Then Whiskeyjack saw Anomander Rake’s head turn.

The dragon dropped lower, a wide expanse clearing before it as the Tenescowri flung themselves away, leaving only a half-score of figures, lying prone but evincing motion none the less – slowly, agonizingly attempting to regain their feet.

The Women of the Dead Seed.

The dragon, flying now at a man’s height over the ground, sembled, blurred as it closed on the witches, reformed into the Lord of Moon’s Spawn – who strode towards the old women, hand reaching up to draw his sword.

‘Korlat—’

‘I am sorry, Whiskeyjack.’

‘He’s going to—’

‘I know.’

Whiskeyjack stared in horror as Anomander Rake reached the first of the women, a scrawny, hunchbacked hag half the Tiste Andii’s height, and swung Dragnipur.

Her head dropped to the ground at her feet on a stream of gore. The body managed an eerie side-step, as if dancing, then crumpled.

Anomander Rake walked to the next woman.

‘No – this is not right—’

‘Please—’

Ignoring Korlat’s plea, Whiskeyjack spurred his horse forward, down the slope at a canter, then a gallop as they reached level ground.

Another woman was slain, then a third before the Malazan arrived, sawing his reins to bring his horse to a skidding halt directly in Rake’s path.

The Lord of Moon’s Spawn was forced to halt his stride. He looked up in surprise, then frowned.

‘Stop this,’ Whiskeyjack grated. He realized he still held his sword unsheathed, saw Rake’s unhuman eyes casually note it before the Tiste Andii replied.

‘To one side, my friend. What I do is a mercy—’

‘No, it is a judgement, Anomander Rake. And,’ he added, eyes on Dragnipur’s black blade, ‘a sentence.’

The Lord’s answering smile was oddly wistful. ‘If you would have it as you say, Whiskeyjack. None the less, I claim the right to judgement of these creatures.’

‘I will not oppose that, Anomander Rake.’

‘Ah, it is the ... sentence, then.’

‘It is.’

The Lord sheathed his sword. ‘Then it must be by your hand, friend. And quickly, for they recover their powers.’

He flinched in his saddle. ‘I am no executioner.’

‘You’d best become one, or step aside. Now.’

Whiskeyjack wheeled his horse round. The seven remaining women were indeed regaining their senses, though he saw in the one nearest him a glaze of incomprehension lingering still in her aged, yellowed eyes.

Hood take me—

He kicked his mount into motion, readied his blade in time to drive its point into the nearest woman’s chest.

Dry skin parted almost effortlessly. Bones snapped like twigs. The victim reeled back, fell.

Pushing his horse on, Whiskeyjack shook the blood from his sword, then, reaching the next woman, he swung cross-ways, opened wide her throat.