A side-step, a downward chop, severing the arm—

But the marine had already surrendered it, and her left hand, gripping a pig-sticker, was unimpeded as it punched through the chainlinks covering Kallor’s stomach.

The edge of Kallor’s sword carved up through the marine’s throat. She spun in a red spray, toppled.

Gasping, the ancient warrior reeled back, yellow-streaked blood spurting from the hole in his stomach. ‘Chained One!’ he screamed. ‘Heal me!’

Hot – a warren—

—not chaotic – where?

A wave of knotted gold hammered into Kallor, swallowed him in frenzied fire. He shrieked, thrown off his feet, battered as the magic pursued, ripping into him, blood threading the air as he sprawled to the ground.

A second wave rolled towards the man, coruscating with sunfire—

The warren that opened around Kallor was a miasmic stain, a sickly tear – that swept around him—

—to vanish, taking Kallor with it.

The golden sorcery flickered, dissipated.

No – such control. Who?

Korlat’s body no longer spasmed. It was now numb and cool, strangely remote. Blood was filling one eye. She had to keep blinking to clear it. She was lying on the ground, she finally realized. Kallor had struck her—

Someone knelt by her side, a soft, warm hand settling on her cheek.

Korlat struggled to focus.

‘It’s me, Silverfox. Help is coming—’

The Tiste Andii tried to lift a hand, to manage some kind of gesture towards Whiskeyjack, but the desire remained within her mind, racing in circles, and she knew by the faint feel of damp grasses under her palm that her hand did not heed her call.

‘Korlat! Look at me. Please. Brood is coming – and I see a black dragon approaching from the west – Orfantal? The warlord possesses High Denul, Korlat. You must hold on—’

A shadow over her face. Silverfox glancing up, features twisting into something bitter. ‘Tell me,’ she said to the newcomer, ‘the sorcery that accompanied Kallor’s betrayal: was it truly so efficacious as to leave you stunned for so long? Or did you hold back? Calculating your moment, observing the consequences of your inaction – after all, you’ve done it before, Tayschrenn, haven’t you?’

Tayschrenn?

But the ragged, pain-racked voice that replied was that of Artanthos, the standard-bearer. ‘Silverfox. Please. I would not—’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘No. Whiskeyjack – he’s—’

‘I know,’ Silverfox snapped.

A poorly mended leg . . . never the right time – Brood could have—

He’s dead. Oh, my love, no . . .

Blurred figures were on all sides now. Malazan soldiers. Barghast. Someone began keening with grief.