The barracks compound had been besieged. Whoever commanded the Hissari had intended to prevent Coltaine and his forces from striking out into the city, and, if the sorcery’s level was any indication, had sought the complete annihilation of the Malazan army. In this the commander had clearly failed. The Wickans had sortied, broken through the encirclement, and had ridden directly to the Estates – where they well knew the planned slaughter would have already begun. Too late to prevent the first attack at the District Gates, they had altered their route, riding around the mob, and set up an ambush in the square. The Hissari, in their thirst for more blood, had plunged forward, crossing the expanse without the foresight of scouts.

The Wickans had then killed them all. There was no risk of reprisal to prevent them later retrieving their arrow shafts. The killing must have been absolute, every escape closed off, then the precise, calculated murder of every Hissari in the square.

Duiker swung about at the sound of approaching footsteps. A band of mutineers approached from the gates behind him. They were well armed, with pikes in their hands and tulwars at their hips. Chain vests glinted from beneath the red telaban they wore. On their heads were the peaked bronze helmets of the City Guard.

‘Terrible slaughter!’ Duiker wailed, drawing out the Dosii accent. ‘It must be avenged!’

The sergeant leading the squad eyed the historian warily. ‘You have the dust of the desert upon you,’ he said.

‘Aye, I have ridden down from the High Mage’s forces to the north. A nephew, who dwelt in the harbour district. I seek to join him—’

‘If he yet lives, old man, you shall find him marching with Reloe.’

‘We have driven the Mezla from the city,’ another soldier said. ‘Outnumbered, already sorely wounded and burdened with ten thousand refugees—’

‘Silence, Geburah!’ the sergeant snapped. He narrowed his gaze on Duiker. ‘We go to Reloe now. Come with us. All of Hissari shall be blessed in joining in the final slaughter of the Mezla.’

Conscription. No wonder there’s no-one about. They’re in the holy army whether they like it or not. The historian nodded. ‘I shall. I have vowed to protect the life of my nephew, you see...’

‘The vow to scourge Seven Cities of the Mezla is greater,’ the sergeant growled. ‘Dryjhna demands your soul, Dosii. The Apocalypse has come – armies gather all across the land and all must harken to the call.’

‘Last night I joined in spilling the blood of a Mezla Coastal Guard – my soul was given to her keeping then, Hissari.’ Duiker’s tone held a warning to the young sergeant. Respect your elders, child.

The man answered the historian with an acknowledging nod.