Ullen watched the man disappear from sight. ‘Yes… I shall.’

Yet incredibly, unbelievably, shapes now stirred among the trampled and punished ground. Here and there Guardsmen stood, weaving, shaking themselves, straightening. The sight chilled Ullen's flesh and he stared, utterly appalled. Great Gods! Will nothing stop these Avowed? They are relentless. Like the Imass.

Greymane turned to him, wry humour in his eyes. ‘As you said, Ullen. They're too many. But the odds have levelled somewhat, I think. Now is my chance.’ Before Ullen could object the man ran down to the churned slope. If Ullen had had a helmet he'd have thrown it to the ground in frustration. ‘Dammit!’ He turned to his guard. ‘We have to follow him. We can't let him go alone.’

His guards, a mixed body of seven Malazan and Talian infantry, eyed one another, clearly unsure. ‘Our orders…’ one began.

‘Your orders are to follow me,’ Ullen said. Clenching his jaws, this one bowed his curt concurrence. Ullen turned to Moss, who nodded then lifted his chin to the field. ‘And we're not alone…’

Ranks of Imperial infantry were advancing from all around, small units pulling together from every direction. ‘Come!’ Supported by Moss, Ullen limped after Greymane.

The field was a charnel-house of trampled broken bodies. Stunned survivors staggered, blood-bespattered, ignoring them as they passed. All fighting, as far as Ullen could tell, seemed to have been snuffed by this cataclysmic charge. Sadly, a number of his own infantry seemed to have been caught in the charge as well. Ahead through the night, however, two swords clashed, ringing in the silence following the prolonged detonation of that charge. Ullen searched the dusty night for the combat. The grunts, blows and ringing of iron drew them on. They came to the wreckage of a train of Imperial supply wagons. Ullen glimpsed the duel as a blow from one threw the other backwards into a burning wagon, knocking it sideways, its wheels gouging the dirt. Greymane. The man was battered, helm gone, face a mass of blood. Bands of iron armour had been hacked away leaving hanging leather strapping. Skinner loomed forward into the light. A ponderous two-handed downward swing from him was dodged by the renegade to crash into the wagon's siding and bed, breaking it in two in a terrific explosion that sent up clouds of obscuring smoke and ash. Greymane answered but his blade skittered from the Avowed's unearthly glittering armour. They clashed again, grunting their effort in blows that would fell trees. A swiping riposte was met by Greymane's slimmer blade which burst like a sharper, shattering beneath the strain. But instead of flinching away the ex-Fist closed, grappling, and the two struggled from view. Ullen dodged through overturned wagons, butchered horses and burning spilt materiel in a frantic effort to catch sight of them again. Moss and the guards ran with him.

This was lunacy! Here he was with a broken right arm and a probable fractured skull searching for a nightmare out of the old wars of continental subjugation – and the worst of those! A champion that, should Greymane fail, could not be matched by anyone alive today; what could he possibly do? Ullen honestly did not know.

He glimpsed them, wrestling, crashing into wagons, rolling amid the wreckage, trading blows that echoed through the night. Greymane arose bent behind Skinner, a grip up under his chin, straining, his face writhing with effort. Yet, incredibly, the Avowed commander straightened beneath him, raising the man clear off the ground to heave him, armour and all, off into the night. A crash and clattering of iron from stones revealed a gully or slope nearby.

Skinner adjusted his long mail shirt, rolled one shoulder, grunting. He bent to pick up his helm and drew it on again to walk off towards the field. Ullen was torn – dare he challenge him? But what of Greymane? The man was wounded. His guards had already scampered down to find the renegade. That settled the matter for Ullen and he followed.

It was a shallow, rocky gully. They found Greymane lying amid stones at its bottom. The man was conscious, but barely so. Together all of them strained to drag him up the side. They laid him on the ground. His eyes – one carmine with blood from broken vessels – found Ullen's face and he snorted, shaking his head. ‘Cheating bastard. His blade's poison. Bastard poisoned me! Got me all riled up, he has. Lucky bastard. I almost used the sword on him – but not here… too close to the sanctuary it is. Who knows what might've happened?’

Ullen ignored the man's ramblings. His sword? What was the man on about? ‘Relax – we'll bring a healer.’ Ullen motioned one of his guards away. The man saluted and ran.

Ullen caught Captain Moss's eye, tilted his head after Skinner. The officer held his gaze for a long time, his own eyes dark and flat, his mouth held expressionless. A hand rose to rub at the scabbed gashes crossing his face and he nodded his assent. Ullen straightened from Greymane. He pointed to another of his remaining guards. ‘Stay with this man. The rest of you – follow me.’ He jogged after the Avowed commander, left hand hot and sweaty on the grip of his sword. Left! His bloody left hand!

*

Conversation guided him through the detritus of burning equipment and scattered corpses. He caught sight of two men confronting Skinner. They were speaking with him, their words lost amid crackling flames and the shrill shrieks of a wounded horse. The two burly soldiers looked familiar yet he couldn't quite place them. Across the way figures emerged from the gloom, five Crimson Guardsmen, all Avowed, no doubt. They drew blades and began edging out to surround the two.

Ullen started forward but stopped as another man stepped directly in his path – where on earth had he come from?. Moss lunged forward, sabres raised, but the fellow held up empty hands. He was an ironwood-hued Dal Hon, scarred, in a fine mail shirt. His long kinked hair was pulled back tied in a leather strip and he regarded Ullen as if he knew him. And the man did look… but no, that cannot be… he was dead!

The ghost rested a hand on Ullen's shoulder. ‘You've done more than enough, Ullen,’ he said in that voice that sent chills down Ullen's spine. ‘The field is yours. My congratulations. Choss, I'm sure, would have been proud. Now leave this to us.’ Then the man's closed features softened with affection and he motioned to the gathering duel: ‘Those two, I swear they did this deliberately. Knew I couldn't let them face him alone.’ And he jogged off. The encircling Avowed flinched from his approach and he slipped within, to the side of the two facing Skinner.

No – it cannot be. How could it be him? Was it no more than a ghost from his past?

The three formed a triangle while the Avowed completed their encirclement. The newcomer faced Skinner who pointed a gauntleted hand, saying something lost in the roar of the burning wreckage. The newcomer didn't deign to answer. He drew his sword, a dark slim length. At a signal from Skinner all lunged in upon the three at once.

Ullen was stunned by what he witnessed, blades flashing in the firelight too fast for him to comprehend. Of the three defenders, one hunkered behind a square heavy infantryman's shield, calmly sliding blows that would batter walls only to jab, forcing back any of the Avowed who edged too close; the other, a burly Seti, fought with two sturdy long-knives each bearing bronze knuckle guards, parrying and delivering awful blows, lashing out to rock one Avowed with a swipe to the head. Ullen winced, thinking of his own wound.

But it was the duel between the Dal Hon and Skinner that took his breath. The man's smooth, economical grace was beautiful: tremendous swings from Skinner brushed aside with the seeming lightest of touches to be followed by lightning ripostes. It must be him! But how? In answer to a prayer?