Somewhere to the southwest was the Seventh, remnants of loyal Hissari auxiliaries, and the Wickans. And tens of thousands of Malazan refugees, bereft of their belongings . . . but alive. The peril remained. Already, the army of the Apocalypse had begun regrouping – shattered survivors contracting singly and in small groups towards the Meila Oasis where awaited the Sialk reinforcements and latecoming desert tribes. When they renewed the pursuit, they would still vastly outnumber Coltaine’s battered army.

One of the sergeant’s men returned from his scouting to the west. ‘Kamist Reloe lives,’ he announced. ‘Another High Mage brings a new army from the north. There will be no mistakes next time.’

The words were less reassuring to the others than they would have been a day ago. The sergeant’s mouth was a thin slash as he nodded. ‘We join the others at Meila, then.’

‘Not I,’ Duiker growled.

Eyes narrowed on him.

‘Not yet,’ the historian added, scanning the battlefield. ‘My heart tells me I shall find the body of my nephew ... out there.’

‘Seek first among the survivors,’ one soldier said.

‘No. My heart does not feel fear, only certainty. Go on. I shall join you before dusk.’ He swung a hard, challenging gaze to the sergeant. ‘Go.’

The man gestured mutely.

Duiker watched them stride westward, knowing that should he see them again, it would be from the ranks of the Malazan army. And somehow they would be less than human then. The game the mind must play to unleash destruction. He’d stood amidst the ranks more than once, sensing the soldiers alongside him seeking and finding that place in the mind, cold and silent, the place where husbands, fathers, wives and mothers became killers. And practice made it easier, each time. Until it becomes a place you never leave.

The historian rode out into the battlefield, almost desperate to rejoin the army. It was not a time to be alone, in the heart of slaughter, where every piece of wreckage or burnt and torn flesh seemed to cry out silent outrage. Sites of battle held on to a madness, as if the blood that had soaked into the soil remembered pain and terror and held locked within it the echoes of screams and death cries.

There were no looters, naught but flies, capemoths, rhizan and wasps – Hood’s myriad sprites, wings fanning and buzzing in the air around him as he rode onward. Half a mile ahead a pair of riders galloped across the south ridge, heading west, their telaban whipping twisted and wild behind them.