Flat, lifeless eyes studied the saturated prairie ground through his great-helm’s fixed, slitted visor. Unblinking, narrowed eyes. Watching the flow of muddy water slashed by the frenzied rain, tiny rivulets, broader sweeps, a ceaseless flow through minute channels, over exposed stone, between the knotted roots of tufted grasses.

The water wended southward.

And here, in this basin, carrying oddly-coloured silts in racing streams, it flowed uphill.

From dust. . . to mud. So you march with us after all. No, understand, I am pleased.

Kallor swung round, strode back to his horse.

He rode along his own trail, and, with dusk gathering quickly beneath the leaden clouds and driving rain, came at last to the encampment. There were no fires outside the rows of tents, and the glow of lanterns was dull through patchy canvas. The muddy aisles were crowded with Great Ravens, hunched and motionless under the deluge.

Reining in before Caladan Brood’s command tent, Kallor dismounted and strode within.

The outrider, Hurlochel, stood just within the flap, present as Brood’s messenger should such need arise. The young man was wan, half asleep at his station. Ignoring him, Kallor raised his visor and stepped past.

The warlord was uncharacteristically slumped in a camp chair, his hammer resting across his thighs. He had not bothered to clean the mud from his armour or boots. His strangely bestial eyes lifted, took in Kallor, then dropped once more. ‘I have made a mistake,’ he rumbled.

‘I agree, Warlord.’

That earned Brood’s sharpened attention. ‘You must have misunderstood . . .’

‘I have not. We should have joined Whiskeyjack. The annihilation of Onearm’s Host – no matter how much that might please me personally – will be a tactical disaster for this campaign.’

‘All very well, Kallor,’ Brood rumbled, ‘but there is little we can do about it, now.’

‘This storm will pass, Warlord. You can increase our pace come the morning – we can perhaps shave off a day. I am here for another reason, however. One that is, conveniently, related to our change of heart.’

‘Spit it out short and sweet, Kallor, or not at all.’

‘I would ride to join Whiskeyjack and Korlat.’

‘To what end? An apology?’

Kallor shrugged. ‘If that would help. More directly, however, you seem to forget my ... experience. For all that I seem to grate upon all of you, I have walked this land when the T’lan Imass were but children. I have commanded armies a hundred thousand strong. I have spread the fire of my wrath across entire continents, and sat alone upon tall thrones. Do you grasp the meaning of this?’

‘Yes. You never learn, Kallor.’

‘Clearly,’ he snapped, ‘you do not grasp the meaning. I know a field of battle better than any man alive, including you.’

‘The Malazans seem to have done very well on this continent without your help. Besides, what makes you think Whiskeyjack or Dujek will heed your suggestions?’