Nil fidgeted in his robes, as if barely restraining the desire to dance. A dark smile showed on his child-face. ‘The flesh of an Ascendant holds much power. They all hunger for a piece. With this gift we bring them, further service is bound.’

‘Historian.’ Sormo stepped closer, reaching out one thin hand until it rested on Duiker’s shoulder. ‘How thin is this slice of mercy? All that anger ... brought to an end. Torn apart, each fragment consumed. Not death, but a kind of dissipation—’

‘And what of the Semk wizard-priests?’

The warlock winced. ‘Knowledge, and with it great pain. We must carve the heart from the Semk. Yet that heart is worse than stone. How it uses the mortal flesh . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Coltaine commands.’

‘You obey.’

Sormo nodded.

Duiker said nothing for a dozen heartbeats, then he sighed. ‘I have heard your doubts, Warlock.’

Sormo’s expression showed an almost fierce relief. ‘Cover your eyes, then, Historian. This will be .. . messy.’

Behind Duiker, the ice erupted with an explosive roar. Cold crimson rain struck the historian in a rolling wall, staggering him.

A savage shriek sounded behind him.

The spirits of the land bolted forward, spinning and tumbling past Duiker. He whirled in time to see a figure – flesh rotted black, arms long as an ape’s – clawing its way out of the dirty, steaming slush.

The spirits reached it, swarming over the figure. It managed a single, piercing shriek before it was torn to pieces.

The eastern horizon was a streak of red when they returned to the killing strip. The camp was already awakening, the demands of existence pressing once more upon ragged, weary souls. Wagon-mounted forges were being stoked, fresh hides scraped, leather stretched and punched or boiled in huge blackened pots. Despite a lifetime spent in cities, the Malazan refugees were learning to carry their city with them – or at least those meagre remnants vital to survival.

Duiker and the three warlocks were sodden with old blood and clinging fragments of flesh. Their reappearance on the plain was enough to announce their success and the Wickans raised a wail that ran through each clan’s encampment, the sound as much sorrowful as triumphant, a fitting dirge to announce the fall of a god.

From the distant Semk camps to the north, the rituals of mourning had fallen off, leaving naught but ominous silence.

Dew steamed from the earth, and the historian could feel – as he crossed the killing strip back towards the Wickan encampment – a darker reverberation to the power of the spirits of the land. The three warlocks parted from him as they approached the camp’s edge.

The reverberating power found a voice only moments later, as every dog in the vast camp began howling. The cries were strangely lifeless and cold as iron, filling the air like a promise.

Duiker slowed his walk. A promise. An age of devouring ice—

‘Historian!’