‘How can you just leave him here!’

‘He's gone, Kyle. The wind has taken him and he will be of the earth once more. It is what he wished.’

The burning in Kyle's chest flared at those words. ‘And how could you have let this happen! You could have stopped it!’

The swordsman's dark-blue eyes widened in shock, then he lowered them and turned away. ‘We should go,’ he said, his voice thick.

Stalker took Kyle's arm. ‘Don't be angry with the man,’ he mumured. But Kyle pulled his arm free.

‘He might as well have killed Ereko himself!’

‘Kyle – that's not…’ but the scout could say no more. He shook his head and walked away, signalling something to his brothers.

Kyle fell to his knees next to where the giant had lain. He reached out to pass his hands over the sands. Gone. He felt as if his heart had been torn from his chest. He'd sworn never to feel this way again, yet somehow this affected him so much more than that day atop the Spur. Someone so kind and wise – how could this have happened? It was not right. Drops of tears wet the sands. His hands found a leather thong and a stone, the necklace he'd seen on Ereko. The stone had a hole through which the thong ran and was smooth and translucent, like amber. He clenched it in his fist and stood.

Feeling oddly as if he were sleepwalking, he headed back, retracing their steps. Distantly, he was aware of Coots and Badlands keeping an eye on him. Reaching the shore and the Kite pulled up on the strand only pained Kyle further. The Lost brothers worked together with Traveller to ready it. Kyle sat and watched them, the ocean and the steady surf. An old man came walking up the beach from the direction of the village. ‘Greetings,’ he called in Talian.

Kyle looked to Traveller who merely returned to his work. Shrugging, Kyle faced the man. ‘Yes? You speak Talian?’

‘Yes. I'm of Gris. Was shipwrecked here years ago.’ His long, straight, greying hair whipped in the off-shore wind. His beard and moustache were a startling white against his lean, sun-darkened features. He wore the ragged, bleached remains of a shirt, leather vest and trousers. His feet were bare and cracked.

‘And?’

The man's eyes narrowed to slits and he glanced away. ‘Was hoping you'd offer a berth – passage anywhere but here.’

‘I don't think so. We're not really-’

‘I know these waters well. I could guide you through them. Been fishing here for years. Where are you headed?’

Kyle was at a loss. Yes, where were they headed? He looked to Traveller; the man's back was turned as he was stowing the bundles and refilled water casks. ‘Quon Tali,’ the man finally said.

‘Quon! Then please, Lady's Mercy! You must take me.’

Kyle glanced sharply to the man – Lady's Mercy? But no, why read anything into that. No doubt it was a common enough Talian oath. ‘It's not really for me to say…’ he looked again, a little sullenly, to Traveller.

The man was coiling rope. His back to them, he hung his head then raised it as if entreating the sky. ‘It's your decision, Kyle.’

‘Then I suppose so. What's your name?’

‘Jan.’

Kyle made the introductions. The Lost brothers greeted the man but Traveller did not turn around. ‘We should catch the night tide,’ was all he said.

Jan gestured to the village. ‘I'll just get some supplies.’

‘Be quick about it,’ Traveller called after him.

They had the Kite out in the shallows when Jan returned burdened by skins of water, bundles of fruits and pale root tubers. Pushing his way out into the surf he tossed the goods over the side then climbed in. Stalker yielded the tiller. Kyle and the brothers handled the sail. Traveller sat at the bow, arms crossed over his knees. Jan turned them north.

After a time, as the stars came out, Kyle sat against the side and set his chin on the gunwale. He stared back at the dark line on the horizon that was the coast of Jacaruku. His suggestion to come to the Dolmans had been a disaster for them. K'azz dead or gone. Ereko slain. And, Kyle now worried, he may have insulted Traveller beyond forgiveness with his words back at the Dolmans. He saw that now. But he'd been so angry. He'd given no thought to the fact that the man had known Ereko far longer than he. And now Traveller was taking them to Quon – the very destination of the Guard. Perhaps he meant to hand Kyle over to them. It suddenly occurred to him that Traveller might actually blame him for his friend's death; if he hadn't suggested this destination of Jacuruku out of all possible headings then Ereko would still be alive. He glanced to the bow. The man was awake, brooding, it seemed to Kyle. His eyes were glittering in the dark, fixed on the seemingly oblivious Jan at the tiller, whose gaze held just as steady to the north-east horizon.

For Toc the assault began with a burgeoning roar that shook the hooves and flesh of his mount before it struck his gut. To the south, what seemed the entire horizon lit up behind the Outer Round curtain wall as incendiaries flew tall arcs in both directions over the Inner Round walls: inward from Talian catapults and outward from Hengan onagers. Remnants of the Talian legion that had participated in the original assault watched from the pickets alongside the gathered camp followers and support staff of armourers, cooks, drovers, washerwomen, prostitutes and trooper's wives and their children.

Beyond the encampment bands of Seti roved the fitfully lit hillsides, chanting warsongs, waving lances, bellowing their encouragement and cursing the Hengans. Toc longed to be in the thick of things with Choss, though well could he imagine the horror of it: frontal escalades were always high in body counts. Pure naked ferocity versus ferocity.

As the assault dragged on into the night, the constant low roar not abating, up out of the night came the White Jackal shaman, Imotan, and his bodyguard to Toc and his staff. The shaman urged his mount to Toc's side. A simple leather band secured the old man's grey hair and his leathers were mud-spattered. Instead of a lance he carried a short baton tufted in white fur held tight across his chest. The old man's eyes blazed bright, either in excitement or alarm, Toc wasn't sure. ‘What is it?’

‘You must get all your people inside,’ Imotan called.

‘Why? A sortie?’

‘No. Something is coming. For you, something terrible. Yet for us, a prophecy fulfilled.’

Toc stared his confusion. Was the man mad? ‘What do you mean?’

‘Ryllandaras is coming. I feel him. I can almost smell his breath.’

‘Ryllandaras?’ The man must be mad. It was impossible. He'd been imprisoned long ago. ‘No. You must be mistaken.’

Imotan flinched away, glowering. ‘Do not insult me, Malazan.’ He sawed his mount around. ‘Very well. I have done my part. Ignore me and die.’ The White Jackal shaman stormed off into the night surrounded by his bodyguard.

Toc watched him go then straightened up tall in his saddle, peering to the left and right, squinting at the lines. Surely the old man would not have come to him unless he was certain. But still, Ryllandaras, after all this time? And why now?

‘Rider!’ he called.

One of his staff urged his mount alongside. ‘Sir?’

‘Go to Urko's command. Tell them the Seti warn of a dangerous presence out in the night.’

‘Sir.’ The messenger kicked his mount and rode off.

‘Captain Moss?’

‘Sir?’

‘Take a troop and do a circuit of the perimeter. Warn the pickets to be sharp.’

‘Aye, sir.’ The captain saluted and reined his mount away.

There. But had he done all he could? Should he warn Choss? No, the man had more than enough to handle, electing to direct the assault from the front. He would wait to see if anything came of this – on the face of it – utterly outrageous claim.