Shadowthrone gestured. ‘Go on then, trail the ones trailing the Bridgeburner. Whiskeyjack’s soldiers were ever loyal, I seem to recall. Kalam does not intend to kiss Laseen’s cheeks when he finds her, of that I’m certain.’

Apt hesitated, then spoke one last time.

A grimace entered the god’s tone as he replied. ‘That High Priest of mine alarms even me. If he cannot deceive the hunters on the Path of Hands, my precious realm – which has seen more than its share of intruders of late – will become very crowded indeed ...’ Shadowthrone wagged his head. ‘It was a simple task, after all.’ He began to drift away, his Hounds following suit. ‘Can anyone find reliable, competent help these days, I wonder ...’

A moment later Apt was alone, the shadows slipping away.

The portalway had begun to weaken, slowly closing the wound between the realms. The demon rasped words of comfort. The boy nodded.

They slid into the Imperial Warren.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ages unveiled the Holy Desert.

Raraku was once an ochre sea.

She stood in the wind

on the pride of a spire

and saw ancient fleets –

ships of bone, sails of bleached

hair, charging the crest

to where the waters slipped

beneath the sands

of the desert to come.

The Holy Desert

Anonymous

Aline of feral white goats stood on the crest of the tel known as Samon, silhouetted against a startlingly blue sky. Like bestial gods carved from marble, they watched as the vast train wound through the valley swathed in a massive cloud of dust. That they numbered seven was an omen not lost on Duiker as he rode with the south flanking patrol of Foolish Dog Wickans.

Nine hundred paces behind the historian marched five companies of the Seventh, slightly under a thousand soldiers, while the same distance behind them rode another patrol of two hundred and fifty Wickans. The three units comprised the south-facing guard for the now close to fifty thousand refugees, as well as livestock, that made up the main column, and were mirrored with similar forces on the north side. An inner ring of loyal Hissari Infantry and Marines were spread out along the column’s edges – walking alongside the hapless civilians.

A rearguard of a thousand Wickans from each of the clans rode in the train’s dust over two-thirds of a league east of Duiker’s position. Though split and riding in troops of a dozen or less, their task was impossible. Tithansi raiders nipped at the battered tail of the refugee column, snaring the Wickans in an eternal running skirmish. The back end of Coltaine’s train was a bleeding wound never allowed to heal.