And just two on this side! Two of how many all around the refuge? Four? Five? Had all the soldiers assembled here just to pile the hill in dead? Something tickled his hand – a black snake. He flinched away, his hand passing through the snake. What?

It was no snake; its length ran all the way up the hill and it was weaving down through the grass. Others followed, slithering down around him, making for the Dal Hon mage. Nait pushed himself to his feet, wiped his mouth. ‘Saboteurs!’ he bellowed louder than he had ever before. ‘Ready munitions!’

Weak calls answered him up and down the line. He readied one of his few remaining sharpers. The Dal Hon mage slammed her hands together before her, fist to palm, and a bell-like reverberation sounded, tearing Nait's hearing from him. The ground moved beneath his feet like the sea. Malazan and Gold heavies buckled as waves seemed to pass through them shattering armour, bursting chests. Lines of soldiery heaved backwards as if rammed. Nait threw himself down into the loose soil of the collapsed trench. It felt as if a sledgehammer struck every inch of his body: his feet, his shins, his knees, thighs, hips, stomach, chest and head. Something punched him down into the yielding earth. Not only did he have his breath hammered from him, he lost the ability to inhale. Dazed, punch-drunk, he flailed in a blind panic, dug himself up to stand, tottering. Fucking bitch! Where was she! He'll ram this beauty up her – there she was! The glowing bitch!

Something warm was soaking his neck and shirt front. He pressed a gauntleted hand to his neck and it slipped up his slick chin and over his mouth and nose to come away clotted with blood and dirt. He eyed the bloodied leather in horror, then fixed his eyes on the mage.

‘Throw!’ he roared, his eyes tearing, blood flowing from his nose and mouth, dripping from his chin. ‘Throw, throw, throw!’ He heaved the sharper, the effort unbalancing him and he fell to lie groaning at the pain.

The peppering burst of munitions brought a smile to his face. Got the bitch! Must've! It seemed to him that a shriek followed the eruptions, but not one of pain, a cry of soul-rending surprise and utter terror.

After a time soldiers lifted him up; he recognized Jawl, Kibb and Brill. ‘What happened?’ he croaked and spat out a mouthful of blood and catarrh.

‘Drove ’em off,’ said Jawl.

‘Blew ’em up?’

‘Naw. Was the dark. Looked like it actually tried to eat them. They jumped like Hood himself had snuck up and goosed them with his bony finger. They ran.’

Maybe not his bony finger, Jawl. ‘Get me up.’

Brill and Kibb raised him to his feet. ‘What happened to you, Sarge?’ Kibb said. ‘You look like someone beat you all over with boards.’

Tell May to load the lobber – toss all we got at the Guard column, break ’em.’

‘Lobber got broke, Sarge,’ Brill said sadly.

Oh, for the sake of Fener! ‘Then get them firing – fire! Now!’ He pushed both away.

‘OK, sheesh!’ said Kibb. He asked Brill as they went: ‘Is he always like this after a fight?’

Nait staggered up the hill. The dark and cold was the same. The smeared blood, sweat and grime began to solidify on his armour. ‘Heuk!’ Silence. He pulled a small skin of water from his belt, found it had burst, threw it aside. ‘Heuk!’ After just two paces more he suddenly burst in upon two figures near the flat crest, one lying curled as if dead or asleep, the other standing over him. It was the standing figure that captured Nait's attention. He'd never seen a Tiste Andii, but had heard them described often enough. This one resembled such: tall, black as night, almond eyes, long straight shimmering black hair. The calm, almost contemplative expression that Nait had seen upon Heuk rested now in this man's features. He wore a coat of the finest mail that descended all the way to his ankles, shimmering like night itself. And it seemed to Nait that the figure was not entirely there; he could see through it. Something hung at its side. Nait almost looked there but pulled his gaze away in time: a void hung there yammering terror at him. It seemed to suck in the night. The figure inclined his head to him.

‘Keep them here, soldier,’ he said. ‘Keep them close. Worse is to come. Much worse.’

Worse! What could possibly- But the figure walked off, hands clasped at his back, disappearing into the dark. Shit! He knelt at the curled man and found it was Heuk, apparently asleep, but deeply so, unresponsive and shivering badly. He grabbed him by his collar and dragged him down the slope. Worse? Worse than this? Damned unlikely unless Hood himself hiked up his rags and elected to shit on them.

Hurl was surprised by the lack of outriders and pickets north of the Imperial encampment. They rode slowly, ready for any challenge, a call to halt. But none came. The night was cool. Their horses’ breath steamed the air. Hurl caught her sergeant's eye and raised a brow in a question. The man shifted in his saddle, glowering, evidently even more uncomfortable with the situation than she. He directed her attention to a torch lying nearly extinguished. They rode over. Before reaching it their mounts shied away from dark shapes lying splayed in the tall grass. Banath dismounted, studied them. He remounted looking far more pale. Hurl cocked another question and he gave a sickly nod.

So, found him. But the rear elements? Soliel, no – that would be camp followers, noncombatants, families, craftsmen and women, and even… no, please not that. She urged her mount on with a kick. The troop picked up its pace.

They found the camp a shambles. Wrecked wagons, torn tents, scattered equipment, and everywhere mangled dismembered bodies. Survivors wandered, blank-faced, turned to watch them pass without even challenging their presence. Banath slowed his mount. ‘Shouldn't we…’

‘No, not yet. The trail goes on, yes, Liss?’ Riding behind Hurl, the mage gave a tight bob of her head, her lank hair swinging. ‘It goes on. And… I'm afraid I know where he's headed.’

Banath could only eye her, puzzled, but he acquiesced.

To the south the green and yellow glow of battle-magics was plain. A muted roar reached them, punctuated by the eruption of munitions. Hurl felt someone close and turned to see that Rell had moved his mount up to her left. She felt infinitely better with him at her side. A field of tents and blankets spread on the ground lay ahead and Hurl made for it. Closer, fires could be seen burning among them and many tents hung twisted and canted, some torn in strips. Banath, at Hurl's rear, groaned as realization clenched him. ‘No. Oh, no.’

‘I'm sorry,’ Hurl murmured. But she was far more than sorry. What lay ahead, no matter how horrific, was all her fault, her curse. I killed these men and women.

Finally, as they almost reached the field hospital, a soldier stood before them and raised a hand. A company cutter by his shoulder-bags. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, dazed.

‘Detachment from Heng,’ Hurl answered. ‘We ride under the sceptre.’

‘Heng? Heng!’ He gaped up at them. Hurl saw that gore stained his uniform, his hands; none seemed to be his. A chuckle escaped the man. It grew into a deep gut-heaving laugh that he made no effort to suppress. ‘Well,’ he said, tears now mixed with his laughter, ‘you are just too Burn-damned late, aren't you?’

‘I'm sorry…’

‘Sorry! You're sorry!’ The officer took hold of Hurl's leg, smearing blood on her trousers and boot. ‘All our wounded. Hundreds of men and women. Wounded. Helpless. Unarmed…’

Something like jagged iron thrust at Hurl's chest. She took a shuddering breath. ‘I could not possibly tell you how-’