Reaper's Gale

  Mael, Elder God of the Seas, had work to do.

  Lostara Yil and the Adjunct rode side by side at the head of the column of cavalry. Directly ahead they could see the west wall of the city. Enormous cracks were visible through the dust, and the gate before them remained open.

  The horses were winded, their breaths gusting from foam-flecked nostrils.

  Almost there.

  ‘Adjunct, was that munitions?’

  Tavore glanced across, then shook her head.

  ‘Not a chance,’ Masan Gilani said behind them. ‘Only a handful of crackers in the whole lot. Something else did all that.’

  Lostara twisted in her saddle.

  Riding beside Masan Gilani was Sinn. Not riding well, either. Gilani was staying close, ready to reach out a steadying hand. The child seemed dazed, almost drunk. Lostara swung back. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ she asked the Adjunct.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  As the road’s slope climbed towards the gate, they could see the river on their left. Thick with sails. The Malazan fleet and the two Thrones of War had arrived. The main army was only two or three bells behind the Adjunct’s column, and Fist Blistig was pushing them hard.

  They drew closer.

  ‘That gate’s not going to close ever again,’ Lostara observed. ‘In fact, I’m amazed it’s still up.’ Various carved blocks in the arch had slipped down, jamming atop the massive wooden doors, which served to bind them in place.

  As they rode up, two marines emerged from the shadows. Had the look of heavies, and both were wounded. The Dal Honese one waved.

  Reining in before them, the Adjunct was first to dismount, one gloved hand reaching for her sword as she approached.

  ‘We’re holding still,’ the Dal Honese marine said. Then he raised a bloodied arm. ‘Bastard cut my tendon – it’s all rolled up under the skin – see? Hurts worse than a burr in the arse . . . sir.’

  The Adjunct walked past both marines, into the shadow of the gate. Lostara gestured for the column to dismount, then set out after Tavore. As she came opposite the marines, she asked, ‘What company are you?’

  ‘Third, Captain. Fifth Squad. Sergeant Badan Gruk’s squad. I’m Reliko and this oaf is Vastly Blank. We had us a fight.’

  Onward, through the dusty gloom, then out into dusty, smoke-filled sunlight. Where she halted, seeing all the bodies, all the blood.

  The Adjunct stood ten paces in, and Keneb was limping towards her and on his face was desperate relief.

  Aye, they had them a fight all right.

  Old Hunch Arbat walked into the cleared space and halted beside the slumbering figure in its centre. He kicked.

  A faint groan.

  He kicked again.

  Ublala Pung’s eyes flickered open, stared up uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then the Tarthenal sat up. ‘Is it time?’

  ‘Half the damned city’s fallen down which is worse than Old Hunch predicted, isn’t it? Oh yes it is, worse and more than worse. Damned gods. But that’s no mind to us, Old Hunch says.’ He cast a critical eye on the lad’s efforts, then grudgingly nodded. ‘It’ll have to do. Just my luck, the last Tarthenal left in Letheras and he’s carrying a sack of sunbaked hens.’

  Frowning, Ublala stretched a foot over and nudged the sack. There was an answering cluck and he smiled. ‘They helped me clean,’ he said.

  Old Hunch Arbat stared for a moment, then he lifted his gaze and studied the burial grounds. ‘Smell them? Old Hunch does. Get out of this circle, Ublala Pung, unless you want to join in.’

  Ublala scratched his jaw. ‘I was told not to join in on things I know nothing about.’

  ‘Oh? And who told you that?’

  ‘A fat woman named Rucket, when she got me to swear fealty to the Rat Catchers’ Guild.’

  ‘The Rat Catchers’ Guild?’

  Ublala Pung shrugged. ‘I guess they catch rats, but I’m not sure really.’

  ‘Out of the circle, lad.’

  Three strides by the challenger onto the sands of the arena and the earthquake had struck. Marble benches cracked, people cried out, many falling, tumbling, and the sand itself shimmered then seemed to transform, as conglomerated, gritty lumps of dried blood rose into view like garnets in a prospector’s tin pan.

  Samar Dev, shivering despite the sun’s slanting light, held tight to one edge of a bouncing bench, eyes fixed on Karsa Orlong who stood, legs wide to keep his balance but otherwise looking unperturbed – and there, at the other end of the arena, a swaying, hulking figure emerged from a tunnel mouth. Sword sweeping a furrow in the sand.

