Aren Way accommodated them in their efforts, for the first third, locally known as Ramp, was a gentle downward slope towards the plain on which the city sat. Cone-shaped hills kept pace with them to the east, and would do so to within a thousand paces of Aren’s north wall. The hills were not natural: they were mass graves, scores of them, from the misguided slaughter of the city’s residents by the T’lan Imass in Kellanved’s time. The hill nearest Aren was among the largest, and was home to the city’s ruling families and the Holy Protector and Falah’dan.

Duiker left Nil to lead the vanguard and rode at the very rear of the train, where he, Nether and three Wickans shouted themselves hoarse in an effort to hasten the weakest and slowest among the refugees. It was a heartbreaking task, and they passed more than one body that had given out at the pace. There was no time for burial, nor the strength to carry them.

To the north and slightly east, the clouds of dust grew steadily closer.

‘They’re not taking the road,’ Nether gasped, wheeling her mount around to glare at the dust. ‘They come overland – slower, much slower—’

‘But a shorter route on the map,’ Duiker said.

‘The hills aren’t marked, are they?’

‘No, non-Imperial maps show it as a plain – the barrows are too recent an addition, I’d guess.’

‘You’d think Korbolo would have a Malazan version—’

‘It appears not – and that alone may save us, lass ...’

Yet he could hear the false ring in his own words. The enemy was too close – less than a third of a league away, he judged. Even with the burial mounds, mounted troops could cover that distance in a few-score minutes.

Faint Wickan warcries from the vanguard reached them.

‘They’ve sighted Aren,’ Nether said. ‘Nil shows me through his eyes—’

‘The gates?’

She frowned. ‘Closed.’

Duiker cursed. He rode his mare among the stragglers. ‘The city’s been sighted!’ he shouted. ‘Not much more! Move!’

From some hidden, unexpected place, reserves of energy rose in answer to the historian’s words. He sensed, then saw, a ripple run through the masses, a faint quickening of pace, of anticipation – and of fear. The historian twisted in his saddle.

The cloud loomed above the cone-shaped mounds. Closer, yet not as close as it should have been.

‘Nether! Are there soldiers on Aren’s walls?’

‘Aye, not an inch to spare—’

‘The gates?’

‘No.’

‘How close are we up there?’

‘A thousand paces – people are running now—’

‘What in Hood’s name is wrong with them?’

He stared again at the dust cloud. ‘Fener’s hoof! Nether, take your Wickans – ride for Aren!’

‘What about you?’

‘To Hood with me, damn you! Go! Save your children!’

She hesitated, then spun her horse around. ‘You three!’ she barked at the Wickan youths. ‘With me!’