* * *
For Toc the assault began with a burgeoning roar that shook the hooves and flesh of his mount before it struck his gut. To the south, what seemed the entire horizon lit up behind the Outer Round curtain wall as incendiaries flew tall arcs in both directions over the Inner Round walls: inward from Talian catapults and outward from Hengan onagers. Remnants of the Talian legion that had participated in the original assault watched from the pickets alongside the gathered camp followers and support staff of armourers, cooks, drovers, washerwomen, prostitutes and trooper's wives and their children.
Beyond the encampment bands of Seti roved the fitfully lit hillsides, chanting warsongs, waving lances, bellowing their encouragement and cursing the Hengans. Toc longed to be in the thick of things with Choss, though well could he imagine the horror of it: frontal escalades were always high in body counts. Pure naked ferocity versus ferocity.
As the assault dragged on into the night, the constant low roar not abating, up out of the night came the White Jackal shaman, Imotan, and his bodyguard to Toc and his staff. The shaman urged his mount to Toc's side. A simple leather band secured the old man's grey hair and his leathers were mud-spattered. Instead of a lance he carried a short baton tufted in white fur held tight across his chest. The old man's eyes blazed bright, either in excitement or alarm, Toc wasn't sure. ‘What is it?’
‘You must get all your people inside,’ Imotan called.
‘Why? A sortie?’
‘No. Something is coming. For you, something terrible. Yet for us, a prophecy fulfilled.’
Toc stared his confusion. Was the man mad? ‘What do you mean?’
‘Ryllandaras is coming. I feel him. I can almost smell his breath.’
‘Ryllandaras?’ The man must be mad. It was impossible. He'd been imprisoned long ago. ‘No. You must be mistaken.’
Imotan flinched away, glowering. ‘Do not insult me, Malazan.’ He sawed his mount around. ‘Very well. I have done my part. Ignore me and die.’ The White Jackal shaman stormed off into the night surrounded by his bodyguard.
Toc watched him go then straightened up tall in his saddle, peering to the left and right, squinting at the lines. Surely the old man would not have come to him unless he was certain. But still, Ryllandaras, after all this time? And why now?
‘Rider!’ he called.
One of his staff urged his mount alongside. ‘Sir?’
‘Go to Urko's command. Tell them the Seti warn of a dangerous presence out in the night.’
‘Sir.’ The messenger kicked his mount and rode off.
‘Captain Moss?’
‘Sir?’
‘Take a troop and do a circuit of the perimeter. Warn the pickets to be sharp.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The captain saluted and reined his mount away.
There. But had he done all he could? Should he warn Choss? No, the man had more than enough to handle, electing to direct the assault from the front. He would wait to see if anything came of this – on the face of it – utterly outrageous claim.
It was a full hour later, close to midnight, when a woman in a dress torn and stained dark came walking out of camp. She headed straight to Toc, as silent as a ghost, her eyes empty, hands held out before her dark and wet. His men shouted, pointing. Toc stared. He could not speak; would not believe. He slid from his mount and took her hands sticky with blood. ‘Where?’ he shouted. ‘Tell me where!’ She stared up at him, uncomprehending, her brow clenched in confusion.
‘They are dead,’ she told him. ‘Everyone is dead.’
‘Where, damn you!
‘By the creek.’
‘Blow to arms,’ he yelled. ‘Form square. Escort all civilians behind the walls!’
Far to the back of camp, screams sounded – not human – the shrill shrieks of terrified dying horses. Toc straightened. Gods preserve all of us. He remembered. He remembered Ryllandaras. He'd been there. Not even Dassem could kill him. They had nothing. Nothing to counter the Curse of Quon, eater of men. The man-jackal, brother of Trake, god of war.