Liossercal drew himself up straight, head cocked to one side. After a time he nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well. I will reflect upon this new light you bring to the situation. A reprieve, then, for a time, for this Shadow House.’

Anomandaris inclined his head in agreement. A smile lifted his thin lips and he gestured an invitation to the empty plains. ‘Tell me of Resuthenal, then? How fares she?’

Liossercal clasped his hands behind his back, accepted Anomandaris's invitation. They walked off side by side. ‘She is in fine health, though the mention of your name still enrages her. Especially when I point out that she lost as a result of her own stupidity.’

Anomandaris laughed. ‘Yes, that would enrage anyone.’

Kyle wished to follow the two; he certainly knew that he ought not remain. The things the two spoke of were complete mysteries to him, but he feared being left behind, becoming lost in this strange dream. If only he could have seen the man from the front – he would know then for certain that he dreamed of the patron of his tribe, the Wind King himself. Now dead, killed by Cowl. He struggled to will himself to follow the two receding figures.

‘You have come far enough, I should think.’

Kyle turned. He faced a woman, an extraordinarily beautiful woman with deep black eyes and long straight black hair wearing a flowing dress that shimmered white and silver. He attempted to throw himself face-down in the dirt before this Goddess but found that he could not. He closed his eyes, face averted. Who was this? Sister Dawn? Queen of the Night? Great Mother Goddess?

The woman laughed and the sound brought shivers to his spine. ‘Come with me, Kyle. It is time that you returned. You are in powerful company, lad, and it is drawing you along with its wanderings. Your dreams are not your own. And I have to say, they are quite perilous.’ She led him off.

After a time he dared ask, ‘Who were they?’

She waved a hand dismissively. ‘Memories. Nothing more than old clinging memories.’

Kyle glanced back to the heap, the ‘house’. He was startled to see yet another figure now standing beside it – this one tall and slim as well, but by his silhouette quite ragged and carrying a longsword at his back. Kyle raised a hand to point but the woman, Goddess, whoever she was at his side, urged him on. ‘Some things,’ she said, ‘are best left unnoticed. Now,’ and she faced him, ‘it is time for you to move along.’

He opened his mouth to speak but found that he could not. He was frozen, immobile. His vision darkened. He heard water, nearing.

‘Lad? Kyle?’

Kyle opened his eyes. Stalker crouched over him, his hazel eyes narrowed. Seeing Kyle awake the scout grunted and moved aside. ‘You were fast asleep. Something's come up.’

‘What?’

In answer the scout gave a disgusted wave to the sea beyond. Kyle pushed himself up. The sky and sea held a formless grey pre-dawn light. Mist enclosed them on all sides. The sail hung limp. They were becalmed. He glanced back to Ereko who sat motionless, a hand still on the tiller, squinting off into the fog. Kyle shifted to the stern, whispered, ‘What is it?’

A shrug from the giant who did not take his eyes from the mist. ‘Something. A presence. But,’ and he gave a lopsided smile, ‘I am not afraid.’

‘We've moved.’ This from Traveller at the bow.

‘Yes. Question is… are we closer, or farther…’ Ereko raised a hand, took a long deep sniff of the air. ‘Land,’ he announced, smiling.

Stalker went to the gunwale, sniffed the air. He looked to the giant. ‘Desert?’

Ereko agreed.

‘I hate deserts,’ said Coots.

‘Lizard gives him god-awful indigestion,’ Badlands explained.

‘Man the oars,’ said Traveller.

The brothers readied the oars. Kyle sat at one, flexing his arm – Ereko had healed it their third night out. ‘I think everything gives you indigestion, Coots.’

Sitting, the brother strained furiously on the oar and let out an enormous fart. He looked surprised. ‘By the Dark Lady, you're right. Even rowing gives me indigestion.’

Stalker cuffed him on the shoulder. ‘Pay attention. I hear breakers.’ The mist dissipated and the wind rose revealing a long flat coast of dunes guarded by a reef. Ereko stood tall and scanned the shore. He nodded to himself, satisfied. ‘North around the coast a space yet,’ and he sat heaving the tiller around to face them away from the waves breaking over the reef. ‘Ready sail.’

Captain Moss's search for the Seti Wildman of the Hills brought him and his troop of thirty horse north to the rugged High Steppes that formed one heartland of Seti territory. On their way they encountered bands of Seti young bloods, soldiers of the Jackal, Plains Lion, Ferret, Wolf and Dog warrior societies, male and female. Some demanded payments in weapons or coin before allowing the troop of Malazan horse to proceed; others challenged Moss to single combat, but when he told them he was on his way to find the Wildman they laughed and said they would leave Moss for him.

The troop entered the Lands of the Jackal, so named for Ryllandaras, the legendary man-beast, brother to Treach who was now ascended as Trake, god of war. The bands they passed no longer continued on southward, but trailed them instead, coalescing into an informal escort of considerable numbers. Moss also noted that many no longer carried fetishes or colours proclaiming their allegiance to one or another clan Assembly.

On the third day smoke ahead announced a large encampment. Moss's slow pace brought him to the very lip of a grassed escarpment that fell steeply to a wide valley dotted by hide tents and corrals. Moss waved away the fat biting horseflies that circled his head, eased forward in his saddle. ‘Near a thousand, I should think,’ he said to his sergeant who nodded. The sergeant, a great wad of rustleaf bunching one cheek, raised his chin to the east where an erosional cut offered a way down. ‘Have to do,’ Moss sighed, and waved his men on.

They crossed a thin stream, an undersized remnant of what once must have been a massive flow. On the opposite shore a crowd was gathered. A raised hand from one Seti elder stopped Moss, who inclined his head in greeting then cocked a knee around the pommel of his saddle, watching. By way of his height advantage, he could see that the crowd surrounded an oval of open ground. At one edge stood a tall muscular Seti youth, his bare chest and legs smeared in paints proclaiming his many victories. His knife-brothers and sisters laughed with him, wiping more paint across his face. One pressed a functional-looking fighting blade into his hand. Moss cast across the oval for the youth's opponent but saw no likely figure. Eventually, straightening from a crouch, an unlikely candidate did appear. An old man, wild-haired with a gnarled grey beard. The Wildman? If so, he was from that much older Seti generation, back when it was unusual to meet any who stood taller than the backs of their mounts.

Moss leant aside to a Seti warrior, asked in Talian, ‘What's going on?’

The woman answered, reluctantly, ‘A challenge.’

‘Who would challenge such an old man?’

She looked up, smiled sharp white teeth. ‘The old man challenged him’

‘Why?’ But the woman didn't answer because the old man had drawn a knife from the back of his deerskin trousers and strode ahead. Waving the blade, he beckoned the tall youth forward. Moss could see him more clearly now; other than his trousers he wore only a thick leather vest revealing a barrel chest matted by silver-grey hair and equally hairy bent arms that seemed to hang unnaturally long. His lips were pulled back from canine-like yellowed teeth in an eager, almost scornful grin. The young blood laughed as he came forward but Moss knew he was in for more than he expected – the old man was fully as wide as he was tall.