‘So claimed a Tithansi warleader,’ Lull said. ‘He had nothing to lose in telling us since he was dying anyway. Nether said he spoke truth. The Malazan fleet has fled Ubaryd. Even now tens of thousands of refugees are being driven northeast.’

‘More squalling nobles to perch on Coltaine’s lap,’ Chenned said with a sneer.

‘This is impossible,’ Duiker said. ‘If we cannot go to Ubaryd, what other city lies open to us?’

‘There is but one,’ Bult said. ‘Aren.’

Duiker sat straight. ‘Madness! Two hundred leagues!’

‘And another third, to be precise,’ Lull said, baring his teeth.

‘Is Pormqual counterattacking? Is he marching north to meet us halfway? Is he even aware that we exist?’

Bult’s gaze held steady on the historian. ‘Aware? I would think so, Historian. Will he march out from Aren? Counterattack?’ The veteran shrugged.

‘I saw a company of Engineers on my way here,’ Lull said. ‘They were weeping, one and all.’

Chenned asked, ‘Why? Is their invisible commander lying on the bottom of the Sekala with a mouthful of mud?’

Lull shook his head. ‘They’re out of cussers now. Just a crate or two of sharpers and burners. You’d think every one of their mothers had just croaked.’

Coltaine finally spoke. ‘They did well.’

Bult nodded. ‘Aye. Wish I’d been there to see the road go up.’

‘We were,’ Duiker said. ‘Victory tastes sweetest in the absence of haunting memories, Bult. Savour it.’

In his tent, Duiker awoke to a soft, small hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to darkness.

‘Historian,’ a voice said.

‘Nether? What hour is this? How long have I slept?’

‘Perhaps two,’ she answered. ‘Coltaine commands you to come with me. Now.’

Duiker sat up. He’d been too tired to do more than simply lay his bedroll down on the floor. The blankets were sodden with sweat and condensation. He shivered with chill. ‘What has happened?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, yet. You are to witness. Quickly now, Historian. We have little time.’

He stepped outside to a camp quietly moaning in the deepest hour of darkness before the arrival of false dawn. Thousands of voices made the dreadful, gelid sound. Wounds troubling exhausted sleep, the soft cries of soldiers beyond the arts of the healers and cutters, the lowing of livestock, shifting hooves underscoring the chorus in a restless, rumbling beat. Somewhere out on the plain north of them rose faint wailing, wives and mothers grieving the dead.