Korbal Broach reached up to the collar of his cloak, his pudgy, soft hands trembling, fumbling at the clasp. The black leather fell to the ground. He began stamping on it to kill the last of its smouldering patches.

Brushing dust from his arms, Bauchelain glanced over at Buke. ‘Patient of you, to await our return.’

Wiping the smile from his lips, Buke shrugged. ‘You didn’t get him. What happened?’

‘It seems,’ the necromancer muttered, ‘we must needs refine our tactics.’

The instinct of self-preservation vanished, then, as Buke softly laughed.

Bauchelain froze. One eyebrow arched. Then he sighed. ‘Yes, well. Good day to you, too, Buke.’

Buke watched him head inside.

Korbal Broach continued stomping on his cloak long after the smouldering patches had been extinguished.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In my dreams I come face to face

with myriad reflections of myself,

all unknown and passing strange.

They speak unending

in languages not my own

and walk with companions

I have never met, in places

my steps have never gone.

In my dreams I walk worlds

where forests crowd my knees

and half the sky is walled ice.

Dun herds flow like mud,

vast floods tusked and horned

surging over the plain,

and lo, they are my memories,

the migrations of my soul.

In the Time before Night

D’arayans of the Rhivi

Whiskeyjack rose in the saddle as his horse leapt over the spiny ridge of outcroppings cresting the hill. Hooves thumped as the creature resumed its gallop, crossing the mesa’s flat top, then slowing as the Malazan tautened the reins and settled back in the saddle. At a diminishing canter, he approached the summit’s far side, then drew up at its edge.

A rumpled, boulder-strewn slope led down into a broad, dry riverbed. At its base two 2nd Army scouts sat on their horses, backs to Whiskeyjack. Before them, a dozen Rhivi were moving on foot through what seemed to be a field of bones.

Huge bones.

Clicking his mount into motion, Whiskeyjack slowly worked it down onto the ancient slide. His eyes held on the scatter of bones. Massive iron blades glinted there, as well as crumpled, oddly shaped armour and helmets. He saw long, reptilian jaws, rows of jagged teeth. Clinging to some of the shattered skeletons, the remnants of grey skin.

Clearing the scree, Whiskeyjack rode up to the nearest scout.

The man saluted. ‘Sir. The Rhivi are jabbering away – can’t quite follow what they’re talking about. Looks to have been about ten of the demons. Whatever tore into them was nasty. Might be the Rhivi have gleaned more, since they’re crawling around among the corpses.’