‘No, Captain. At the very least. . .’ He fell silent.

At the very least, they’ve a better chance of getting out alive. I hear you, Quick. ‘OK, Mallet, make your run when you’re ready.’

‘Push and pull, Captain.’

‘And to you, Healer.’

With a grunted command, the squad scrambled for the trapdoor.

Dujek dragged the wounded soldier through the doorway, and only then noticed that the man’s legs had been left behind, and the trail of blood leading back to the limbs thinned to virtually nothing by the time it reached the threshold. He let the body drop, sagged against the frame.

The K’Chain Che’Malle had cut through the company in the span of a dozen heartbeats, and though the Hunter had lost an arm, it had not slowed as it thumped westward – in search of another company of hapless Malazans.

Dujek’s elite bodyguard of Untan heavy infantry lay in a chopped ruin in front of the building into which they had pushed the High Fist. As sworn, they’d given their lives in his defence. At the moment, however, Dujek would rather they’d failed – or, better yet, fled.

Locked in battle since dawn with Beklites, Urdomen and Seerdomin, Onearm’s Host had more than held its own. And when the first dozen or so K’Chain Che’Malle appeared, Moranth munitions – cussers and burners – destroyed the undead K’ell Hunters. The same fate befell the second wave. By the time the third arrived, the cussers were gone, and soldiers died by the score. The fifth and sixth waves were met only with swords, and battle became slaughter.

Dujek had no idea how many remained among the five thousand Malazans who had been delivered into the city. He did not think a cohesive defence still existed. The battle had become a hunt, plain and simple. A cleansing by the K’Chain Che’Malle of pockets of Malazan resistance.

Until recently, he could still hear sounds of battle – of collapsing walls and perhaps sorcery – from the keep, though perhaps, he now reflected, he had been wrong in that – the storm-cloud that filled the sky to the south was itself thundering, arcs of lightning splitting the sky to lance at the thrashing seas below. Its rage now overwhelmed all other sounds.

A scrabble of boots behind him. Dujek swung about, shortsword in hand.

‘High Fist!’

‘Which company, soldier?’

‘Eleventh, sir,’ the woman gasped. ‘Captain Hareb sent a squad to look for you, High Fist. I’m what’s left.’

‘Does Hareb still hold?’

‘Aye, sir. We’re collecting souvenirs – pieces of K’Chain Che’Malle.’

‘And how in Hood’s name are you managing that?’

‘Twist, sir, he led a final flight in with the last of the munitions – mostly sharpers and crackers, High Fist – but the sappers are rigging buildings along our retreat, dropping tons of brick and stone on the damned lizards – your pardon, sir – on the Hunters.’