The three gave Silk their mix-matched unnerving grins. The avid glitter of their eyes made Hurl's skin shiver. They struck her as unhinged.

‘In any case, Silk knows how to get to him,’ Storo said.

Hurl looked from face to face. Gods no. Ryllandaras. The eater-of-men. Heng's Curse. A God, some said. She shook her head, appalled by the vision of centuries of slaughter. ‘No, Captain. Don't do it. They'll curse your name for a hundred years.’

‘There!’ Liss pointed again. ‘That from the most level head among you.’

Storo kicked at the polished black flagging. ‘Rell?’

The Genabackan did not answer immediately. He kept his head low. ‘Do not ask me strategy,’ he finally said.

Waving that aside, Storo took hold of one of the man's sheathed weapons and shook it. ‘Think tactically.’

A shrug. ‘In that case there is nothing to discuss. We are engaged in a duel. We have an opportunity to wound the enemy. We must take it.’

‘That's good enough for me.’ Storo motioned Silk to the exit.

‘Wait!’ Liss raised a commanding hand. ‘There is more going on here than just this. I must speak now as Seeress. Have you forgotten that Ryllandaras is said to be brother to Trake? Of the First Heroes? Trake ascends as god of war and now war comes to Heng and his brother is released? Is this coincidence? Just who do we serve here – have you considered any of this?’

Broad, feral smiles had been spreading on the crippled lips of the three Ahls for some time now. The madness that seemed to sparkle in their eyes kept dislodging Hurl's thoughts. Looking away, she offered, ‘It would serve Trake, I imagine.’

Or weaken him? Might he challenge his brother? Are we releasing a rival claimant to the Godhead? And what sort of god? You forget, Ryllandaras is the enemy of humanity.’

‘He's…’

‘… no…’

‘… god.’

‘You fool!’ Liss stamped a sandalled foot, cracking a marble flag in an explosion that echoed like the eruption of a Moranth munition and rocked Hurl where she stood. In the stunned silence following, all recovered from their flinch and stared at the fat woman in her tattered layered skirts and stained muslin wrap. ‘The Seti have worshipped him for ten thousand years!’

Storo rubbed a hand over his balding pate, glanced to the others. ‘Well. They'll be spared the brunt of his savagery. He'll fall on the Talian forces. Just what we want.’

‘You remain determined?’

‘Yes.’

Liss tightened her wrap, shaking her head. ‘Do not expect my help.’

‘Very well. I'm sorry.’ Storo motioned to the exit. Coming aside Hurl, he said, ‘They can curse my name, Hurl, so long as they die doing it.’

The ancestral castle of the D'Avig family of Unta was burning at night. Flames gouted from windows and painted the keep in writhing shadows. The town of the same name it overlooked echoed with screams and the harsh clap of hooves as Wickan raiders looted and burned. But no slaughter, Rillish told himself. Please, Lady, little of that. Nil and Nether had been stern in their warnings – take all you want but no killing. Not that some would not die this night. Rillish had witnessed enough sackings to know it inevitable, as hot blood demanded it. Still, the twins’ warning ought to carry weight – they'd threatened the most ignoble punishment imaginable to any Wickan – death by drowning.

With his Malazan command Rillish had been assigned the barricading of a crossroads on the main road south out of D'Avig. They found it to be the centre of a small hamlet. A wayside inn, a corral and a carpenter's workshop lined the crossroads. Rillish promptly had the men toss everything big and moveable across the road. Watching the glow of the sacked castle, he took the waterskin from his side and drank, easing back on the high cantle of his saddle. His leg throbbed; the wild ride through the hills and down in the rich Untan farmlands had re-torn the freshly healed muscle. He sought out and caught his sergeant's eye. ‘No one gets past, Chord.’

‘No chance, sir. There's Wickans crawling all over the hillsides. Like the old days it is, so I understand.’

Yes. The old border warfare all along the Wickan frontier. How appropriate; the central authority collapses and it's a quick return to the tried and true old ways of doing things. No one's learned a thing. Cocking his head, he listened: distant panicked cries only, no clash of sustained resistance. From where he sat it looked as if D'Avig had well and truly been overrun. Surprise had been complete. His job was to keep it so. ‘Sergeant.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Gather the freshest horses and send a squad all the way south to the fortress at Jurda. I want eyes on that stronghold.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Chord spat out a wad of rustleaf, bellowed, ‘Talia! Get your squad provisioned and ready to move!’

Rillish shot a glance to the rear. Talia – newly promoted squad sergeant and his lover – signed her acknowledgement to Chord and flashed a bright mocking smile to Rillish. The lieutenant spun to stiffly face the front. Were those grins he'd caught on the faces of his soldiers? Damn Togg, woman, show some discretion. He ached to glance back once more but dared not now. The most dangerous assignment he'd be asking of his command and she pulls it. What if he was to countermand Chord's selection? He'd just undermine the man's authority – never mind what he'd be doing to his own. No, he would just have to trust his senior sergeant's judgment in the matter. And wish her Oponn's favour.

‘Cavalry, sir!’ came a shout. ‘And it ain't Wickan!’

‘Form up!’ Chord barked.

The double ranks of regulars levelled the spears they'd collected to assemble the traditional hedgehog. Rillish glanced to the second-storey windows of the inn and the lofts of the stable and woodworking shop opposite, and eased his swords in their scabbards. Soon the crash of horses at full gallop reached them and the horsemen – perhaps twenty – reined up before the barricade of upturned carts. Untan white and red surcoats declared their allegiance. Among their milling numbers one pointed, ordering, ‘Remove the barrier, fools! Are you blind! We're no Wickans!’

‘Then who are you?’ Rillish called.

‘Who? Who!’ the man yelled, outraged, his face darkened above his full grey and black beard. ‘Dol D'Avig, you fool!’

Rillish felt his insides twist sickeningly. Curse Fener, it was the man. He recognized him now, brother to the count. They had met once or twice at functions in the capital. Rillish tightened his stomach muscles and clenched his jaw against a vertigo as it came home that now was the time he would cut his own past from himself as surely as if he had lost a limb. Either with this man or another, sooner or later – it was just a shock for it to have come so soon. ‘Then I ask you, Dol, for the sake of your men, to throw down your weapons and surrender.’

The brother to the count yanked the reins of his mount, shearing the beast's head aside. ‘What! Surrender?’ His thick brows clenched as he studied more closely the forces arrayed before him. ‘You wear Imperial colours – where in Hood's Arse did you come from?’

Not there, I assure you. ‘Never mind. I ask you again – throw down your weapons.’

Teeth shone white in a savage, knowing smile. And something surfaced in Rillish's mind, a memory of chatter during those dreary social gatherings at the capital: ‘Dol D'Avig – a better mage than his brother is count.’ Queen take it! He drew breath to shout but at the same instant Dol waved curtly and Rillish's throat constricted shut. All around him spears and swords clattered to the cobbles as his men gasped, choking, tearing at their throats.

The same overwhelming need for breath flamed in Rillish's chest and it was all he could do to draw a sword and hold it high. The shutters of the inn's second-storey windows banged open and in the loft doors opposite crossbowmen rose to their knees. Bolts raked the Untan cavalry. Get him! Gods, please! His sight was darkening, the sword fell from his grip.