Gamet understood their horror, saw with a certain satisfaction the terror in their faces as he and his comrades delivered death.

He could hear the battle song now, rising and falling like waves on a pebbled shore, yet building towards a climax yet to come-yet to come, but soon. Soon. Yes, we’ve needed a song. We’ve waited a long time for such a song. To honour our deeds, our struggles. Our lives and our deaths. We’ve needed our own voice, so that our spirits could march, march ever onward.

To battle.

To war.

Manning these walls of crumbled brick and sand. Defending the bone-dry harbours and the dead cities that once blazed with ancient dreams, that once flickered life’s reflection on the warm, shallow sea.

Even memories need to be defended.

Even memories.

He fought on, side by side with his dark warrior companions-and so grew to love them, these stalwart comrades, and when at last the dragon-helmed horse warrior rode up and reined in before him, Gamet whirled his sword in greeting.

The rider laughed once again. Reached up a blood-spattered, gauntleted hand, and raised the visor-to reveal the face of a dark-skinned woman, her eyes a stunning blue within a web of desert lines.

‘There are more!’ Gamet shouted-though even to his own ears his voice sounded far away. ‘More enemies! We must ride!’

Her teeth flashed white as she laughed again. ‘Not the tribes, my friend! They are kin. This battle is done-others will shed blood come the morrow. We march to the shores, soldier-will you join us?’

He saw more than professional interest in her eyes.

‘I shall.’

‘You would leave your friends, Gamet Ul’Paran?’

‘For you, yes.’

Her smile, and the laugh that followed, stole the old man’s heart.

A final glance to the other ramps showed no movement. The Wickans to the east had ridden on, although a lone crow was wheeling overhead. The Malazans to the west had withdrawn. And the butterflies had vanished. In the trenches of the Dogslayers, an hour before dawn, only the dead remained.

Vengeance. She will be pleased. She will understand, and be pleased.

As am I.

Goodbye, Adjunct Tavore.

Koryk slowly settled down beside him, stared northeastward as if seeking to discover what so held the man’s attention. ‘What is it?’ he asked after a time. ‘What are you looking at, Sergeant?’

Fiddler wiped at his eyes. ‘Nothing… or nothing that makes sense.’

‘We’re not going to see battle in the morning, are we?’

He glanced over, studied the young Seti’s hard-edged features, wanting to see something in them, though he was not quite certain what. After a moment, he sighed and shrugged. ‘The glory of battle, Koryk, dwells only in the bard’s voice, in the teller’s woven words. Glory belongs to ghosts and poets. What you hear and dream isn’t the same as what you live-blur the distinction at your own peril, lad.’

‘You’ve been a soldier all your life, Sergeant. If it doesn’t ease a thirst within you, why are you here?’

‘I’ve no answer to that,’ Fiddler admitted. ‘I think, maybe, I was called here.’

‘That song Bottle said you were hearing?’

‘Aye.’

‘What does it mean? That song?’

‘Quick Ben will have a better answer to that, I think. But my gut is whispering one thing over and over again. The Bridgeburners, lad, have ascended.’

Koryk made a warding sign and edged away slightly.

‘Or, at least, the dead ones have. The rest of us, we’re just… malingering. Here in the mortal realm.’

‘Expecting to die soon, then?’

Fiddler grunted. ‘Wasn’t planning on it.’

‘Good, because we like our sergeant just fine.’

The Seti moved away. Fiddler returned his gaze to the distant oasis. Appreciate that, lad. He narrowed his eyes, but the darkness defied him. Something was going on there. Feels as if… as if friends are fighting. I can almost hear sounds of battle. Almost.

Suddenly, two howls rose into the night.

Fiddler was on his feet. ‘Hood’s breath!’

From Smiles: ‘Gods, what was that?’

No. Couldn’t have been. But…

And then the darkness above the oasis began to change.

The row of horse warriors rode up before them amidst swirling dust, the horses stamping and tossing heads in jittery fear.

Beside him, Leoman of the Flails raised a hand to halt his company, then gestured Corabb to follow as he trotted his mount towards the newcomers.

Mathok nodded in greeting. ‘We have missed you, Leoman-’

‘My shaman has fallen unconcious,’ Leoman cut in. ‘He chose oblivion over terror. What is going on in the oasis, Mathok?’

The warleader made a warding sign. ‘Raraku has awakened. Ghosts have risen, the Holy Desert’s very own memories.’

‘And who is their enemy?’

Mathok shook his head. ‘Betrayal upon betrayal, Leoman. I have withdrawn my warriors from the oasis and encamped them between Sha’ik and the Malazans. Chaos has claimed all else-’

‘So you do not have an answer for me.’

‘I fear the battle is already lost-’

‘Sha’ik?’

‘I have the Book with me. I am sworn to protect it.’

Leoman frowned.

Shifting on his saddle, Corabb glared northeastward. Preternatural darkness engulfed the oasis, and it seemed to swarm as if filled with living creatures, winged shadows, spectral demons. And on the ground beneath, he thought he could see the movement of masses of soldiery. Corabb shivered.

‘To Y’Ghatan?’ Leoman asked.

Mathok nodded. ‘With my own tribe as escort. Leaving almost nine thousand desert warriors at your disposal… for you to command.’

But Leoman shook his head. ‘This battle will belong to the Dogslayers, Mathok. There is no choice left to me. I have not the time to greatly modify our tactics. The positions are set-she waited too long. You did not answer me, Mathok. What of Sha’ik?’

‘The goddess holds her still,’ the warleader replied. ‘Even Korbolo Dom’s assassins cannot get to her.’

‘The Napan must have known that would happen,’ Leoman muttered. ‘And so he has planned… something else.’

Mathok shook his head. ‘My heart has broken this night, my friend.’

Leoman studied the old warrior for a time, then he nodded. ‘Until Y’Ghatan, then, Mathok.’

‘You ride to Sha’ik?’

‘I must.’

‘Tell her-’

‘I will.’

Mathok nodded, unmindful of the tears glistening down his lined cheeks. He straightened suddenly in his saddle. ‘Dryjhna once belonged to us, Leoman. To the tribes of this desert. The Book’s prophecies were sewn to a far older skin. The Book was in truth naught but a history, a telling of apocalyptic events survived-not of those to come-’

‘I know, my friend. Guard well the Book, and go in peace.’

Mathok wheeled his horse to face the west trail. An angry gesture and his riders followed as he rode into the gloom.

Leoman stared after them for a long moment.

Howls shattered the night.

Corabb saw his commander suddenly bare his teeth as he glared into the darkness ahead. Like two beasts about to come face to face. Spirits below, what awaits us?

‘Weapons!’ Leoman snarled.

The company thundered forward, along the trail Corabb had now traversed what seemed countless times.

The closer they drew to the oasis, the more muted the sound of their passage, as if the darkness was devouring all sound. Those howls had not been repeated, and Corabb was beginning to wonder if they had been real at all. Perhaps not a mortal throat at all. An illusion, a cry to freeze all in their tracks-

The vanguard entered a defile and suddenly quarrels sprouted from riders and horses. Screams, toppling warriors, stumbling horses. From further back in the column, the clash of swords and shields.