  White fire suddenly illuminated the sky, arcing across the blue-grey sky of sunrise. Flashing, pulsing, then vanishing, as trembles rippled in from the city, then faded away. Plumes of dust spiralled skyward from close by – in the direction of the Old Palace.

  On the imperial stand the Chancellor – his face pale and eyes wide with alarm – was sending runners scurrying.

  Samar Dev saw Finadd Varat Taun standing near Triban Gnol. Their gazes locked – and she understood. Icarium.

  Oh, Taxilian, did you guess aright? Did you see what you longed to see?

  ‘What is happening? ‘

  The roar brought her round, to where stood the Emperor. Rhulad Sengar was staring up at the Chancellor. ‘Tell me! What has happened?’

  Triban Gnol shook his head, then raised his hands. ‘An earthquake, Emperor. Pray to the Errant that it has passed.’

  ‘Have we driven the invaders from our streets?’

  ‘We do so even now,’ the Chancellor replied.

  ‘I will kill their commander. With my own hands I will kill their commander.’

  Karsa Orlong drew his flint sword.

  The act captured the Emperor’s attention, and Samar Dev saw Rhulad Sengar bare his teeth in an ugly smile. ‘Another giant,’ he said. ‘How many times shall you kill me? You, with the blood of my kin already on your hands. Twice? Three times? It will not matter. It will not matter! ‘

  Karsa Orlong, bold with his claims, brazen in his arrogance, uttered but five words in reply: ‘I will kill you . . . once.’ And then he turned to look at Samar Dev – a moment’s glance, and it was all that Rhulad Sengar gave him.

  With a shriek, the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths rushed forward, his sword a whirling blur over his head.

  Ten strides between them.

  Five.

  Three.

  The gleaming arc of that cursed weapon slashed out, a decapitating swing – that rang deafeningly from Karsa’s stone sword. Sprang back, chopped down, was blocked yet again.

  Rhulad Sengar staggered back, still smiling his terrible smile. ‘Kill me, then,’ he said in a ragged rasp.

  Karsa Orlong made no move.

  With a scream the Emperor attacked again, seeking to drive the Toblakai back.

  The ringing concussions seemed to leap from those weapons, as each savage attack was blocked, shunted aside. Rhulad pivoted, angled to one side, slashed down at Karsa’s right thigh. Parried. A back-bladed swing up towards the Toblakai’s shoulder. Batted away. Stumbling off balance from that block, the Emperor was suddenly vulnerable. A hack downward would take him, a thrust would pierce him – a damned fool could have cut Rhulad down at that moment.

  Yet Karsa did nothing. Nor had he moved, beyond turning in place to keep the Emperor in front of him.

  Rhulad stumbled clear, then spun round, righting his sword. Chest heaving beneath the patchwork of embedded coins, eyes wild as a boar’s. ‘Kill me then! ‘

  Karsa remained where he was. Not taunting, not even smiling.

  Samar Dev stared down on the scene, transfixed. I do not know him. I have never known him.

  Gods, we should have had sex – then I’d know!

  Another whirling attack, again the shrieking reverberation of iron and flint, a flurry of sparks cascading down. And Rhulad staggered back once more.

  The Emperor was now streaming with sweat.

  Karsa Orlong did not
even seem out of breath.

  Inviting a fatal response, Rhulad Sengar dropped down onto one knee to regain his wind.

  Invitation not accepted.

  After a time, in which the score or fewer onlookers stared on, silent and confused; in which Chancellor Triban Gnol stood, hands clasped, like a crow nailed to a branch; the Emperor straightened, lifted his sword once more, and resumed his fruitless flailing – oh, there was skill, yes, extraordinary skill, yet Karsa Orlong stood his ground, and not once did that blade touch him.

  Overhead, the sun climbed higher.

  Karos Invictad, his shimmering red silks stained and smudged with grit and dust, dragged Tehol Beddict’s body across the threshold. Back into his office. From down the corridor, someone was screaming about an army in the city, ships crowding the harbour, but none of that mattered now.

  Nothing mattered but this unconscious man at his feet. Beaten until he barely clung to life. By the Invigilator’s sceptre, his symbol of power, and was that not right? Oh, but it was.

