‘Yes? Are you going to help me up, or not?’ The gruelling demands of their escape had worsened Rillish's leg wound. Yesterday soldiers took turns carrying him. His dressings stank and were stained yellow-green.

‘No,’ said the eldest, their guide, a girl who might just be into puberty.

‘No?’ Rillish gave a thoughtful frown. Then you're planning to put me out of my misery they way you do your wounded.’

The girl's disdain was total. ‘A townsman lie. We do no such thing.’

‘No,’ Rillish echoed. It occurred to him that he was now being studied by what passed for the ruling council of the band of youths he'd rescued – the five eldest. ‘May I ask your name?’

‘Mane,’ said the girl. A sheathed, antler-handled long-knife stood tall from the rope of woven horsehair that served as the belt holding the girl's rags together – all of which amounted to nothing more than a frayed blanket pulled over her head. The blade would have been laughable had the girl's face not carried the tempered edge to match it. It also occurred to Rillish that he knew that blade.

Then may I ask the purpose of this council meeting?’

‘This is not one of your townsman council meetings, the girl sneered. This is a command meeting. I command.’

‘You command? No, I think I-’

‘Think as you like. Here on the plains if you wish to live you'll do as I say…’

‘Mane, I command the soldiers who guard you and who rescued you and your-’

‘Rescued us?’ the girl barked. ‘No, Malazan. From where I stand we rescued you…’

It occurred to Rillish that he was arguing with a ten-year-old girl; and that the girl was right. He glanced up to study the shading branches of their copse of trees. ‘Very well. So, I will do you the courtesy of assuming all this is leading somewhere…’

‘Good. He said you would.’

‘Who?’

A grimace of self-castigation. ‘Never mind. The point is that we've decided you will ride in a travois from now on.’

‘A travois. How kind of you.’

‘It's not kindness. You're slowing us down.’

I see. The party already burdened by one – a young boy, no more than a toddler, wrapped in blankets and doted on by the children. ‘I'll get my men-’

‘Your men will not pull it. They are needed to fight. Three of our strongest boys will pull it.’

‘Now wait a minute-’

Mane waved him silent. ‘It has been decided.’ She and the four youths abruptly walked off.

Well. He'd just been dismissed by a gang of brats. ‘Sergeant Chord!’

A touch at his shoulder woke him to a golden afternoon light. Sergeant Chord was there jog-trotting beside the travois. The tall grass shushed as it parted to either side and Rillish had the dislocating impression of being drawn through shallow water. ‘Lieutenant, sir?’

‘Yes, Sergeant?’

‘Trouble ahead, sir. Small band of armed settlers. The scouts say we have to take them. Strong chance they'll spot us.’

For some reason Rillish found it difficult to speak. ‘Scouts, Sergeant?’

A blush. ‘Ah, the lads and lasses, sir.’

Their movement slowed, halted. Sergeant Chord crouched low. Rillish squinted at him, trying to focus; there was something wrong with his vision. ‘Very well, Sergeant. Surround the party, a volley, then move in. None must escape.’

‘Yes, sir. That's just what she ordered as well.’

‘She, Sergeant?’

Another blush. ‘Mane, sir.’

‘Isn't that your knife at her belt?’

‘It is, sir.’

‘Doesn't that have some kind of significance here among the Wickans?’

His sergeant was looking away, distracted. ‘Ah, yes, it does, sir. Didn't know at the time. Have to go now, sir.’

‘Very well, Sergeant,’ but the man was already gone. He felt a vague sort of annoyance but already wasn't certain why. Behind him, the other travois sat disguised in the tall grass, its band of carriers kneeling all around it, anxious. Rillish had the distinct impression the older youths, boys and girls, were guarding the travois. While he watched, youths appeared as if by magic from the grass, talked with the toddler on the travois, then sped away. It appeared as if they were relaying information and receiving orders from the child. He chuckled at the image. The hand of one of his youthful carriers rocked his shoulder. ‘Quiet, Malazan,’ the boy said.

Quiet! How dare he! Rillish struggled to sit up; he would show him the proper use of respect. A lance of lightning shot up his leg. The pain blackened his vision to tunnels, roared in his ears like a landslide, and he felt nothing more.

‘Lieutenant, sir? Lieutenant!’

Someone was calling him. He was on board a troop transport north-east of Fist in a rainstorm. Giant swells rocked the awkward tub. He felt like a flea holding on to a rabid dog. The captain was yelling, pointing starboard. Out of the dark sped a long Mare war-galley, black-hulled, riding down upon them like Hood's own wrath. Its ram shot a curl of spray taller than the sleek galley's own freeboard.

‘Hard starboard!’ the captain roared.

Rillish scanned the deck jammed full of standing Malazan regulars – reinforcements on the way to the stranded 6th. He spotted a sergeant bellowing at his men to form ranks. ‘Ready crossbows!’ he shouted down.

‘Aye, sir!’ the sergeant called.

Before he could turn back, the Mare war-galley struck. The stern-castle deck punched up to smack the breath from him. Men screamed, wood tore with a crunching slow grinding. A split mast struck the deck.

Entangled beneath fallen rigging, Rillish simply bellowed, ‘Fire! Fire at will!’

‘Aye, sir!’ came the answering yell. Rillish imagined the punishment of rank after rank of Malazan crossbowmen firing down into the low open galley. He hacked his way free, one eye blinded by blood streaming from a head cut. ‘Where's the cadre mage, damn her!’

‘Dead, sir,’ someone called from the dark.

The deck canted to larboard as a swell lifted the two vessels. With an anguished grinding of wood they parted. The ram emerged, gashed and raining pulverized timbers. The war-galley back-oared. Hood take this Mare blockade! The only allies of the Korelri worth a damn. He wondered if one out of any five Malazan ships made it through. The vessel disappeared into the dark, satisfied it had accomplished its mission; Rillish was inclined to agree. The transport refused to right itself, riding the swells and troughs like a dead thing. He picked his way through the ruins of the stern-castle, found the sergeant. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

The sergeant grimaced, spat. ‘I'm thinking the water's damned cold.’

‘I agree. Have the men drop their gear. We'll have to swim for shore or hope another of the convoy is nearby.’

A'ye aye, sir.’

‘Lieutenant? Sir?’

Rillish opened his eyes. It was night. The stars were out, but they were behaving oddly, they had tails that swept behind them whenever he looked about. Sergeant Chord was peering down at him. He felt hot, slick with sweat. He tried to speak but couldn't part his lips.

‘You've taken a fever, sir. Infection.’

Rillish tore his lips apart. ‘I was thinking of the day we met, Chord.’

‘That so, sir? A bad day, that one. Lost a lot of good men and women.’

A young Wickan boy appeared alongside Chord. Mane was there as well. ‘This lad,’ Chord said, ‘is a Talent – touched with Denul, so Mane says. He's gonna have a look.’ The boy ducked his head shyly.

Just a child! ‘No.’

‘No, sir?’

‘No. Too young. No training. Dangerous.’

Chord and Mane exchanged looks; Chord gave a told-you-so shrug.

‘It's been ordered,’ Mane said.

‘Who?’

Mane glanced to the other travois, bit her lip. ‘Ordered. That's all. We're going ahead.’

‘No, I-’

Chord took hold of him. Other hands grasped his shoulders, arms and legs. Folded leather was forced into his mouth. Rillish strained, fighting, panted and yelled through the bit. The youth touched his leg and closed his eyes. Darkness took him.