Duiker waited until the creature had finished its meal before a twitch of his foot sent it winging away. The historian straightened. The sounds of activity had risen in the Wickan encampments. He made his way towards the nearest one.

The horsewarriors of the Foolish Dog Clan had gathered to ready their equipment beneath the glare of torch poles. Duiker strode closer. Ornate boiled leather armour had appeared, dyed in deep and muddy shades of red and green. The thick, padded gear was in a style the historian had never seen before. Wickan runes had been burned into it. The armour looked ancient, yet never used.

Duiker approached the nearest warrior, a peach-faced youth busy rubbing grease into a horse’s brow-guard. ‘Heavy armour for a Wickan,’ the historian said. ‘And for a Wickan horse as well.’

The young man nodded soberly, said nothing.

‘You’re turning yourselves into heavy cavalry.’

The lad shrugged.

An older warrior nearby spoke up. ‘The warleader devised these during the rebellion . . . then agreed peace with the Emperor before they could be used.’

‘And you have been carrying them around with you all this time?’

‘Aye.’

‘Why didn’t you use this armour at Sekala Crossing?’

‘Didn’t need to.’

‘And now?’

Grinning, the veteran raised an iron helm with new bridge and cheek-guards attached. ‘Reloe’s horde hasn’t faced heavy cavalry yet, has it?’

Thick armour doesn’t make heavy cavalry. Have you fools ever trained for this? Can you gallop in an even line? Can you wheel? How soon before your horses are winded beneath all that extra weight? ‘You’ll look intimidating enough,’ the historian said.

The Wickan caught the scepticism and his grin broadened.

The youth set down the brow-guard and began strapping on a sword belt. He slid the blade from the scabbard, revealing four feet of blackened iron, its tip rounded and blunt. The weapon looked heavy, oversized in the lad’s hands.

Hood’s breath, one swing’ll yank him from his saddle.

The veteran grunted. ‘Limber up there, Temul,’ he said in Malazan.

Temul immediately launched into a complex choreography, the blade blurring in his hand.

‘Do you intend to dismount once you reach the enemy?’

‘Sleep would have done much for your mind’s cast, old man.’

Point taken, bastard.

Duiker wandered away. He’d always hated the hours before a battle. None of the rituals of preparation had ever worked for him. A check of weapons and gear rarely took an experienced soldier more than twenty heartbeats. The historian had never been able to repeat that check mindlessly, again and again, as did so many soldiers. Keeping the hands busy while the mind slowly slid into a sharp-edged world of saturated colours, painful clarity and a kind of lustful hunger that seized body and soul.

Some warriors ready themselves to live, some ready themselves to die, and in these hours before the fate unfolds, it’s damned hard to tell one from the other. The lad Temul’s dance a moment ago might be his last. That damned sword may never again leap from its sheath and sing on the end of his hand.