed.

‘Moccasined,’ Redmask replied, his tone betraying slight irritation at Torrent’s interruption. ‘Tall, heavy.’

‘I noted nothing like that,’ said Toc. ‘Although I admit 1 was mostly scanning horizon lines.’

‘This place shall be our camp,’ Redmask said after a moment. ‘We will meet the Letherii three leagues from here, in the valley known as Bast Fulmar. Toc Anaster, will you stay with the elders and children or accompany us?’

‘I have had my fill of fields of battle, Redmask. I said I’d found myself a soldier again, but even an army’s train needs guards, and that is about all I am up to right now.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe from now on.’

The eyes in that scaled mask held on Toe for a half-dozen heartbeats, then slowly turned away. ‘Torrent, you too will stay here.’

The warrior stiffened in surprise. ‘War Leader-’

‘You will begin training those children who are close to their death nights. Bows, knives.’

Torrent bowed, stiffly. ‘As you command.’

Redmask left them, trailed by Natarkas and Masarch.

Torrent glanced over at Toc. ‘My courage is not broken,’ he said.

‘You’re young still,’ he replied.

‘You will oversee the younger children, Toc Anaster. That and nothing more. You will keep them and yourself out of my way.’

Toe had had enough of this man. ‘Torrent, you rode at your old war leader’s side when you Awl abandoned us to the Letherii army. Be careful of your bold claims of courage. And when I came to you and pleaded for the lives of my soldiers, you turned away with the rest of them. I believe Redmask has just taken your measure, Torrent, and if I hear another threat from you I will give you reason to curse me-with what will be your last breath.’

The warrior bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘All I see in that lone eye, Toe Anaster, tells me you are already cursed.’ He pivoted and walked away.

Well, the bastard has a point. So maybe I’m not as good at this give and take as I imagined myself to be. For these Awl, it is a way of life, after all. Then again, the Malazan armies are pretty good at it, too-no wonder I never really fit.

A half-dozen children hurried past, trailed by a mud-smeared toddler struggling to keep up. Seeing the chattering mob vanish round a tent, the toddler halted, then let out a wail.

Toc grunted. Aye, you and me both.

He made a rude sound and the toddler looked over, eyes wide. Then laughed.

Eye socket fiercely itching once more, Toe scratched for a moment, then headed over, issuing yet another rude noise. Oh, look at that-innocent delight. Well, Toc, take your rewards where and when you can.

Redmask stood at the very edge of the sprawling encampment, studying the horizon to the south. ‘Someone is out there,’ he said in a low voice.

‘So it seems,’ Natarkas said. ‘Strangers-who walk our land as if they owned it. War Leader, you have wounded Torrent-’

‘Torrent must learn the value of respect. And so he will, as weapon master to a score of restless adolescents. When next he joins us, he will be a wiser man. Do you challenge my decisions, Natarkas?’

‘Challenge? No, War Leader. But at times I will probe them, if I find the need to understand them better.’

Redmask nodded, then said to the warrior standing a short distance away, ‘Heed those words, Masarch.’

‘So I shall,’ the young warrior replied.

‘Tomorrow,’ said Redmask, ‘I lead my warriors to war. Bast Fulmar.’

Natarkas hissed, then said, ‘A cursed valley.’

‘We will honour the blood spilled there three hundred years ago, Natarkas. The past will die there, and from there on we shall look only to a new future. New in every way.’

‘This new way of fighting, War Leader, I see little honour in it.’

‘You speak true. There is none to be found. Such is necessity.’

‘Must necessity be surrender?’

Redmask looked across at the warrior whose face was painted in the likeness of his own mask. ‘When the ways surrendered hold naught but the promise of failure, then yes. It must be done. They must be cast away.’

‘The elders will find that difficult to accept, War Leader.’

‘I know. You and I have played this game before. This is not their war. It is mine. And I mean to win it.’

They were silent then, as the wind, a dirge through dead grasses, moaned ghostly across the land.

There had been rain in the afternoon, which was just as well since there wasn’t much value in burning the entire forest down and besides, he wasn’t popular at the best of times. They had mocked his antics, and they had said he stank, too, so much so that no-one ever came within reach of his huge, gnarled hands. Of course, had any of his neighbours done so, he might well have torn their limbs off to answer years of scorn and abuse.

Old Hunch Arbat no longer pulled his cart from farm to farm, from shack to shack, collecting the excrement with which he buried the idols of the Tarthenal gods that had commanded a mostly forgotten glade deep in the woods. The need had passed, after all. The damned hoary nightmares were dead.

His neighbours had not appreciated Arbat’s sudden retirement, since now the stink of their wastes had begun to foul their own homes. Lazy wastrels that they were, they weren’t of a mind to deepen their cesspits-didn’t Old Hunch empty them out on a regular basis? Well, not any more.

That alone might have been reason enough to light out. And Arbat would have liked nothing better than to just vanish into the forest gloom, never to be seen again. Walk far, yes, until he came to a hamlet or village where none knew him, where none even knew of him. Rainwashed of all odour, just some kindly, harmless old mixed-blood Tarthenal who could, for a coin or two, mend broken things, including flesh and bone.

Walk, then. Leaving behind the old Tarthenal territories, away from the weed-snagged statues in the overgrown glades. And maybe, even, away from the ancient blood of his heritage. Not all healers were shamans, were they? They’d not ask any awkward questions, so long as he treated them right, and he could do that, easy.

Old bastards like him deserved their rest. A lifetime of service. Propitiations, the Masks of Dreaming, the leering faces of stone, the solitary rituals-all done, now. He could walk his last walk, into the unknown. A hamlet, a village, a sun-warmed boulder beside a trickling stream, where he could settle back and ease his tortured frame and not move, until the final mask was pulled away…