He awoke alone in a grass-bordered clearing under the stars exactly like the one he'd last seen. In fact, so similar was it all that Rillish suspected that perhaps Chord and the others had simply decided it most expedient to abandon him. He found he could raise his head. He saw the youth sitting cross-legged opposite a dead campfire, head bowed. ‘Hello?’

‘Don't bother yourself, outlander,’ growled a low voice from the grasses. ‘He won't answer.’

Rillish scanned the wall of rippling brown blades. ‘Who's there?’

Harsh laughter all around. ‘Not for you, outlander. You shouldn't wander lost, you know. Even here.’

He felt at his sides for a blade, found none. Harsh panted laughter again. ‘What's going on?’

‘We're deciding…’

Shapes swept past the wall of grass – long and lithe. ‘Deciding… what?’

‘How to kill you.’

The shapes froze; all hints of movement stopped. Even the air seemed to still. Something shook the ground of the clearing, huge and rippling slow. Rillish was reminded of the times he'd felt the ground shake. Burn's Pain, some called it.

‘Enough…’

The shapes fled.

A presence entered the clearing – at least that was all Rillish's senses could discern. He could not directly see it; his eyes seemed incapable of processing what they saw. A moving blind spot was all he could make out. The rich scent of fresh-turned earth enveloped him, warm and moist. He was reminded of his youth helping the labourers on his family orchards. The presence went to the boy, seemed to envelop him.

‘Such innocence’ The aching desolation within the voice wrenched Rillish, brought tears to his eyes. ‘Must it be punished?’ The entity turned its attention upon him and Rillish found he had to look away. He could not face this thing; it was too much.

‘Rillish Jal Keth,’ the thing spoke, and the profound weight of a grief behind the voice was heartbreaking. ‘In these young times my ways are named old and harsh, I know. But even yet they hold efficacy. Guidance was requested and guidance shall be given. My children needs must now take a step into that other world from which you come. I ask that you help guide that step.’

‘You… askr

‘Subservience and obedience can be coerced. Understanding and acceptance cannot.’

Rillish struggled to find his voice. ‘I understand – that is, I don't understand. I-’

‘It is not expected that you do so. All that is expected is that you strive to do so.’

‘But how will I know-’

The presence withdrew. ‘Enough…’

Rillish awoke to a slanting late afternoon light. The female soldier who had helped him escape the fort was holding a cool wet cloth to his face as she walked along beside the travois. He gave her a smile that she returned, then she jogged off. Wait, he tried to call, what's your name? Shortly afterwards Sergeant Chord appeared at his side. ‘Sergeant,’ he managed to whisper.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The boy. Where's the boy?’

Chord held a rigid grin of encouragement. ‘Never you mind anything. You just rest now, sir.’

‘Sergeant!’ But he was gone.

The next morning Rillish could sit up. He asked for water and food. The most difficult thing to endure was his own smell; he'd shat himself in the night. He asked for Sergeant Chord and waited. It seemed the sergeant was reluctant to come. Eventually, he appeared. Rillish now saw that the man had a good start on a beard and his surcoat of grey was tattered and dirt-smeared. He appeared to be sporting a few new cuts and gashes as well. Rillish imagined he must look worse, he certainly smelled far worse. ‘I need to get cleaned up. Is there water enough for that?’

The sergeant seemed relieved. ‘Yes, sir.’

Mane came walking up; she now wore settler's gear of soft leather armour over an oversized tunic, trousers and even boots.

‘The boy?’ Rillish demanded. ‘The healer?’

Sergeant Chord lips clenched and he looked away, squinting.

‘Dead,’ Mane said with her habitual glower. ‘He died saving you. Though why I do not know, you being a cursed Malazan. That's a lot of Wickan blood spilled saving you…’

‘That's enough,’ Chord murmured.

Rillish let his gaze fall. She was right, and had a right to her anger. But he had not asked to be healed. He looked up. ‘You said something. Something about orders. What did you mean?‘ Mane bared her teeth in defiance. ‘Not for you, Malazan.’ Her answer chilled Rillish.

He found he could walk part of the next day. The boys with his travois followed along with the other at the centre of their ragged column of some seventy children – a good third of whom were always out ranging far beyond the column at any given time – and the thirty regulars who walked in a van, a rearguard and side-pickets. The more Rillish studied the other travois and the twelve youths who constantly surrounded it, the more he saw it as the true heart of their band. Who was this child to inspire such devotion? The self-styled guards interposed themselves whenever he tried to approach. The youth ignored him, wrapped in horse blankets, his eyes shut most of the time. The scion of some important chieftain's family, Rillish had come to suppose.

Walking just behind the van, he paused to draw off his helmet and wipe his face. Damn this heat! The sun seemed to glare from every blade of grass. Insects hummed around him, flew at his eyes. He was a mass of welts, his lips were cracked and sunburnt and his shit had the consistency of soup. From a satchel he pulled out a balled cloth, unfolded it and eyed the dark matter within. Food, was it? It looked more like dried bhederin shit to him. He tried to tear a bite from an edge and after gnawing for a time managed to pull away a sliver. He waved Sergeant Chord to him.

Sweat stained the flapping remains of the sergeant's grey surcoat. Two crow feathers fluttered at the man's helmet. Studying them, Rillish raised a brow. Chord winced, ducking. ‘In case we get separated from the column, sir. Safe passage ‘n’ all, so I'm told.’

‘I see.’ Rillish lifted his chin to the west where hazy brown hills humped the horizon. ‘Our destination?’

‘Yes, sir. The Golden Hills. Some kind of sacred lands for the Wickans, sir.’

‘So Mane is reasonably confident on finding other refugees there.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very good. And… well done, Sergeant.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Chord saluted, went off.

Sighing, Rillish drew his helmet on again, began walking. That being the case, he now had to give thought to what to do once he'd discharged his responsibilities. Return his command to his regional superior in Unta? Face summary court-martial, execution? Would Fist D'Ebbin be satisfied with just his head, or would he imprison the men as mutineers? He could always appeal to High Fist Anand; the man had a reputation for fairness. Perhaps he should disband his command and return alone. Or not at all. Presumed dead would be the official conclusion. He thought of his family estate hard up by the Gris border; the sweetgourds should be ripening now.

The images of his fever-induced hallucinations returned to him and he snorted at the ridiculous self-aggrandizement of it. His command at Korel had been decimated, his command here at the Wickan frontier had been decimated; it would seem to be best for all if he just threw down his helmet. Yet the face of Tajin would not go away. Tajin had been the boy's name. He could not shut his eyes without seeing Tajin.

Later that afternoon outrunners came scrambling in from the south. They threw themselves down next to the boy's travois. Mane ran up and a fierce argument raged over the seated child until Mane ducked her head with a curt bow. Chord had come to Rillish's side. ‘Riders closing from the south,’ he said aside.

‘Not Wickan, I gather.’

‘Lad, no.’

Mane ran up to Rillish, a hand tight on the grip of her long-knife. She stopped before him, but her face was turned away, glaring back to the travois. ‘I have been ordered – that is, we are to place ourselves under your command.’ She would not raise her gaze.