The Fist left them to resume their conversation. A fog had settled on his mind, the moments before an engagement when uncertainty engendered unease and confusion. He had heard of this affliction claiming other commanders, but had not thought it would befall him. The rush of his own blood had created a wall of sound, muting the world beyond. And it seemed his other senses had dulled as well.

As he made his way towards his horse-held ready by a soldier-he shook his head, seeking to clear it. If the soldier said something to him when he took the reins and swung up into the saddle, he did not hear it.

The Adjunct had been displeased by his decision to ride into the battle. But the added mobility was, to Gamet’s mind, worth the risk. He set out through the camp at a slow canter. Fires had been allowed to die, the scenes surrounding him strangely ethereal. He passed figures hunched down around coals and envied them their freedom. Life had been simpler as a plain soldier. Gamet had begun to doubt his ability to command.

Age is no instant purchase of wisdom. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? She may have made me a Fist and given me a legion. And soldiers might well salute when they pass-though of course not here, in enemy territory, thank Hood. No, all these trappings are no assurance of my competence.

This night shall be my first test. Gods, I should have stayed retired. I should have refused her insistence-dammit, her assumption-that I would simply accept her wishes.

There was, he had come to believe, a weakness within him. A fool might call it a virtue, such… pliable equanimity. But he knew better.

He rode on, the fog of his mind growing ever thicker.

Eight hundred warriors crouched motionless, ghostly, amidst the boulders on the plain. Wearing dulled armour and telabas the colour of the terrain around them, they were virtually invisible, and Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas felt a surge of dark pride, even as another part of his mind wondered at Leoman’s protracted… hesitation.

Their warchief lay flat on the slope’s rise ten paces ahead. He had not moved in some time. Despite the chill, sweat trickled beneath Corabb’s armour, and he shifted his grip once more on the unfamiliar tulwar in his right hand. He’d always preferred axe-like weapons-something with a haft he could, if need be, grip with his other hand. He disliked the blade edge that reached down all the way to the hilt and wished he’d had time to file it blunt for the first half of its length.

I am a warrior who cannot tolerate sharp edges close to his body. Which spirits thought to make of me such an embodiment of confused irony? I curse them all.

He could wait no longer, and slowly crawled up alongside Leoman of the Flails.

Beyond the crest sprawled another basin, this one hummocked and thick with thorny brush. It flanked the encamped Malazan army on this side, and was between sixty and seventy paces in breadth.

‘Foolish,’ Corabb muttered, ‘to have chosen to stop here. I think we need have nothing to fear from this Adjunct.’

The breath slowly hissed between Leoman’s teeth. ‘Aye, plenty of cover for our approach.’

‘Then why do we wait, Warchief?’

‘I am wondering, Corabb.’

‘Wondering?’

‘About the Empress. She was once Mistress of the Claw. Its fierce potency was given shape by her, and we have all learned to fear those mage-assassins. Ominous origins, yes? And then, as Empress, there were the great leaders of her imperial military. Dujek Onearm. Admiral Nok. Coltaine. Greymane.’

‘But here, this night, Warchief, we face none of those.’

‘True. We face the Adjunct Tavore, who was personally chosen by the Empress. To act as the fist of her vengeance.’

Corabb frowned, then he shrugged. ‘Did the Empress not also choose High Fist Pormqual? Korbolo Dom? Did she not demote Whiskeyjack-the fiercest Malazan our tribes ever faced? And, if the tales are true, she was also responsible for the assassination of Dassem Ultor.’

‘Your words are sharp, Corabb. She is not immune to grave… errors in judgement. Well then, let us make her pay for them.’ He twisted round and gestured his warriors forward.

Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas grinned. Perhaps the spirits would smile on him this night. Pray that I find a worthy axe or mace among the countless dead Malazan soldiers.

Borduke’s squad had found a small hill for their position, swearing and cursing as they clawed their way to its modest summit, then began digging holes and repositioning rocks.

Their hill was likely some old round barrow-the hummocks in this basin were far too regular to be natural. Twenty paces away, Fiddler listened to the 6th squad marines muttering and shuffling about on their strong-point, their efforts punctuated every now and then by Borduke’s impatient growl. Fifty paces to the west another squad was digging in on another hill, and the sergeant began to wonder if they’d held off too long. Barrows tended to be big heaps of rocks beneath the cloak of sandy soil, after all, and burrowing into them was never easy. He could hear rocks being pried loose, iron shovels grating on heavy granite, and a few tumbling wildly down the hillsides through the thick, brittle bushes.

Hood’s breath, how clumsy do you idiots have to get?

As Corabb was about to move on to the next cover, Leoman’s gloved hand reached out and snagged his shoulder. The warrior froze.

And now he could hear it. There were soldiers in the basin.

Leoman moved up alongside him. ‘Outlying pickets,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘On those barrows. It seems she’s sent us a gift after all,’ the Warchief added with a grin. ‘Listen to them stumble about-they waited too long, and now the darkness confounds them.’

There was no difficulty in locating the enemy positions-they’d selected the barrows one and all, and were making loud work of digging in. And, Corabb realized, they were spaced too far apart for mutual support. Each position could be easily isolated, surrounded, and every last soldier slaughtered. Long before any relief could arrive from the main camp.

Likely, Corabb reflected as he slipped through the darkness towards the nearest enemy position, the Malazans had been anticipating a predawn raid, identical to the first one. And so the Adjunct had ordered the emplacements as a pre-emptive measure. But, as Leoman had once explained to him, every element of an army in the field needed to follow the rules of mutual support-even the pickets where first contact would occur. Clearly, the Adjunct had failed to apply this most basic tenet.

Added to her inability to control her Seti horse warriors, this was further proof, in Corabb’s eyes, of Tavore’s incompetence.

He adjusted his grip on the tulwar, halting fifteen paces from the nearest strong-point. He could actually see the helms of at least two of the Malazan soldiers, poking up over the holes they had dug. Corabb concentrated on slowing his breathing, and waited for the signal.

Gamet reined in at the edge of the now unoccupied marine camp. The quiet call would have gone out through the rest of the army, awakening the cutters and healers. Precautionary, of course, since there was no way to predict whether the raiders would attack from the approach the Adjunct had arranged. Given that all the other angles held either natural obstacles or easily defensible positions, the desert warleader might well balk at such an obvious invitation. As he waited, the Fist began to think that nothing would come of this gambit, at least on this night. And what were the chances that a day’s march would bring the army to yet another ideal combination of terrain and timing?

He settled back in the saddle, the strange, cloying lassitude in his mind deepening. The night had, if anything, grown even darker, the stars struggling to pierce the veil of suspended dust.