—peace – I have you now? My gift – ah, this burden—

The Shield Anvil’s head jerked back. Drew a sobbing breath.

Settling. . . such weight! Why? Gods – you all watched. You witnessed with your immortal eyes. Yet you did not step forward. You denied my cry for help. Why?

Crouching, the Malazan moved round to face Itkovian. ‘Mallet!’ he shouted over a shoulder.

As the healer ran forward, Itkovian, his eyes finding Paran, slowly raised a hand. Swallowing his dismay, he managed to find words. ‘I know not how,’ he rasped, ‘but you have returned me ...’

Paran’s grin was forced. ‘You are the Shield Anvil.’

‘Aye,’ Itkovian whispered. And Fener forgive me, what you have done is no mercy ... ‘I am the Shield Anvil.’

‘I can feel it in the air,’ Paran said, eyes searching Itkovian’s. ‘It’s . . . it’s been cleansed.’

Aye.

And I am not yet done.

Gruntle stood watching as the Malazan and his healer spoke with the Grey Sword commander. The fog of his thoughts – which had been closed around him for what he now realized was days – had begun to thin. Details now assailed him, and the evidence of the changes within himself left him alarmed.

His eyes saw ... differently. Unhuman acuity. Motion – no matter how slight or peripheral – caught his attention, filled his awareness. Judged inconsequential or defined as threat, prey or unknown: instinctive decisions yet no longer buried deep, now lurking just beneath the surface of his mind.

He could feel his every muscle, every tendon and bone, could concentrate on each one to the exclusion of all the others, achieving a spatial sensitivity that made control absolute. He could walk a forest floor in absolute silence, if he so wished. He could freeze, shielding even the breath he drew, and become perfectly motionless.

But the changes he felt were far more profound than these physical manifestations. The violence residing within him was that of a killer. Cold and implacable, devoid of compassion or ambiguity.

And this realization terrified him.

The Tiger of Summer’s Mortal Sword. Yes, Trake, I feel you. I know what you have made of me. Dammit, you could’ve at least asked.

He looked upon his followers, knowing them to be precisely that. Followers, his very own Sworn. An appalling truth. Among them, Stonny Menackis – no, she isn’t Trake’s. She’s chosen Keruli’s Elder God. Good. If she was ever to kneel before me we wouldn’t be thinking religious thoughts . . . and how likely is that? Ah, lass . . .

Sensing his gaze, she looked at him.

Gruntle winked.

Her brows rose, and he understood her alarm, making him even more amused – his only answer to his terror at the brutal murderer hiding within him.

She hesitated, then approached. ‘Gruntle?’

‘Aye. I feel like I’ve just woken up.’

‘Yeah, well, the hangover shows, believe me.’

‘What’s been going on?’

‘You don’t know?’