Lieutenant Picker blinked sweat from her eyes. She had brought Antsy and his squad as close as possible, lying flat along the edge of an overgrown woodcutter’s path thirty or forty paces up the mountainside’s east-facing flank. Coral’s high walls were to their right, southeasterly; the killing field directly opposite and the parkland to their left. Packed ranks of Pannion Beklites had assembled in the killing field, were arranged to face the mountain – and the entrenchments now held by Dujek and six thousand of Onearm’s Host.

The sergeant lying beside her grunted. ‘There, coming through the gate. That’s some kind of standard, and that clump of riders... sitting too tall...’

‘A Septarch and his officers,’ Picker agreed. ‘So, Antsy, does your count match mine?’

‘Twenty-five, thirty thousand,’ the man muttered, tugging on his moustache.

‘But we’ve the high ground—’

‘Aye, only those trenches and tunnels weren’t meant to be defended – they were hiding places. Too many straight lines, no cul-de-sacs, no funnels, no chance for an enfilade – and too many Hood-damned trees!’

‘The sappers are—’

‘They ain’t got the time!’

‘So it seems,’ Picker agreed. ‘Mind you, do you see any of those condors gathering to join in the assault?’

‘No, but that don’t mean—’

‘What it means, Sergeant, is the Seer is holding them back. He knows we’re not the main punch. We messed up his ambush and knocked out a company, and no doubt that’s irritated him enough to send out, what, a third of his army? Maybe a cadre of mages to guard the Septarch? And if they find out we’re a bear in a den, I doubt they’ll push—’

‘Unless the Seer decides that killing six thousand of the Host is worth a third of his army, Picker. If I was him—’

The lieutenant grimaced. ‘Aye, me too.’ I’d annihilate us, stamp us out before the rest arrive. ‘Still, I don’t think the Seer’s that sharp – after all, what does he know of the Malazans? Distant tales of wars far to the north ... an invasion that’s bogged down. He’d have no reason to know what we’re capable of.’

‘Picker, you’re fishing with a bare hook. The Seer knows we’ve somehow jumped onto his entrenchments. Knows we slipped past those condors without tickling a single beak. Knows we knocked flat an entire company using Moranth munitions. Knows we’re sitting here, watching this army assemble, and we ain’t running. Knows, too, we ain’t got any support – not yet – and maybe, just maybe, we jumped in the slough before the shit’s settled.’

Picker said nothing for a time. The Pannion legions had settled, officers dispersing to take positions at the head of each one. Drums rattled. Pikes lifted skyward. Then before each arrayed legion, sorcery began to play.

Oh... ‘Where’s Blend?’

‘Here.’

‘Hightail it back to Dujek—’