This. This wandering mind. Felisin Younger struggled to focus. Two men were standing before her. They had been standing there for some time, she realized. Kulat had announced them, although that had not been entirely necessary, for she knew that they were coming; indeed, she recognized both of them. Those hard, weathered faces, the streaks of sweat through a layer of dust, the worn leather armour, round shields and scimitars at their hips.

The one closest to her – tall, fierce. Mathok, who commanded the desert tribes in the Army of the Apocalypse. Mathok, Leoman's friend.

And, one pace behind the commander, Mathok's bodyguard T'morol, looking like some upright, hairless wolf, his eyes a hunter's eyes, cold, intense.

They had brought their army, their warriors.

They had brought that, and more…

Felisin the Younger lowered her gaze from Mathok's face, down to the tattered hide-bound book in his hands. The Holy Book of Dryjhna the Apocalyptic. Whilst Leoman had led the Malazans on a wild chase, into the trap that was Y'Ghatan, Mathok and his desert warriors had travelled quietly, secretly, evading all contact. There had been intent, Mathok had explained, to rendezvous at Y'Ghatan, but then the plague had struck, and the shamans in his troop had been beset by visions.

Of Hanar Ara, the City of the Fallen. Of Sha'ik, reborn yet again.

Leoman and Y'Ghatan, they told Mathok, was a dead end in every sense of the phrase. A feint, punctuated by annihilation. And so the commander had turned away with his army, and had set out on the long journey to find the City of the Fallen. To find her. To deliver the Holy Book into her hands.

A difficult journey, one worthy of its own epic, no doubt.

And now, Mathok stood before her, and his army was encamping in the city and Felisin sat amidst the cushions of her own fat, wreathed in smoke, and considered how she would tell him what he needed to hear – what they all needed to hear, Kulat included.

Well, she would be… direct. 'Thank you, Mathok, for delivering the Book of Dryjhna. Thank you, as well, for delivering your army. Alas, I have no need of either gift.'

Mathok's brows rose fractionally. 'Sha'ik Reborn, with the Book, you can do as you like. For my warriors, however, you have great need. A Malazan army approaches-'

'I know. But you are not enough. Besides, I have no need for warriors.

My army does not march in rank. My army carries no weapons, wears no armour. In conquering, my army kills not a single foe, enslaves noone, rapes no child. That which my army wields is salvation, Mathok.

Its promise. Its invitation.'

'And the Malazans?' T'morol demanded in his grating voice, baring his teeth. 'That army does carry weapons and wear armour. That army, Holy One, marches in rank, and right now they're marching right up our ass!'

'Kulat,' Felisin said. 'Find a place for the Holy Book. Have the artisans prepare a new one, the pages blank. There will be a second holy book. My Book of Salvation. On its first page, Kulat, record what has been said here, this day, and accord all present with the honour they have earned. Mathok, and T'morol, you are most welcome here, in the City of the Fallen. As are your warriors. But understand, your days of war, of slaughter, are done. Put away your scimitars and your shields, your bows. Unsaddle your horses and loose them to the high pastures in the hills at Denet'inar Spring. They shall live out their lives there, well and in peace. Mathok, T'morol, do you accept?'

The commander stared down at the ancient tome in his hands, and Felisin saw a sneer emerge on his features. He spread his hands. The book fell to the floor, landing on its spine. The impact broke it.

Ancient pages skirled out. Ignoring Felisin, Mathok turned to T'morol.

'Gather the warriors. We will resupply as needed. Then we leave.'

T'morol faced the throne, and spat onto the floor before the dais.

Then he wheeled and strode from the chamber.

Mathok hesitated, then he faced Felisin once more. 'Sha'ik Reborn, you will no doubt receive my shamans without the dishonour witnessed here.

I leave them with you. To you. As for your world, your bloated, disgusting world and its poisonous salvation, I leave that to you as well. For all of this, Leoman died. For all of this, Y'Ghatan burned.'

He studied her a moment longer, then he spun about and walked from the throne room.

Kulat scurried to kneel beside the broken book. 'It is ruined!' he said in a voice filled with horror.

Felisin nodded. 'Utterly.' Then she smiled at her own joke.

'I judge four thousand,' Fist Rythe Bude said.

The rebel army was positioned along a ridge. Horse-warriors, lancers, archers, yet none had readied weapons. Round shields remained strapped to backs, quivers lidded, bows unstrung and holstered on saddles. Two riders had moved out from the line and were working their horses down the steep slope to where Paran and his officers waited.