The moment when all stood still and silent was broken as a thick flight of Wickan arrows struck the soldiers on the downstream bridge. What Sormo had begun, his clan kin completed: the last of the archers and pikemen went down.

Duiker saw three squares of infantry dog-trot down the north slope, pulled from the rearguard action to enforce order on the crossing. Wickan horsewarriors of the Weasel Clan rode out from the flanking woods, voicing their ululating victory cries.

Duiker swung about. He saw Malazan soldiers backing away from cover to cover – a handful of marines and less than thirty sappers. The arrow fire was intensifying, getting closer. Gods, they’ve already done the impossible – do not demand more of them—

The historian drew a breath, then climbed up onto the wagon’s high bench. ‘Everyone!’ he shouted to the milling refugees crowding the bank. ‘Every able hand! Find a weapon – to the forest, else the slaughter begins again! The archers are retur—’

He got no further, as the air shook with a savage, bestial roar. Duiker stared down, watching hundreds of civilians rush forward, caring nothing for weapons, intent only on closing with the companies of archers, on answering the day’s carnage with a vengeance no less terrible.

We are all gripped in madness. I have never seen the like nor heard of such a thing – gods, what we have become . . .

The waves of refugees swept over the Malazan positions and, unwavering before frantic, devastating flights of arrows from the treeline, plunged into the forest. Shrieks and screams echoed eerily in the air.

Nethpara clambered into view. ‘Where is Coltaine? I demand—’

Duiker reached down one-handed and gripped the silk scarf wound around the nobleman’s neck. He dragged Nethpara closer. The man squealed, scratching uselessly at the historian’s hand.

‘Nethpara. He could have let you go. Let you cross. Alone. Under the shelter of Korbolo Dom’s glorious mercy. How many have died this day? How many of these soldiers, how many Wickans, have given their lives to protect your hide?’

‘L-let go of me, you foul slave-spawn!’

A red mist blossomed before Duiker’s eyes. He took the nobleman’s flabby neck in both hands and began squeezing. He watched Nethpara’s eyes bulge.

Someone battered at his head. Someone yanked at his wrists. Someone wrapped a forearm around his own neck and flexed iron-hard muscles across the throat. The mist dimmed, as if night was falling. The historian watched as hands pried his own from Nethpara’s neck, watched as the man fell away, gasping.

Then dark’s descent was done.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

One who was many

On the blood trail

Came hunting his own voice

Savage murder

Sprites buzzing in the sun

Came hunting his own voice

But Hood’s music is all

He heard, the siren song

Called silence.

Seglora’s Account

Seglora