‘Where is Hareb’s company right now, soldier?’

‘Not far, High Fist. Follow me.’

Hareb, that Seven Cities noble-born with the permanent sneer. Gods, 1 could kiss the man.

Moving to the head of his legion, Gruntle watched the Shield Anvil of the Grey Swords approach. The woman reined in even as he arrived.

‘I greet you, sir,’ she said, only the lower half of her face visible beneath the helm’s broad, flaring cheek-guards. ‘We are about to advance upon the enemy – would you flank us?’

The Daru grimaced. ‘No, Shield Anvil.’

She hesitated, then gave a brusque nod and gathered up her reins. ‘As you wish, sir. No dishonour in refusing a suicidal engagement.’

‘You misunderstand,’ Gruntle interrupted her. ‘My legion leads, you follow in our wake – as close as you can. We’ll drive across that stone bridge and head straight for the gate. Granted, it looks damned solid, but we might still batter it down.’

‘We are seeking to relieve Dujek Onearm, agreed, Mortal Sword?’

‘Aye.’ And we both know we will fail.

They turned at the sound of horns, the sudden staccato of Malazan drums.

The standard-bearer – sorcery swirling from the man like flecks of gold – seemed to have taken command, calling together the company officers. Along the line, shields were readied, locked overlapping. Pikes, twice the height of a man, wavered like wind-tugged reeds above the ranks of soldiery – an uncharacteristic unsteadiness that Gruntle found disturbing.

Artanthos had despatched a rider who rode towards the Daru and the Shield Anvil at a gallop.

The Malazan reined in. ‘Sirs! The High Mage Tayschrenn would know your intentions!’

Gruntle bared his teeth. ‘Tayschrenn, is it? Let’s hear his, first.’

‘Dujek, sirs. These K’Chain Che’Malle must be broken, the gate breached, an assault on the defenders—’

‘And what of the High Mage himself?’ the Shield Anvil enquired.

‘They’re mages on the walls, sir. Tayschrenn will endeavour to deny their involvement. Orfantal and his Tiste Andii will seek to assist us in our attack upon the K’Chain Che’Malle, as will the shouldermen of the White Faces.’

‘Inform the High Mage,’ the Shield Anvil said, ‘that Trake’s Legion will initiate the charge, supported by my company.’

The soldier saluted and rode back towards the Malazan line.

Gruntle turned to study his followers. He wondered again at the effect that the Lord of Summer’s gift had had upon these grim-faced Capans. Like D’ivers . . . only in reverse. From many, to one – and such power! They had crossed the land swift as a flowing shadow. Gruntle had found himself looking out upon the world with a tiger’s eyes – no, not simply a tiger, a creature immortal, boundless in strength, a mass of muscle and bone within which was the Legion. His Legion. A will, fused, terrifyingly focused.

And now they would become that beast once again. This time, to enter battle.