Reaper's Gale

  Karsa Orlong faced the Crippled God. ‘No-one chooses me. I do not give anyone that right. I am Karsa Orlong of the Teblor. All choices belong to me.’

  ‘Then choose, my friend. Fling away that pathetic thing of stone you carry. Choose the weapon made for you above all others.’

  Karsa bared his teeth.

  The Crippled God’s eyes widened briefly, then he leaned forward, over his brazier of smouldering coals. ‘With the sword, Karsa Orlong, you will be immortal.’ He waved a gnarled hand and a gate blistered open a few paces away. ‘There. Go back to your homeland, Karsa. Proclaim yourself Emperor of the Teblor. Guide your people for ever more. Oh, they are sorely beset. Only you can save them, Karsa Orlong. And with the sword, none can stand before you. You will save them, you will lead them to domination – a campaign of slaughtered “children” such as the world has never seen before. Give answer, Toblakai! Give answer to all the wrongs you and your people have suffered! Let the children witness! ‘

  Karsa Orlong stared down at the Crippled God.

  And his sneer broadened, a moment, before he turned away.

  ‘Do not leave it here! It is for you! Karsa Orlong, it is for you! ‘

  Someone was coming up from the sand. A wide, heavily muscled man, and three black-skinned bhokorala.

  Karsa limped to meet them.

  Withal felt his heart pounding in his chest. He’d not expected . . . well, he’d not known what to expect, only what was expected of him.

  ‘You are not welcome,’ said the giant with the tattooed face and the wounded leg.

  ‘I’m not surprised. But here I am anyway.’ Withal’s eyes flicked to the sword lying in the grass. The Tiste Edur’s head was resting on it like a gift. The weaponsmith frowned. ‘Poor lad, he never understood—’

  ‘I do,’ growled the giant.

  Withal looked up at the warrior. Then over to where crouched the Crippled God, before returning once more to his regard of the giant. ‘You said no?’

  ‘As much.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Will you take it now?’

  ‘I will – to break it on the forge where it was made.’ And he pointed to the ramshackle smithy in the distance.

  The Crippled God hissed, ‘You said it could never be broken, Withal!’

  The weaponsmith shrugged. ‘We’re always saying things like that. Pays the bills.’

  A horrid cry was loosed from the Crippled God, ending in strangled hacking coughs.

  The giant was studying Withal in return, and he now asked, ‘You made this cursed weapon?’

  ‘I did.’

  The back-handed slap caught Withal by surprise, sent him flying backward. Thumping hard onto his back, staring up at the spinning blue sky – that suddenly filled with the warrior, looking down.

  ‘Don’t do it again.’

  And after saying that, the giant moved off.

  Blinking in the white sunlight, Withal managed to turn onto his side, and saw the giant walk into a portal of fire, then vanish as the Crippled God screamed again. The portal suddenly disappeared with a snarl.

  One of the nachts brought its horrid little face close over Withal, like a cat about to steal his breath. It cooed.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Withal said, pushing it away, ‘get the sword. Yes. Break the damned thing.’

  The world spun round him and he thought he would be sick. ‘Sandalath, love, did you empty the bucket? Sure it was piss but it smelled mostly of beer, didn’t it? I coulda drunk it all over again, you see.’

  He clambered upward, swayed back and forth briefly, then reached down and, after a few tries, collected the sword.

  Off to the smithy. Not many ways of breaking a cursed sword. A weapon even nastier would do it, but in this case there wasn’t one. So, back to the old smith’s secret. To break an aspected weapon, bring it home, to the forge where it was born.

  Well, he would do just that, and do it now.

  Seeing the three nachts peering up at him, he scowled. ‘Go bail out the damned boat – I’m not in the mood to drown fifty sweeps from shore.’

  The creatures tumbled over each in their haste to rush back to the beach.

  Withal walked to the old smithy, to do what needed doing.

  Behind him, the Crippled God bawled to the sky.

  A terrible, terrible sound, a god’s cry. One he never wanted to hear ever again.

  At the forge, Withal found an old hammer, and prepared to undo all that he had done. Although, he realized as he set the sword down on the rust-skinned anvil and studied the blood-splashed blade, that was, in all truth, impossible.

  After a moment, the weaponsmith raised the hammer.

  Then brought it down.

  EPILOGUE

  She walked through the shrouds of dusk

  And came to repast

  At the Gates of Madness.

  Where the living gamed with death

  And crowed triumphant

  At the Gates of Madness.

  Where the dead mocked the living

  And told tales of futility

  At the Gates of Madness.

  She came to set down her new child

  There on the stained altar

  At the Gates of Madness.

  ‘This,’ said she, ‘is what we must do,

  In hope and humility

  At the Gates of Madness.’

  And the child did cry in the night

  To announce bold arrival

  At the Gates of Madness.

  Have we dreamed this enough now?

  Our promise of suffering

  At the Gates of Madness?

  Will you look down upon its new face

  And whisper songs of anguish

  At the Gates of Madness?

  Taking the sawtoothed key in hand

  To let loose a broken future

  At the Gates of Madness?

  Tell then your tale of futility to the child

  All your games with death

  At the Gates of Madness.

  We who stand here have heard it before

  On this the other side

  Of the Gates of Madness.

  Prayer of Child

  The Masked Monks of Cabal

  Dragging his soul from its place of exhaustion and horror, the sound of a spinning chain awoke Nimander Golit. He stared up at the stained ceiling of his small room, his heart thumping hard in his chest, his body slick with sweat beneath damp blankets.

  That sound – it had seemed so real—

  And now, with eyes widening, he heard it again.

  Spinning, then odd snaps! Then spinning once more.

  He sat up. The squalid town outside slept, drowned in darkness unrelieved by any moon. And yet . . . the sound was coming from the street directly below.