  Was the mob still there? Were they coming in now? An entire wall of the compound had collapsed, after all, nothing and no-one left to stop them. Motion caught his eye and his head snapped round – just another rat in the corridor, slithering past. The Guild. What kind of game were those fools playing? He’d killed dozens of the damned things, so easily crushed under heel or with a savage downward swing of his sceptre.

  Rats. They were nothing. No different from the mob outside, all those precious citizens who understood nothing about anything, who needed leaders like Karos Invictad to guide them through the world. He adjusted his grip on the sceptre, flakes of blood falling away, his palm seemingly glued to the ornate shaft, but that glue had not set and wouldn’t for a while, would it? Not until he was truly done.

  Where was that damned mob? He wanted them to see – this final skull-shattering blow – their great hero, their revolutionary.

  Martyrs could be dealt with. A campaign of misinformation, rumours of vulgarity, corruption, oh, all that was simple enough.

  I stood alone, yes, did I not? Against the madness of this day. They will remember that. More than anything else. They will remember that, and everything else I choose to give them.

  Slaying the Empire’s greatest traitor – with my own hand, yes.

  He stared down at Tehol Beddict. The battered, split-open face, the shallow breaths that trembled from beneath snapped ribs. He could put a foot down on the man’s chest, settle some weight, until those broken ribs punctured the lungs, left them lacerated, and the red foam would spill out from Tehol’s mashed nose, his torn lips. And, surprise. He would drown after all.

  Another rat in the corridor? He turned.

  The sword-point slashed across his stomach. Fluids gushed, organs following. Squealing, Karos Invictad fell to his knees, stared up at the man standing before him, stared up at the crimson-bladed sword in the man’s hand.

  ‘No,’ he said in a mumble, ‘but you are dead.’

  Brys Beddict’s calm brown eyes shifted from the Invigilator’s face, noted the sceptre still held in Karos’s right hand. His sword seemed to writhe.

  Burning pain in the Invigilator’s wrist and he looked down. Sceptre was gone. Hand was gone. Blood streamed from the stump.

  A kick to the chest sent Karos Invictad toppling, trailing entrails that flopped down like an obscene, malformed penis between his legs.

  He reached down with his one hand to pull it all back in, but there was no strength left.

  Did I kill Tehol? Yes, I must have. The Invigilator is a true servant of the empire, and always will be, and there will be statues in courtyards and city squares. Karos Invictad, the hero who destroyed the rebellion.

  Karos Invictad died then, with a smile on his face.

  Brys Beddict sheathed his sword, knelt beside his brother, lifted his head into his lap.

  Behind him, Ormly said, ‘A healer’s on the way.’

  ‘No need,’ Brys said. And looked up. ‘An Elder God comes.’

  Ormly licked his lips. ‘Saviour—’

  A cough from Tehol.

  Brys looked down to see his brother’s eyes flick open. One brown, one blue. Those odd eyes stared up at him for a long moment, then Tehol whispered something.

  Brys bent lower. ‘What?’

  ‘I said, does this mean I’m dead?’

  ‘No, Tehol. Nor am I, not any longer, it seems.’

  ‘Ah. Then . . .’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Death – what’s it like, Brys?’

  And Brys Beddict smiled. ‘Wet.’

  ‘I always said cities were dangerous places,’ Quick Ben said, brushing plaster dust from his clothes. The collapsing building had nearly flattened them both, and the wizard was still trembling – not from the close call, but from the horrendous sorcery that had lit the morning sky – a devouring, profoundly hungry sorcery. Had that energy reached for him, he was not sure he could have withstood it.

  ‘What in Hood’s name was that?’ Hedge demanded.

  ‘All I know, it was old. And vicious.’

  ‘We gonna get any more, you think?’

  Quick Ben shrugged. ‘I hope not.’

  They went on, through streets filled with rubble, and on all sides the cries of the wounded, figures staggering in shock, dust and smoke lifting into the sunlight.

  Then Hedge held up a hand. ‘Listen.’

  Quick Ben did as he was bid.

  And, from somewhere ahead – closer to the Eternal Domicile – the echo of ‘Sharpers!’

  ‘Aye, Quick, aye. Come on, let’s go find ‘em!’

  ‘Wait – hold it, sapper – what are—’

  ‘It’s the Fourteenth, you thick-skulled halfwit!’

  They began hurrying.

