He stood, stretched his back and nodded his assent to the waiting atamans and message riders. Choss waited at the flaps of the command tent and they embraced. ‘Almost all together again,’ Choss said, grinning behind his thick gold and russet beard.

‘Almost.’

Toc greeted the atamans and they all reclined on the blankets within. Trays of sweetmeats and flatbreads made the rounds. ‘Firstly,’ Toc said, dipping his hands in a water bowl, ‘may I thank the gathered atamans for the trust and honour they have been generous enough to place upon me. And secondly, may I apologize that the walls of Heng yet stand.’

The atamans spoke all at once, dismissing any need for an apology. Ataman Ortal, of the Black Ferret Assembly, raised his hands to speak. ‘Warlord, it was understood from the beginning that we would not take the city immediately. You asked us to wait for allies to arrive. And now they are here – now we need wait no longer. Now we will attack together.’

Toc exchanged a glance with Choss, shifted his seat and selected a handful of grapes. ‘I wish it were so simple, Ortal. Our allies from Tali have brought many men, yes, but not enough to take Heng.’

Gazes moved to Choss. ‘Not enough?’ said Ortal. ‘Then why come at all? Explain.’

‘We ask for further patience,’ Choss said with a grimace. ‘We have more men coming.’

‘More? From where?’ asked the Plains Lion Assembly ataman, Redden Brokeleg. ‘Wait, you say. This is your answer for everything. Where can these warriors be coming from? There are no more in all your lands. You may have as many men and women as there are blades of grass, yet they would be useless when there is no will to fight.’

The other atamans all shouted their disapproval of such harsh words. Toc raised his hands to speak. ‘… If I may… Redden, your words are strong but I hear them. Are they yours or do you speak for other voices that I have heard are raised against our alliance?’

All eyes turned to Redden. He shrugged his indifference, dug at the bare earth with a stick. ‘I merely speak openly what others only dare tell their Hands.’

‘And what are these things?’ Toc asked.

‘There are those who heard promises of great booty but have found none. Promises of honour in fighting but who sully themselves riding down women and children. Who see Seti blood spilled to further the ambitions of outlanders… as it was in the past.’

‘The Wildman of the foothills,’ sneered Imotan, the White Jackal shaman sitting cross-legged to one side.

Redden nodded his agreement. ‘Yes. The Wildman. He speaks against all alliances.’ He raised his gaze to Toc. ‘Especially those with Malazans.’

‘He should have been slain long ago,’ Imotan growled.

‘You are welcome to try,’ Redden said with an easy shrug. ‘He is coming.’

The shaman's face darkened. ‘What? Here?’

‘Yes.’ The stick scoured a line in the dirt. ‘He calls for all warriors to rally to him. Some say he means to challenge for leadership…’

‘Of what Assembly is he?’ Toc asked.

An insouciant shrug. ‘Who is to know? He renounces all such bonds – he names them chains upon the mind and body.’

For a time no one spoke. Toc shook his head. ‘I wish it were so easy, but you cannot turn your back upon the world – it will not go away. You must adjust to change. Or be consumed by it… In any case,‘ he bowed to Redden, ‘my thanks, friend, for bringing this news to us. We all have much to think about. I ask for further patience and I promise you this, many more men are close. Very close. Enough to take Heng. They will be arriving soon.’ He bowed to the gathering and all answered in kind.

After the hugs and assurances of loyalty, Toc was left with Choss and Imotan, the White Jackal shaman. Servants lit lamps against the gathering darkness. Toc listened to the susurrus of the field crickets.

‘What more do we know about this Wildman?’ Choss asked Imotan.

The shaman waved a clawed hand dismissively. His sun-darkened face puckered in distaste. ‘Very little. He is called this because he emerged from the woods and they say he's as hairy as a wild bhederin.’

Choss poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Just what we need – some fiery prophet denouncing all contact with outlanders. You Seti are ill-served by him, I think, Imotan. What does he expect? You're inviting the world to bite your arse when you stick your head in the sand.’

‘Colourful but accurate,’ said Toc. He eyed Imotan and his mouth drew down in thought. ‘Perhaps some demonstration of fighting spirit is called for. We should contact our people in Heng. A coordinated, targeted attack…’

‘Would be a waste of resources,’ Choss countered, waving the glass dismissively.

‘An investment in improved relations.’

‘Damned expensive.’

‘Required, I think.’

Choss's thick, expressive brows rose and fell. He scratched his beard in thought. ‘Well. I'll pull something together.’

‘Good.’ Toc stood. ‘We are finished, then?’

Grunting, Imotan pushed himself up with an effort. ‘I am too old for these long talking sessions, I think.’ Choss offered an arm but the old man waved him off.

‘What of you?’ Choss asked him. ‘I'd think you'd agree with this Wildman.’

The old shaman assented, bobbing his head in approval. ‘Oh, yes, I agree with most of what he says… But for one thing – he does not have the sympathy of our people's spirits. They whisper to me that Heng must be besieged. That out of this will come the salvation of our people. So, in this you and I are allies. And I will fight him with all the resources at my command.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

‘Do not thank me, Choss. It is chance only. We might just as easily have been enemies.’ And smiling he left the tent to be surrounded by his white-cloaked bodyguard.

Choss clasped hands with Toc. ‘Well, on that reassuring note…’

‘Let me know what you've cooked up.’

‘Aye.’

Toc watched Choss go, waving his lieutenants to him, then raised his chin to a man in studded leather armour, a blackened iron helmet and a long mailed skirt. The ivory grips of twin sabres curved bright at his sides. The man approached, bowing, ‘Sir?’

‘Captain Moss, you've heard talk of this Seti Wildman?’

‘Yes, sir. I have.’

‘Who is he? Where is he? Track him down and report back.’

Captain Moss saluted. ‘Sir.’ He jogged down the gentle hillside. As he went, he called to his troop, ‘Mount up!’

Toc remained for a time in the tent opening testing the night air. It carried a hint of the stink of Li Heng, now a glow on the southern horizon. Toc smiled at his own conceit; here he was, son of a nameless speck of a hamlet in Bloor, naming the Seti prairie his home and damning cities as stinking shitpits. He wrinkled his nose… still, it did smell of shit. He supposed he'd been away from all human settlements for too long. He thought he could also detect a distant pine stand – the sap would be thickening. Autumn was coming. They didn't have much time.

It was worse than Cowl's most pessimistic forebodings: the instant they entered the Warren he scrambled to raise the most potent pro-tecrions he could muster. Yet even now, sheltered from direct exposure, he could feel the rabid energies gnawing at his wards. Should they corrode their way through, he and Skinner would not last a heartbeat. Here, at the most far-flung reaches of Thyr, within sight of the effects of Kurald Liosan, Elder Light, inaccessible and far more inhospitable than all the other elders.

He crouched with Skinner within the shadows of a narrow, deep ravine of cracked, baked earth. Overhead, curtains and streamers of energy lashed and snapped across a blinding white sky. Cowl imagined he could almost hear them singing.

‘You prefer this to Chaos?’ Skinner growled.