‘Yes, Bidithal. He hides within?’

‘No – he wisely fled, as I am doing. The Claw and his patron god are even now slaying the last of his shadow servants. You are the Knight – you possess your own patron, Karsa Orlong of the Teblor. Kill the enemy – it is what you must do—’

Karsa smiled. ‘And so I shall.’ He reversed his grip on his sword and drove the point down between Silgar’s shoulder blades, severing the spine then punching out through the sternum to bury itself a hand’s width deep between two flagstones.

Vile fluids poured from the Slavemaster. His head cracked down on the stone, and his life was done. Leoman was right, long ago — a quick death would have been the better choice.

Karsa pulled the sword free. ‘I follow no patron god,’ he growled.

He turned from the temple entrance. Bidithal would have used sorcery to escape, drawing shadows about himself in an effort to remain unseen. Yet his passage would leave footprints in the dust.

The Toblakai stepped past the body of Silgar, the man who had once sought to enslave him, and began searching.

Twenty of Mathok’s clan warriors accompanied Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas on his return to Leoman’s encampment. Their journey was unopposed, although Corabb was certain hidden eyes followed their progress.

They rode up the slope to the hill’s summit and were challenged by sentinels. A more welcoming sound Corabb could not imagine. Familiar voices, warriors he had fought alongside against the Malazans.

‘It is Corabb!’ He had been given a hook-bladed sword drawn from the Chosen One’s armoury, and he now raised it high in salute as the picket guards emerged from their places of hiding. ‘I must speak with Leoman! Where is he?’

‘Asleep,’ one of the sentinels growled. ‘If you’re lucky, Bhilan, your arrival, loud as it was, has awakened him. Ride to the centre of the summit, but leave your escort here.’

That brought Corabb up short. ‘They are Mathok’s own—’

‘Leoman’s orders. No-one from the oasis is allowed to enter our camp.’

Scowling, Corabb nodded and waved back his fellow horse warriors. ‘Take no offence, friends,’ he called, ‘I beg you.’ Without waiting to gauge their reaction, he dismounted and hurried to Leoman’s tent.

The warleader was standing outside the flap, drinking deep from a waterskin. He was out of his armour, wearing only a thin, sweat-stained linen shirt.

Corabb halted before him. ‘There is much to tell you, Leoman of the Flails.’

‘Out with it, then,’ Leoman replied when he’d finished drinking.

‘I was your only messenger to survive to reach Sha’ik. She has had a change of heart – she now commands that you lead the Army of the Apocalpyse come the morrow. She would have you, not Korbolo Dom, leading us to victory.’

‘Would she now,’ he drawled, then squinted and looked away. ‘The Napan has his assassins between us and Sha’ik?’