Even as the Bridgeburners began to bolt, a wall close to the K’Chain Che’Malle exploded onto the street. Another Hunter arrived within the dust and bricks that tumbled out, this one a chopped-up ruin, head swinging wildly – connected to neck by a thin strip of tendon – missing one arm, a leg ending in a stump at the ankle. The creature fell, pounded onto the cobbles, ribs snapping, and did not move.

The Bridgeburners froze in place.

As did the first K’Chain Che’Malle. Then it hissed and swung to face the ragged hole in the building’s wall.

Through the dust stepped a T’lan Imass. Desiccated flesh torn, hanging in strips, the gleam of bone visible everywhere, a skull-helmed head that had once held horns. The flint sword in its hands was so notched it appeared denticulated.

Ignoring the Malazans, it turned to the other K’Chain Che’Malle.

The Hunter hissed and attacked.

Picker’s eyes could not fully register the speed of the exchange of blows. All at once, it seemed, the K’Chain Che’Malle was toppling, a leg severed clean above what passed for a knee. A sword clanged on the cobbles as a dismembered arm fell. The T’lan Imass had stepped back, and now moved forward once more, an overhead chop that shattered bone down through shoulder, chest, then hip, bursting free to strike the cobbles in a spray of sparks.

The K’ell Hunter collapsed.

The lone T’lan Imass turned to face the keep, and began walking.

Picker and the others watched the warrior stride past them, continue on up the street.

‘Hood’s breath!’ Blend muttered.

‘Come on!’ Picker snapped.

‘Where?’ Corporal Aimless demanded.

‘After him,’ she replied, setting off. ‘Looks like the safest place to be is in that thing’s shadow.’

‘But it’s heading for the keep!’

‘Then so are we!’

Crusted in mud, boots dragging, Whiskeyjack’s army slowly moved forward to form a line facing the killing field, and the city beyond it. Far to either flank were the Barghast, Ilgres Clan on one side, White Faces on the other.

Korlat left her horse with the others behind the line and strode to the low hill immediately to the west of the trader road, where stood Whiskeyjack, Kallor and the standard-bearer, Artanthos.

They had witnessed, one and all, the aerial battles over Coral, the slaughter of the Black Moranth and at least one wing carrying troops of Onearm’s Host. They had watched the bombardment, but not a single soldier on the ridge had cheered. There could be no disguising the brutal truth: Dujek was trapped in Coral, his army was being slaughtered, and Whiskeyjack and his exhausted force could do little about it.