When they had travelled slightly over four leagues, a new sound reached them from the west, a strange susurration that Duiker barely registered at first, until its unnatural irregularity brushed him aware. He nudged his mount forward to gain Nether’s side.

Her glance of acknowledgement was furtive. ‘A mage rides with them, clearing the way.’

‘Then the warrens are no longer contested.’

‘Not for three days now, Historian.’

‘How is this mage destroying the butterflies? Fire? Wind?’

‘No, he simply opens his warren and they vanish within. Note, the time is longer between each effort – the man tires.’

‘Well, that’s good.’

She nodded.

‘Will we reach the crossing before them?’

‘I believe so.’

A short while later they came to a second cleared verge. Beyond it, rock pushed up from the earth to the east and west, creating a ragged line against the insect-filled sky. Directly ahead, the track began a downward slope along the path of a pebble-filled moraine, and at its base was a broad clearing, beyond which was revealed a flattened yellow carpet of butterflies that moved in a mass eastward.

The River Vathar. The funeral procession of drowned insects, down to the sea.

The crossing itself was marked by twin lines of wooden poles spanning the river, each pole bearing tied rags, like the faded standards of a drowned army. On the eastern downstream side, just beyond the poles, a large ship rested at anchor, bow into the current.

The breath hissed from Nether upon seeing it, and Duiker felt his own tremble of disquiet.

The ship had been burned, scorched in fire from one end to the other, making it entirely black, and not a single butterfly had alighted on it. The sweeps of oars – many snapped – jutted in disarray from the craft’s flanks; those with blades were dipped into the current and dead insects adhered to them in lumps.

The Clan rode down towards the open flat that marked this side of the crossing. A sailcloth awning stood on poles near a small hearth which smouldered with foul smoke. Beneath the makeshift tent sat three men.

The cattle-dogs ringed them at a wary distance.

Duiker winced at a sudden yapping bark. Gods below, I didn’t imagine it!

The historian and Nether rode up to halt near the restlessly circling dogs. One of the men beneath the awning, his face and forearms a strangely burnished bronze hue, rose from the coil of rope he’d been sitting on and stepped out.

The lapdog rushed him, then skidded to a halt, its barks ceasing. A ratty tail managed a fitful wag.

The man crouched down, picked up the dog and scratched it behind its mangy ears. He eyed the Wickans. ‘So who else claims to be in charge of this scary herd?’ he asked in Malazan.

‘I am,’ said Nether.

The man scowled. ‘It figures,’ he muttered.

Duiker frowned. There was something very familiar about these men. ‘What does that mean?’