‘For the Grey Swords,’ Itkovian said, struggling to contain his own welling of pain and anguish. ‘It must be done, sir,’ he rasped. ‘Togg, Lord of Winter, a god of war long forgotten, recalled among the Barghast as the wolf-spirit, Togctha. And his lost mate, the she-wolf, Fanderay. Farand in the Barghast tongue. Among our company, now, more women than men. A Reve must be proclaimed, kneeling before the wolf god and the wolf goddess. You are to be the Shield Anvil, sir. And you,’ he said to the recruit – whose eyes were wide – ‘are to be the Destriant. The Grey Swords are remade, sirs. The sanction is here, now, among these wise women.’

The captain stepped back, armour clanking. ‘Sir, you are the Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords—’

‘No. I am the Shield Anvil of Fener, and Fener, sir, is... gone.’

‘The company is virtually destroyed, sir,’ the veteran pointed out. ‘Our recovery is unlikely. The matter of quality—’

‘You will require fanatics, Captain. That cast of mind, of breeding and culture, is vital. You must search, sir, you must needs find such people. People with nothing left to their lives, with their faith dismantled. People who have been made ... lost.’

Norul was shaking her head, but he could see growing comprehension in her grey eyes.

‘Captain,’ Itkovian continued inexorably, ‘the Grey Swords shall march with the two foreign armies. South, to see the end of the Pannion Domin. And, at a time deemed propitious, you will recruit. You will find the people you seek, sir, among the Tenescowri.’

Fear not, I shall not abandon you yet, my friend. There is much you must learn.

And, it seems, no end to my purpose.

He saw the bleakness come to her, saw it, and struggled against the horror of what he had done. Some things should never be shared. And that is my most terrible crime, for to the title – the burden that is Shield Anvil – I gave her no choice.

I gave her no choice.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

There were dark surprises that day.

The Year of the Gathering

Koralb

‘We are being followed.’

Silverfox turned in her saddle, eyes narrowing. She sighed. ‘My two Malazan minders.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘I doubt we’ll dissuade them.’

Kruppe smiled. ‘Clearly, your preternaturally unseen departure from the camp was less than perfect in its sorcerous efficacy. More witnesses, then, to the forthcoming fell event. Are you shy of audiences, lass? Dreadful flaw, if so—’

‘No, Kruppe, I am not.’

‘Shall we await them?’

‘Something tells me they prefer it this way – at a distance. We go on, Daru. We’re almost there.’

Kruppe scanned the low grass-backed hills on all sides. The sun’s morning light was sharp, stripping away the last of shadows in the broad, shallow basins. They were, barring the two Malazan soldiers a thousand paces behind them, entirely alone. ‘A modest army, it seems,’ he observed. ‘Entrenched in gopher holes, no doubt.’