‘Thus ... who was at work refashioning you into something capable of shielding me in the warrens? Hood, for one, I’d imagine. Layers of death protecting your soul. And your own Barghast gods, of course. Cutting those binding spells that constrained your own power. And Fener’s thrown you a bone, or Treach, or whoever’s on that particular roost right now – you can hit back if something comes at you. And I’d guess the Queen of Dreams has stepped in, a bridge between you and the Sleeping Goddess, to turn you into a lone and likely formidable crusader against the poison in her flesh, and in K’rul’s veins. So, you’re all ready to go, but where? How? And that’s where I come in. How am I doing so far, Talamandas?’

‘We are relying upon you, Ben Adaephon Delat,’ the sticksnare growled.

‘To do what?’

‘Whatever it is you’re planning to do!’ Talamandas shrieked. ‘And it had better work!’

After a long moment, Quick Ben grinned down at the creature.

But said nothing.

The sticksnare scrambled after Quick Ben when he left the tent. The mage paused to look around. What he had thought to be rain had been, in fact, water dripping from the leaves of a broad, verdant oak, its branches hanging over the tent. It was late afternoon, the sky clear overhead.

A Barghast encampment was sprawled out on all sides. Wicker and hide dwellings rose from the forest floor along the base of a lightly treed slope directly behind the wizard, whilst before him – to the south – were the dun-coloured humps of rounded tipis. The different styles reflected at least two distinct tribes. The mud-churned pathways crisscrossing the encampment were crowded with warriors, many wounded or bearing fallen kin.

‘Where,’ Quick Ben asked Talamandas, ‘are my fellow Bridgeburners?’

‘First into Capustan, Wizard, and still there. At the Thrall, likely.’

‘Did they get into any fighting?’

‘Only at the north gate – breaking through the siege line. Swiftly done. There are none wounded, Ben Adaephon Delat. Making your tribe unique, yes?’

‘So I see,’ Quick Ben murmured, watching the warriors filing into the camp. ‘Not much duelling of late, I take it.’

The sticksnare grunted. ‘True enough. Our gods have spoken to our shamans, who have in turn conveyed to the clan warriors a ... chastisement. It would appear that the White Faces are not yet done with these Pannions – or with your war, Wizard.’

Quick Ben glanced down. ‘You’ll be marching south with us, Talamandas?’

‘We shall. It is not enough blunting the sword – we must sever the hand wielding it.’

‘I need to contact my allies ... in the army to the west. Should I attempt a warren?’

‘I am ready.’

‘Good. Let’s find somewhere private.’

Two leagues to the west of Capustan, in the shadows edging down a broad slope, the massed ranks of Malazan heavy infantry locked shields and advanced. Marines armed with crossbows ranged ahead, firing quarrels into the milling line of Betaklites less than thirty paces distant.