They have no mages. Stop this! Someone must put an end to this!

‘It's begun,’ a coarse, gravelly voice announced beside him. Possum leapt, spinning: an old bearded man in dirty robes hugging a chipped brown earthenware jug.

‘Who are you?’

‘Heuk. Cadre Mage. Sixth squad, Second Company, Fourth Division, Fourth Army.’

‘What's begun?’

Our duel.’

Possum eyed the man up and down as if he were mad. ‘Your duel? There are at least twelve Avowed mages out there.’

‘Less than that. The boys got maybe three. In any case,’ and his eyes looked directly into Possum's, ‘that's not your concern, is it?’

Possum could not help but back up a step: that smell, blood? The man's eyes – midnight black upon black? And at his mouth – blood? ‘Who are you?’ he breathed.

The fellow gestured to the south. ‘Look. They've broken.’

Indeed. The Gold phalanx was disintegrating under the pressure of the widening ravenous cyclone. Knots of soldiers fled in all directions.

The man's smile twisted, revealing black, crooked teeth. ‘We're next.’ His glance returned to Possum. ‘Who am I? Your recruiters named me a mage, but I am no mage. And now,’ he hiked up his jug, ‘you'd best fly away, little death crow. Keep to your games in the shallows of shadow. As for myself – I plumb the infinite depths of Night Eternal!’

Possum continued backing away. ‘No – that Warren is beyond us.’

‘Fool! As I said, I am no mage. I am a mere worshipper of Night. And as the old saying goes, my blood is up. Now flee, because I am about to call upon my God for he has returned and the time is long overdue for a demonstration of his gathering presence upon this world.’

While Possum watched, revolted, the man upended the jug over his head. Thick fluid – clotted blood, he imagined – ran down over the man's hair, face and shoulders. Possum turned away, his gorge rising. Madness! Utter insanity. And the night had barely begun! At the base of the shallow rise he stopped short as cocked crossbows in the hands of tens of soldiers kneeling and lying in the grass jerked to train themselves upon him. He froze.

‘Lower your Warren,’ someone shouted. ‘Or die.’

Possum complied. They see him. How could they see him?

‘Ach!’ someone snorted. ‘It's only a fucking Claw.’ The crossbows all swung away.

Feeling rather piqued, Possum sought out the owner of that voice. He found the man – a sergeant – in a trench arguing with a Moranth Gold who towered above. ‘I don't give a rat's ass,’ the sergeant was saying. ‘Your orders are to stay, so you stay!’

’Our brothers need us,’ the Moranth rumbled. They are sorely pressed.’

‘They've broken,’ Possum said. Both looked over, annoyed, it seemed to him, by his interruption. The sergeant made a tossing away gesture. ‘There you go.’

‘You could have them rally to this position,’ Possum suggested.

The Moranth swung his helm down to peer to the sergeant who glared at Possum then waved the Moranth away. ‘Fine!’ And he muttered under his breath, ‘Might as well paint fucking bull's-eyes on our heads.’

‘Too late for that, Sergeant…?’

‘Nai-’ The man took a deep breath. ‘Jumpy. Sergeant Jumpy.’

Ah! Of course, the man crazy enough to go out into the night to try to stalk Ryllandaras. Who else would it be? ‘You already have the Guard's attention. I can guarantee you that. You have a lunatic mage, or priest, above your heads with delusions of omnipotence. And with the Moranth broken, yours and the centre are the last remaining Imperial strong-points in the field.’

The man was scanning the dark field before the trench where mixed Moranth and Malazan regulars held lines defending coalesced skirmishers against probing Guard infantry. ‘Then I guess you best run away,’ he said, offhanded.

Possum's mouth clamped shut; his hands twitched to fill themselves. ‘Do not presume to be beyond the reach of the Empress,’ he ground out.

‘Don't you presume yourself safe.’ And he pointed down the trench. Possum glanced aside: four saboteurs held crossbows trained upon him, each set with a sharper. ‘We're in the trench and you ain't,’ the sergeant observed laconically.

Possum straightened, carefully adjusted his dark-blue tunic. ‘Continue defending this position, Sergeant,’ and he stepped over the trench, raising his Warren to pass through the lines of assembling Imperials. The sergeant called after him, ‘No kidding! Like I was going to go for a blasted swim or something.’

Impertinent shit. Possum calmed himself with the certainty that – even with the deluded priest's claims – they would all be dead by the dawn. He just hoped they would savage the Guard brutally enough for the Claws to then at their leisure pick off the remaining exhausted and drained Avowed.

Her Blades found the west flank in a shambles. Shimmer sent her lieutenants ahead to organize what scattered forces remained. All that stopped a solid Imperial advance was the lack of support from the rest of the field – the Guard centre still held and the appalling display of battle magics on the east was a pause for every ordinary soldier.

Shimmer advanced with Greymane, Shell and Smoky, gathering to her a growing following of Avowed, most of which she sent ahead to help firm resistance. The closer they got to the front, or scattered sections of the front, the thicker became the punishing flights of crossbow bolts. Every Avowed, and many regular Guardsmen and women, had picked up a Malazan heavy infantryman's solid rectangular shield, which they hunched behind like moveable walls. Shimmer had to occasionally sweep away the bolts hammered into hers in order to keep it usable.

An Avowed, Daneth, waved her over to a pile of fallen Guardsmen. ‘Look at this.’ On her knees, she raised a corpse to rest its head on her lap. Despite the man's mangled features Shimmer recognized him as an Avowed, Longlegs. The body displayed a number of wounds, as one would expect, but what was surprising was that fatal head wound: it was singular. Someone, or something, had struck him a blow on the face shattering his nose and jaw, driving the fragmented bones back into his brain, killing him instantly. ‘A club or mace?’ Shimmer opined.

‘The heel of an open hand,’ Daneth said, her flat tone matching her set grim face.

‘What? Who could possibly…’

‘Urko!’ Smoky gasped as if the name itself were a curse. ‘He's here.’

Urko – the man who needs no weapons. No wonder the west was in such disarray; no unit could hold against him. She glanced around, caught the gaze of nearby Avowed. ‘Halfdan, Bower, Lucky! Find him and kill him.’

They three inclined their heads in concurrence, jogged off.

‘They won't find him,’ Smoky said aside.

‘No? Why not?’

‘He's probably standing in line like any other heavy infantryman. He's already hiding from the Veils. He could be any of them.’

‘Lucky is no fool. He'll wait and watch.’

A shrug. ‘I hope so.’ He motioned to Shell. ‘In any case, Shell and I have done a few head-counts and we think we have some thirty of our brothers and sisters.’

‘And Skinner?’

‘Slightly more.’

‘I see. So, we remain split in our sympathies.’ Again, doubt stabbed at her, squeezing her breath and churning her stomach almost to the point of retching. What if she'd been dreaming? Hearing voices? It was Shadow after all. She turned on Greymane, snapping angrily, ‘What of you? Are you a match for a man who breaks armour with his bare hands?’

Nearby eruptions from a wave of tossed munitions shot dust and dirt over everyone. Greymane hefted his scavenged shield, shook dirt from his shoulders. ‘I've never met him,’ he shouted. ‘But from what I've heard – no.’