suddenly, blinking, and not fifteen paces from him crouched hundreds of Tiste Edur. Waiting to die.
* * *
Hanradi knelt with his gaze fixed on the sky, half of which had vanished behind a blackened wall of writhing madness. The crest had begun its toppling advance.
Sudden motion drew his eyes down.
To see a Malazan – now transformed into an apparition of white – beard, hair – the dangling finger bones were now polished, luminous, as was his armour, his weapons. Scoured, polished, even the leather of his harness looked new, supple.
The Malazan met his gaze with silver eyes, then he lifted one perfect hand, and waved them all forward.
Hanradi rose, flinging his sword aside.
His warriors saw. His warriors did the same, and as they all moved forward, the dome of silver fire all at once rushed towards them.
A piercing shriek and Hanradi turned to see his last K'risnan burst into flames – a single blinding instant, then the hapless warlock was simply ash, settling onto the ground—
Beak was happy to save them. He had understood that old sergeant. The twisted mage, alas, could not embrace such purification. Too much of his soul had been surrendered. The others – oh, they were wounded, filled with bitterness that he needed to sweep away, and so he did.
Nothing was difficult any more. Nothing—
At that moment, the wave of Letherii magic descended.
The Letherii commander could not see the killing field, could indeed see nothing but that swirling, burgeoning wall of eager sorcery. Its cruel hunger poured down in hissing clouds.
When it heaved forward, all illusion of control vanished.
The commander, with Sirryn Kanar cowering beside him, saw all seven of his mages plucked from the ground, dragged up into the air, into the wake of that charging wall. Screaming, flailing, then streaks of whipping blood as they were torn apart moments before vanishing into the dark storm.
The sorcery lurched, then plunged down upon the killing field.
Detonation.
Soldiers were thrown from their feet. Horses were flung onto their sides, riders tumbling or pinned as the terrified beasts rolled onto their backs. The entire ridge seemed to ripple, then buckle, and sudden slumping pulled soldiers from the edge, burying them in slides racing for the field below. Mouths were open, screams unleashed in seeming silence, the horror in so many eyes—
The collapsing wave blew apart—
Beak was driven down by the immense weight, the horrible hunger. Yet he would not retreat. Instead, he let the fire within him lash out, devouring every candle, igniting everything.
His friends, yes, the only ones he had ever known.
Survival, he realized, could only be found through purity. Of his love for them all – how so many of them had smiled at him, laughed with him. How hands clapped him on the shoulder and even, now and then, tousled his hair.
He would have liked to see the captain one last time, and maybe even kiss her. On the cheek, although of course he would have liked something far more . . . brave. But he was Beak, after all, and he could hold on to but one thing at a time.
Arms wrapped tight, even as the fire began to burn the muscles of his arms. His shoulders and neck. His legs.
He could hold on, now, until they found him.
Those fires were so hot, now, burning – but there was no pain. Pain had been scoured away, cleansed away. Oh, the weight was vast, getting heavier still, but he would not let go. Not of his brothers and his sisters, the ones he so loved.
My friends.
* * *
The Letherii sorcery broke, bursting into clouds of white fire that corkscrewed skyward before vanishing. Fragments crashed down to either side of the incandescent dome, ripped deep into the earth in black spewing clouds. And, everywhere, it died.
The commander struggled back onto his feet, stared uncomprehending at the scene on the killing field.
To either side his soldiers were stumbling upright once again. Runners appeared, one nearly colliding with him as he careened off a still-kneeling Sirryn Kanar, the woman trying to tell him something. Pointing southward.
'—landing! Another Malazan army, sir! Thousands more! From the river!'
The veteran commander frowned at the woman, whose face was smeared with dirt and whose eyes were brittle with panic.
He looked back down at the killing field. The dome was flickering, dying. But it had held. Long enough, it had held. 'Inform my officers,' he said to the runner. 'Prepare to wheel and fast march to the river – how far? Have they managed a