His god seemed to possess a particular hatred for these K’Chain Che’Malle, as if Treach had a score to settle. The cold killer was giving way to bloodlust – a realization that left Gruntle vaguely troubled.

His gaze flicked to the hilltop – to see Caladan Brood, Korlat slowly straightening beside him. Distance was irrelevant – she was covered in blood, and he could feel the sickly pain that flowed and ebbed, then flowed again within her.

Brood’s warren suffers, and if that’s the case, then so too must. . . He swung round, back to where Artanthos – High Mage Tayschrenn – stood before the Malazan companies. Ah, I see the price he pays. . . ‘Shield Anvil.’

‘Sir?’

‘‘Ware the mages on the city wall.’

‘We await you, sir.’

Gruntle nodded.

A moment later, the Mortal Sword and his Legion were one, bones and muscle merging, identities – entire lives – swept under a deluge of cold, animal rage.

A tawny swirl, surging, flowing forward.

Ahead, K’Chain Che’Malle raised weapons. And stood their ground.

Again. We have done this before – no, not us. Our Lord. Tearing dead flesh . . . the spray of blood . . . blood ... oh, Hood—

Kurald Galain, the darkness within the soul, flowing out’ ward, filling her limbs, sweeping round to swallow her feelings – the comfort of oblivion. Korlat stood, her back to the three lifeless figures on the hilltop that still lay where they fell. Stood, silent, the power of her warren – flickering, dimming to surges of pain – reaching out, seeking her kin.

Caladan Brood, hammer unlimbered in his hands, was beside her. He was speaking, his rumbling voice as distant as thunder on the sea’s horizon. ‘Late afternoon. No earlier. It will be over long before then ... one way or another. Korlat, please listen to me. You must seek your Lord – that storm-cloud, does Moon’s Spawn hide within it? He said he would come. At the precise moment. He said he would strike...’

Korlat no longer heard him.

Orfantal was veering, there before the now marching Malazan forces, black, blossoming outward, wings spreading, sinuous neck lifting – a thudding pulsation of sorcery and the dragon was in the air, climbing—

Condors winged out from the keep, a dozen of the demonic creatures, each linked by a writhing chain of chaotic magic.

On the plain below, the beast that was the Mortal Sword and Trake’s Legion seemed to flow in and out of her vision, blurred, deadly motion – and struck the line of K’Chain Che’Malle.

Sorcery stained the air around the impact in blood-spattered sheets as within the savage maelstrom blades flashed. A K’ell Hunter reeled away and toppled, its bones shattered. The huge tiger twisted from side to side as swords descended, tore into its flanks. Where each blade struck, human figures fell away from the beast, limbs severed, torsos cut through, heads crushed.

Sorcery was building along the top of the city wall.

Korlat saw Artanthos – Tayschrenn – step forward then, to answer it.