He looked to the northeast, seeking that telltale sign of dust on the horizon. Where are they?

‘Haggraf. Sound the recall. We shall wait until the fires burn down. Then strike again, and again, until they are all dead!’

The stench of burnt flesh carried with it a strange flavour, something between sulphur and limes.

The Crippled God listened to the clamour of battle on all sides. He heard the cries of pain and anger, but these were sounds he had expected. Amidst the clash of iron and the splinter of wooden shields, amidst the whistle of arrows – some of them striking close – and the splinter of shafts against insensate stone, he heard soldiers shouting to each other, heard their desperate breaths as they struggled to stay alive and to kill those who rose up against them in seemingly endless waves.

And overhead the sky was almost blinding with all the souls abandoned by his descent to this world. He thought to hear them as well, but they were too far away, lost in the heavens. Did they still struggle to hold on to their faith, with their god vanished for so long? Or had they surrendered to the cruel malice that came to so many of the spiritually vacant? Did they now wander without purpose, in the horror of a meaningless existence?

Fires erupted around him – not so close that he could feel their heat – and now shrieks rushed out to fill the air.

Sounds of dying, from all sides. He had heard these sounds before. There was nothing new, nothing to give him comprehension. That mortal lives could so willingly extinguish themselves, in the name of causes and noble desires – was this not the most profound, most baffling sacrifice of all? The one sacrifice every god has long since forgotten; the one sacrifice that they, in their callous indifference, could not even comprehend.

Their flesh is all they know – all these men and women here. Flesh as now clothes me. Feel our limits, our terrible limits. So frail, so temporary. A flitting light, a moment’s breath .

I hear you surrendering it. This one gift that is the only gift ever given you – you yield it back into the firmament. And the world passes on, barely taking notice .

Will no one notice?

I will heed your deaths. I will remember .

The Crippled God listened, past the horns of retreat, past the cries for healers, past the clashing signals announcing the next wave to advance upon these beleaguered few. The Crippled God listened, and he waited.

Seven of the Dead Fires, the T’lan Imass stood on a bare rise to the east of the Malazan regulars. Nom Kala and Kalt Urmanal were now among them, as bound as true kin, and in Nom Kala’s mind it was well. She did not feel like a stranger. She did not feel alone.

Urugal the Woven spoke. ‘She prepares for the enemy’s approach. We have listened to her silence and we know that there are no lies within her soul. Yet she is mortal.’

‘Many who see her,’ said Beroke, ‘believe her weak – not in her will, but in her flesh and bones. She has yielded her sword. I sought to give her mine, but she refused me.’

‘We understand the power of a formidable will,’ observed Kahlb the Silent Hunter.

‘Nevertheless,’ said Beroke.

Urugal said, ‘I have elected that we remain with her. To stand here rather than join the fate of the marines. Should the Crippled God indeed rise once more, we shall not even witness that moment.’ He faced the others. ‘You did not agree with me on this – my command that we remain with her.’

‘It is what we may lose, Urugal,’ said Thenik the Shattered. ‘To see him reborn.’

‘Must our faith show its face to us, Thenik?’

‘I have longed for proof,’ the Shattered replied. ‘That all that we have done has purpose. Is this not what the Fallen One offered us? Yet we do not lend our swords to the defence of our god.’

‘In the manner I have chosen,’ countered Urugal, ‘we will do just that.’

Nom Kala spoke, hesitantly. ‘Kin, I have listened to the soldiers – these Malazans. At the campfires, in the times of rest.’ They had turned to regard her now. ‘They speak to each other rarely, yet when they do, it is of her words from long ago. When she spoke of being unwitnessed. They do not, I feel, quite understand her – nor do I – and yet, when I hear them, when I see what stirs in their eyes … the word awakens something in them. Perhaps it is no more than defiance. But then, is not defiance mortality’s most powerful proclamation?’

There was silence for a time, barring the faint moan of the morning wind.

Finally, Beroke said, ‘Unwitnessed. Then let us make this our cause, too.’