'Is she your rival now, Tavore?'

His sister snorted, turning away. 'Felisin? She's too soft for this world, brother. For any world, I think. She's not changed. She'll be happy to see you.'

He watched her stiff back as she left the hall.

He smelled of sweat – his own and the mare's – travel and grime, and of something else as well... Old blood and old fear. Paran looked around. Much smaller than I remembered.

CHAPTER TWO

With the coming of the Moranth

the tide turned.

And like ships in a harbour

the Free Cities were swept under

Imperial seas.

The war entered its twelfth year,

the Year of the Shattered Moon

and its sudden spawn

of deathly rain and

black-winged promise.

Two cities remained to contest

the Malazan onslaught.

One stalwart, proud banners

beneath Dark's powerful wing.

The other divided –

- without an army,

bereft of allies –

The strong city fell first.

Call to Shadow

Felisin (b.1146)

1163rd Year of Burn's Sleep (two years later)

105th. Year of the Malazan Empire

9th Year of Empress Laseen's Rule

Through the pallor of smoke ravens wheeled. Their calls raised a shrill chorus above the cries of wounded and dying soldiers. The stench of seared flesh hung un moving in the haze.

On the third hill overlooking the fallen city of Pale, Tattersail stood alone. Scattered around the sorceress the curled remains of burnt armour – greaves, breastplates, helms and weapons – lay heaped in piles. An hour earlier there had been men and women wearing that armour, but of them there was no sign. The silence within those empty shells rang like a dirge in Tattersail's head.

Her arms were crossed, tight against her chest. The burgundy cloak with its silver emblem betokening her command of the 2nd Army's wizard cadre now hung from her round shoulders stained and scorched. Her oval, fleshy face, usually parading an expression of cherubic humour, was etched with deep-shadowed lines, leaving her cheeks flaccid and pale.

For all the smells and sounds surrounding Tattersail, she found herself listening to a deeper silence. In some ways it came from the empty armour surrounding her, an absence that was in itself an accusation. But there was another source of the silence. The sorcery that had been unleashed here today had been enough to fray the fabric between the worlds. Whatever dwelt beyond, in the Warrens of Chaos, felt close enough to reach out and touch.

She'd thought her emotions spent, used up by the terror she had just been through, but as she watched the tight ranks of a legion of Moranth Black marching into the city a frost of hatred slipped over her heavy-lidded eyes.

Allies. They're claiming their hour of blood. At the end of that hour there would be a score thousand fewer survivors among the citizens of Pale. The long savage history between the neighbouring peoples was about to have the scales of retribution balanced. By the sword. Shedunul's mercy, hasn't there been enough?