‘Stand still,’ a voice snapped behind him. ‘Got a quarrel trained on you. Drop that lizard-sticker. Now!’

Shrugging, the assassin let the weapon fall from his hand. ‘I’m Second Army,’ he said. ‘Onearm’s Host—’

‘Are fifteen hundred leagues away.’

The woman had regained the breath that had been driven from her lungs. She rose to her hands and knees, long black hair hanging down over her face.

The last bandit finished dying with a faint, wet gurgle.

‘You’re Seven Cities,’ the voice behind Kalam said.

‘Aye, yet a soldier of the Empire. Listen, work it out. I rode up from the other side, with the bandits’ leader. He was dead before his horse carried him into your camp.’

‘So why does a soldier wear a telaba and no colours and ride alone? Desertion, and that’s a death sentence.’

Kalam hissed in exasperation. ‘And clearly you chose to protect your family instead of whatever company you’re attached to. By Imperial Military Law that counts as desertion, soldier.’ As he spoke the Malazan stepped around, his crossbow still trained on the assassin.

Kalam saw a man half dead on his feet. Short and wide, he wore the tattered remnants of an Outpost detachment uniform, light-grey leather jerkin, dark-grey surcoat. His face was covered in a network of scratches, as were his hands and forearms. A deep wound marred his bristly chin, and the helm shadowing his eyes was dented. The clasp of his surcoat ranked him a captain.

The assassin’s eyes widened upon seeing that. ‘Though a captain deserting is a rare thing ...’

‘He didn’t desert,’ the woman said, now fully recovered and sorting through the weapons of the dead bandits. She found a lightweight tulwar and tested its balance with a few swings. In the firelight Kalam could see she was attractive, medium-boned, her hair streaked with iron. Her eyes were a startling light grey. She collected a belted sword-hoop and strapped it on.

‘We rode out of Orbal,’ the captain said, pain evident in his voice. ‘A whole company escorting out refugees – our families. Ran smack into a Hood-damned army on the march south.’

‘We’re all that’s left,’ the woman said, turning to gesture into the darkness. Another woman – a younger, thinner version of the other one – and two children stepped cautiously into the light, then rushed to the captain’s side.

The man continued to aim an unsteady crossbow at Kalam. ‘Selv, my wife,’ he said, gesturing to the woman now at his side. ‘Our children, there. And Selv’s sister Minala. That’s us. Now, let’s hear your story.’

‘Corporal Kalam, Ninth Squad ... Bridgeburners. Now you know why I’m out of uniform, sir.’

The man grinned. ‘You’ve been outlawed. So why aren’t you marching with Dujek? Unless you’ve returned to your homeland to join the Whirlwind.’

‘Is that your horse?’ Minala asked.

The assassin turned to see his mount step casually into the camp. ‘Aye.’

‘You know your horses,’ she said.