He slowed the mare to a canter, then a trot as he approached the earthworks. She was lathered, her limbs far too loose, her head sagging.

Duiker rode into the midst of blue-skinned Wickans – Weasel Clan – who stared at him in silence. As he glanced around, the historian felt himself in well-suited company – the plains warriors from northeast Quon Tali had the look of spectres, their faces drawn with an exhaustion to match his own.

Beyond the Weasel Clan’s encampment were military-issue tents and two banners – the Hissari Guard who had remained loyal, and a company whose standard Duiker did not recognize, apart from a central stylized crossbow signifying Malazan Marines.

Hands reached up to help him from the saddle. Wickan youths and elders gathered around, a soothing murmur of voices rising. Their concern was for the mare. An old man gripped the historian’s arm. ‘We will tend to this brave horse, stranger.’

‘I think she’s finished,’ Duiker said, a wave of sorrow flooding him. Gods, I’m tired. The setting sun broke through the clouds on the horizon, bathing everything in a golden glow.

The old man shook his head. ‘Our horsewives are skilled in such things. She shall run again. Now, an officer comes – go.’

A captain from the unknown company of Marines approached. He was Falari, his beard and long, wavy hair a fiery red. ‘You rode in your saddle like a Malazan,’ he said, ‘yet dress like a damned Dosii. Explain yourself and be quick about it.’

‘Duiker, Imperial Historian. I’ve been trying to rejoin this train since it left Hissar.’

The captain’s eyes widened. ‘A hundred and sixty leagues – you expect me to believe that? Coltaine left Hissar almost three months ago.’

‘I know. Where’s Bult? Has Kulp rejoined the Seventh? And who in Hood’s name are you?’

‘Lull, Captain of the Sialk Marines, Cartheron Wing, Sahul Fleet. Coltaine’s called a briefing – you’d better come along, Historian.’

They began making their way through the encampment. Duiker was appalled at what he saw. Beyond the ragged entrenchments of the Marines was a broad, sloping field, a single roped road running through it. On the right were wagons in their hundreds, their beds crowded with wounded. The wagon wheels were sunk deep in blood-soaked mud. Birds filled the torchlit air, voicing a frenzied chorus – it seemed they had acquired a taste for blood. On the left the churned field was a solid mass of cattle, shoulder to shoulder, shifting in a seething tide beneath a hovering haze of rhizan – the winged lizards feasting on the swarms of flies.

Ahead, the field dropped away to a strip of marsh bridged by wooden slats. The swampy pools of water gleamed red. Beyond it was a broad humped-back oxbow island on which, in crowded mayhem, were encamped the refugees – in their tens of thousands.

‘Hood’s breath,’ the historian muttered, ‘are we going to have to walk through that?’