Sha’ik’s eyes snapped back to Korbolo’s position. ‘Kamist Reloe has arrived ... he’s opened his warren and now quests towards the enemy. But Tavore’s otataral sword defies him ... so he reaches around, into the army itself. Seeking High Mages ... unsuspected allies ...’ After a moment she sighed. ‘And finds none but a few shamans and squad mages.’

Mathok rumbled, ‘Those two Wickans with the Adjunct. They are the ones known as Nil and Nether.’

‘Yes. Said to be broken of spirit – they have none of the power that their clans once gave them, for those clans have been annihilated.’

‘Even so, Chosen One,’ Mathok muttered, ‘that she holds them within the fog of otataral suggests they are not as weak as we would believe.’

‘Or that Tavore does not want their weakness revealed.’

‘Why bother if such failure is already known to us?’

‘To deepen our doubt, Mathok,’ she replied.

He curtly gestured, adding a frustrated growl. ‘This mire has no surface, Chosen One—’

‘Wait!’ Sha’ik stared once again at Tavore. ‘She has sent her weapon away – Kamist Reloe has withdrawn his questing – and now ... ah!’ The last word was a startled cry, as she felt the muted unveiling of power from both Nil and Nether – a power far greater than it had any right to be.

Sha’ik then gasped, as the goddess within her flinched back – as if stung — and loosed a shriek that filled her skull.

For Raraku was answering the summons, a multitude of voices, rising in song, rising with raw, implacable desire – the sound, Sha’ik realized, of countless souls straining against the chains that bound them.

Chains of shadow. Chains like roots. From this torn, alien fragment of warren. This piece of shadow, that has risen to bind their souls and so feeds upon the life-force. ‘Mathok, where is Leoman?’ We need Leoman.

‘I do not know, Chosen One.’

She turned once more and stared at Korbolo Dom. He stood foremost on the ramp, his stance squared, thumbs hitched into his sword-belt, studying the enemy with an air of supreme confidence that made Sha’ik want to scream.

Nothing – nothing was as it seemed.

To the west, the sun had turned the horizon into a crimson conflagration. The day was drowning in a sea of flame, and she watched shadows flowing across the land, her heart growing cold.

The alley outside Heboric’s tent was empty in both directions. The sun’s sudden descent seemed to bring a strange silence along with the gloom. Dust hung motionless in the air.

The Destriant of Treach paused in the aisle.

Behind him Scillara said, ‘Where is everyone?’

He had been wondering the same thing. Then, slowly, the hairs rose on the back of his neck. ‘Can you hear that, lass?’

‘Only the wind ...’

But there was no wind.

‘No, not wind,’ Scillara murmured. ‘A song. From far away – the Malazan army, do you think?’

He shook his head, but said nothing.