Another party emerged, from the right. Soldiers, wearing uniforms Itkovian did not recognize, and, in their company, figures displaying barbed, feline tattooing. Leading the latter group, a man Itkovian had seen before. The Shield Anvil’s steps slowed.

Gruntle. The name was a hammerblow to his chest. Brutal certainty forced his next thoughts. The Mortal Sword of Trake, Tiger of Summer. The First Hero is ascended.

We . . . we are replaced.

Steeling himself, Itkovian resumed his pace, then halted in the centre of the expanse.

A single soldier in the foreign uniform had moved up alongside Gruntle. He closed a hand around the big Daru’s striped arm and barked something back to the others, who all stopped, while the man and Gruntle continued on, directly towards Itkovian.

A commotion from the Thrall’s gate caught their attention. Priests and priestesses of the Mask Council were emerging, holding a struggling comrade among them as they hastened forward. In the lead, Rath’Trake. A step behind, the Daru merchant, Keruli.

The soldier and Gruntle reached Itkovian first.

Beneath the Daru’s helm, Gruntle’s tiger eyes studied the Shield Anvil. ‘Itkovian of the Grey Swords,’ he rumbled, ‘it is done.’

Itkovian had no need to ask for elaboration. The truth was a knife in his heart.

‘No, it isn’t,’ the foreign soldier snapped. ‘I greet you, Shield Anvil. I am Captain Paran, of the Bridgeburners. Onearm’s Host.’

‘He is more than that,’ Gruntle muttered. ‘What he claims now—’

‘Is nothing I do willingly,’ Paran finished. ‘Shield Anvil. Fener has been torn from his realm. He strides a distant land. You – your company – you have lost your god.’

And so it is known to all. ‘We are aware of this, sir.’

‘Gruntle says that your place, your role, is done. The Grey Swords must step aside, for a new god of war has gained pre-eminence. But that doesn’t have to be. A path for you has been prepared...’ Paran’s gaze went past Itkovian. He raised his voice. ‘Welcome, Humbrall Taur. Your children no doubt await within the Thrall.’

The Shield Anvil glanced back over his shoulder to see, standing ten paces behind him, a huge Barghast warchief in coin-threaded armour.

‘They can wait a while longer,’ Humbrall Taur growled. ‘I would witness this.’

Paran grimaced. ‘Nosy bastard—’

‘Aye.’

The Malazan returned his attention to Itkovian and made to speak, but the Shield Anvil interrupted him: ‘A moment, sir.’ He stepped past the two men.

Rath’Fener jerked and twisted in the grip of his fellow priests. His mask was awry, wisps of grey hair pulled free of the leather strapping. ‘Shield Anvil!’ he cried upon seeing Itkovian’s approach. ‘In the name of Fener—’

‘In his name, aye, sir,’ Itkovian cut in. ‘To my side, Captain Norul. The Reve’s law is invoked.’

‘Sir,’ the grizzled woman replied, stepping forward.

‘You can’t!’ Rath’Fener screamed. ‘For this, only the Mortal Sword can invoke the Reve!’

Itkovian stood motionless.