‘May they be cursed with a hundred thousand more breaths before Hood takes them.’

The commander leaned on his saddlehorn and was silent a moment. ‘Rejoin your pilgrims, Gral. They have need of your services.’

Growling, Fiddler remounted. ‘Who rules G’danisban now?’

‘None. The army of the Apocalypse holds but two districts. We shall have the others by the morrow.’

Fiddler pulled the horse around and kicked it into a canter. The troop did not follow. The sapper swore under his breath – the commander was right, he should not have sent Crokus and Apsalar on. He knew himself lucky in that his remaining with the rapists could so easily be construed as typically Gral – the opportunity to brag to the red-swathed riders, the chance to voice curses and display a tribesman’s unassailable arrogance – but it risked offering up to contempt his vow to protect his charges. He’d seen the mild disgust in the commander’s eyes. In all, he’d been too much of a Gral horsewarrior. If not for Apsalar’s frightening talents, those two would now be in serious trouble.

He rode hard in pursuit, noting belatedly that the gelding was responding to his every touch. The horse knew he was no Gral, but it’d evidently decided he was behaving in an approved manner, well enough to accord him some respect. It was, he reflected, this day’s lone victory.

G’danisban’s central square was the site of past slaughter. Fiddler caught up with his companions when they had just begun walking their horses through the horrific scene. They both turned upon hearing his approach, and Fiddler could only nod at the relief in their faces when they recognized him.

Even the Gral gelding hesitated at the square’s edge. The bodies covering the cobbles numbered several hundred. Old men and old women, and children, for the most part. They had all been savagely cut to pieces or, in some cases, burned alive. The stench of sun-warmed blood, bile and seared flesh hung thick in the square.

Fiddler swallowed back his revulsion, cleared his throat. ‘Beyond this square,’ he said, ‘all pretences of control cease.’

Crokus gestured shakily. ‘These are Malazan?’

‘Aye, lad.’

‘During the conquest, did the Malazan armies do the same to the locals here?’

‘You mean, is this just reprisal?’

Apsalar spoke with an almost personal vehemence. ‘The Emperor warred against armies, not civilians—’

‘Except at Aren,’ Fiddler sardonically interjected, recalling his words with the Tanno Spiritwalker. ‘When the T’lan Imass rose in the city—’

‘Not by Kellanved’s command!’ she retorted. ‘Who ordered the T’lan Imass into Aren? I shall tell you. Surly, the commander of the Claw, the woman who took upon herself a new name—’

‘Laseen.’ Fiddler eyed the young woman quizzically. ‘I have never before heard that assertion, Apsalar. There were no written orders – none found, in any case—’

‘I should have killed her there and then,’ Apsalar muttered.