  ‘Next time I see Cotillion,’ Quick Ben hissed, ‘I’m going to strangle him with his own rope.’

  Six leagues to the north, a bone-white dragon with eyes of lurid red sailed through the morning sky. Wings creaking, muscles bunching, the wind hissing against scales and along bared fangs that were the length of shortswords.

  Returning, after all this time, to the city of Letheras.

  Hannan Mosag had been warned. The Crippled God had been warned. And yet neither had heeded Silchas Ruin. No, instead, they had conspired with Sukul Ankhadu and Sheltatha Lore, and possibly with Menandore herself. To get in his way, to oppose him and what he had needed to do.

  More than this, the Letherii Empire had been hunting them for an inordinate amount of time, and out of forbearance Silchas Ruin had ignored the affront. For the sake of the Acquitor and the others.

  Now, he was no longer ignoring anything.

  An empire, a city, a people, a Tiste Edur Ceda and a mad Emperor.

  The brother of Anomander and Andarist, for ever deemed the coldest of the three, the cruellest, Silchas Ruin flew, a white leviathan with murder in its heart.

  White as bone, with eyes red as death.

  Rhulad Sengar stumbled away, dragging his sword. Sweat streamed from him, his hair hanging ragged and dripping. He had struck again and again, not once piercing the defensive net of his challenger’s stone sword. Six paces between them now, chewed-up sand soaked and clumped with nothing but spatters from the glistening oil that made the coins gleam.

  Silent as all the other witnesses, Samar Dev watched on, wondering how all this would end, wondering how it could end. As long as Karsa refused to counter-attack . . .

  And then the Toblakai raised his sword and walked forward.

  Straight for the Emperor.

  As easy as that, then.

  Who rose with a sudden smile and lifted his weapon into a guard position.

  The flint sword lashed out, an awkward cut, yet swung with such strength that Rhulad’s block with his own weapon knocked one of his hands loose from the grip, and the iron blade flailed outward, and then, all at once, that cursed sword seemed to acquire a will of its own, the point thrusting into a lunge that dragged the E
mperor forward with a scream.

  And the blade sank into Karsa’s left thigh, through skin, muscle, narrowly missing the bone, then punching out the back side. The Toblakai pivoted round, even as with appalling fluidity he brought his sword in a downward cut that sliced entirely through Rhulad’s shoulder above the sword-arm.

  As the arm, its hand still gripping the weapon now bound – trapped in Karsa’s leg – parted from Rhulad’s body, the Toblakai back-swung the flat of his blade into Rhulad’s face, sending him sprawling onto the sand.

  And Samar Dev found that she held the knife, the blade bared, and as Karsa turned to face her, she was already slicing deep across her palm, hissing the ancient words of release – letting loose the imprisoned spirits, the desert godlings and all those who were bound to the old knife—

  Spirits and ghosts of the slain poured forth, freed by the power in her blood, streaming down over the rows of benches, down onto the floor of the arena.

  To the terrible sounds of Rhulad Sengar’s shrieking, those spirits rushed straight for Karsa, swept round, engulfed him – swirling chaos – a blinding moment as of fires unleashed—

  —and Karsa Orlong, the Emperor’s sword and the arm still holding it, vanished.

  Lying alone on the sands of the arena, Rhulad Sengar spilled crimson from the stump of his shoulder.

  And no-one moved.

  To dwell within an iron blade had proved, for the ghost of Ceda Kuru Qan, a most interesting experience. After an immeasurable time of exploration, sensing all the other entities trapped within, he had worked out a means of escaping whenever he wished. But curiosity had held him, a growing suspicion that all dwelt in this dark place for some hidden purpose. And they were waiting.

  Anticipation, even eagerness. And, indeed, far more bloodlust than Kuru Qan could abide.

  He had considered a campaign of domination, of defeating all the other spirits, and binding them to his will. But a leader, he well understood, could not be ignorant, and to compel the revelation of the secret was ever a chancy proposition.

  Instead, he had waited, patient as was his nature whether living or dead.

  Sudden shock, then, upon the gushing taste of blood in his mouth, and the frenzied ecstasy that taste unleashed within him. Sour recognition – most humbling – in discovering such bestial weakness within him – and when the summoning arrived in the language of the First Empire, Kuru Qan found himself rising like a demon to roar his domination over all others, then lunging forth from the iron blade, into the world once again, leading a dread host—