‘No.’ We’re not at risk of crossing blades, so there won’t be any sharing of this one. ‘No,’ he repeated. Not this time.

He could almost hear Dujek’s teeth grinding.

Korlat joined them. ‘A strange young man, the one known as Anaster.’

The two Malazans turned at her words.

‘Does that surprise you?’ Dujek asked.

She shrugged. ‘There was much hidden within the darkness of his soul, High Fist. More than just a soldier’s face. He could not bear leading his army. Could not bear to see the starvation, the loss and desperation. And so was resolved to send it to its death, to absolute annihilation. As an act of mercy, no less. To relieve the suffering.

‘For himself, he committed crimes that could only be answered with death. Execution at the hands of those survivors among his victims. But not a simple death – he seeks something more. He seeks damnation as his sentence. An eternity of damnation. I cannot fathom such self-loathing.’

I can, for I feel as if I am tottering on the very edge of that steep slope myself. One more misstep ... Whiskeyjack looked away, towards the Malazan legions massed on the distant ridge. The sun flashing from armour and weapons was blinding, making his eyes water.

Dujek moved his horse away, rejoining Artanthos, Brood and Kallor.

Leaving Whiskeyjack alone with Korlat.

She reached up, touched his gauntleted hand.

He could not meet her gaze, continued studying the motionless lines of his soldiers.

‘My love,’ she murmured. ‘Those women – they were not defenceless. The power they drew on came from the Warren of Chaos itself. My Lord’s initial attack was intended to destroy them; instead, it but left them momentarily stunned. They were recovering. And, in their awakened power, they would have unleashed devastation. Madness and death, for your army. This entire day could have been lost.’

He grimaced. ‘I do not rail at necessity,’ he said.

‘It seems ... you do.’

‘War has its necessities, Korlat, and I have always understood that. Always known the cost. But, this day, by my own hand, I have realized something else. War is not a natural state. It is an imposition, and a damned unhealthy one. With its rules, we willingly yield our humanity. Speak not of just causes, worthy goals. We are takers of life. Servants of Hood, one and all.’

‘The Women of the Dead Seed would have killed hundreds, perhaps thousands, Whiskeyjack—’

‘And I have commanded the same, in my time, Korlat. What difference is there between us?’

‘You are not afraid of the questions that follow such acts,’ she said. ‘Those that you willingly ask of yourself. Perhaps you see that as self-destructive ruthlessness, but I see it as courage – a courage that is extraordinary. A man less brave would have left my Lord to his unseemly task.’

‘These are pointless words, Korlat. The army standing over there has witnessed its commander committing murder—’