  Nimander rose from the bed, made his way to the door, out into the chilly hallway. Grit and dust beneath his bare feet as he padded down the rickety stairs.

  Emerging, he rushed out into the street.

  Yes, night’s deepest pit, and this was not – could not be – a dream.

  The hissing chain and soft clack, close, brought him round. To see another Tiste Andii emerge from the gloom. A stranger. Nimander gasped.

  The stranger was twirling a chain from one upraised hand, a chain with rings at each end.

  ‘Hello, Nimander Golit.’

  ‘Who – who are you? How do you know my name?’

  ‘I have come a long way, to this Isle of the Shake – they are our kin, did you know that? I suppose you did – but they can wait, for they are not yet ready and perhaps will never be ready. Not just Andii blood, after all. But Edur. Maybe even Liosan, not to mention human. No matter. Leave Twilight her island . . .’ he laughed, ‘empire.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You, Nimander Golit. And your kin. Go now, gather them. It is time for us to leave.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Are you truly a child?’ the stranger snapped in frustration. The rings
clicked, the chain spiralled tight about his index finger. ‘I am here to lead you home, Nimander. All you spawn of Anomander Rake, the Black-Winged Lord.’

  ‘But where is home?’

  ‘Listen to me! I am taking you to him! ‘

  Nimander stared, then stepped back. ‘He does not want us—’

  ‘It does not matter what he wants. Nor even what I want! Do you understand yet? I am her Herald! ‘

  Her?

  All at once Nimander cried out, dropped hard down onto his knees on the cobbles, his hands at his face. ‘This – this is not a dream?’

  The stranger sneered. ‘You can keep your nightmares, Nimander. You can stare down at the blood on your hands for all eternity, for all I care. She was, as you say, insane. And dangerous. I tell you this, I would have left her corpse lying here in the street, this night, if she still lived. So, enough of that.

  ‘Go, bring your kin here. Quickly, Nimander, while Darkness still holds this island.’

  And Nimander climbed to his feet, then hobbled into the decrepit tenement.

  Her Herald. Oh, Mother Dark, you would summon our father, as you now summon us?

  But why?

  Oh, it must be. Yes. Our exile – Abyss below – our exile is at an end!

  Waiting in the street, Clip spun his chain. A pathetic bunch, if this Nimander was the best among them. Well, they would have to do, for he did not lie when he said the Shake were not yet ready.

  That was, in fact, the only truth he had told, on this darkest of nights.

  And how did you fare in Letheras, Silchas Ruin? Not well, I’d wager.

  You’re not your brother. You never were.

  Oh, Anomander Rake, we will find you. And you will give answer to us. No, not even a god can blithely walk away, can escape the consequences. Of betrayal.

  Yes, we will find you. And we will show you. We will show you just how it feels.

  Rud Elalle found his father seated atop a weathered boulder at the edge of the small valley near the village. Climbed up and joined Udinaas, settling onto the sun-warmed stone at his side.

  A ranag calf had somehow become separated from its mother, and indeed the entire herd, and now wandered the valley floor, bawling.

  ‘We could feast on that one,’ Rud said.

  ‘We could,’ Udinaas replied. ‘If you have no heart.’

  ‘We must live, and to live we must eat—’

  ‘And to live and eat, we must kill. Yes, yes, Rud, I am aware of all that.’

  ‘How long will you stay?’ Rud asked, then his breath caught in his throat. The question had just come out – the one he had been dreading to ask for so long.

  Udinaas shot him a surprised look, then returned his attention to the lost calf. ‘She grieves,’ he said. ‘She grieves, so deep in her heart that it reaches out to me – as if the distance was nothing. Nothing. This is what comes,’ he added without a trace of bitterness, ‘of rape.’

  Rud decided it was too hard to watch his father’s face at this moment, so he swung his gaze down to the distant calf.

  ‘I told Onrack,’ Udinaas continued. ‘I had to. To just . . . get it out, before it devoured me. Now, well, I regret doing that.’

  ‘You need not. Onrack had no greater friend. It was necessary that he know the truth—’

  ‘No, Rud, that is never necessary. Expedient, sometimes. Useful, other times. The rest of the time, it just wounds.’

  ‘Father, what will you do?’

  ‘Do? Why, nothing. Not for Seren, not for Onrack. I’m nothing but an ex-slave.’ A momentary smile, wry. ‘Living with the savages.’

  ‘You are more than just that,’ Rud said.

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Yes, you are my father. And so I ask again, how long will you stay?’

  ‘Until you toss me out, I suppose.’

  Rud came as close to bursting into tears as he had ever been. His throat closed up, so tight that he could say nothing for a long moment, as the tide of feeling rose within him and only slowly subsided. Through blurred eyes, he watched the calf wander in the valley.

  Udinaas resumed as if unmindful of the reaction his words had elicited. ‘Not that I can teach you much, Rud.

  Mending nets, maybe.’

  ‘No, father, you can teach me the most important thing of all.’

  Udinaas eyed him askance, sceptical and suspicious.

  Three adult ranag appeared on a crest, lumbered down towards the calf. Seeing them, the young beast cried out again, even louder this time, and raced to meet them.

  Rud sighed. ‘Father, you can teach me your greatest skill.

  How to survive.’

  Neither said anything then for some time, and Rud held his eyes on the ranag as they ascended the far side of the valley. In this time, it seemed Udinaas had found something wrong with his eyes, for his hands went to his face again and again. Rud did not turn to observe any of that.

  Then, eventually, with the valley empty before them, his father rose. ‘Looks like we go hungry after all.’

  ‘Never for long,’ Rud replied, also rising.

  ‘No, that’s true.’

  They made their way back to the village.

  His hands stained with paint, Onrack tied the rawhide straps about the bundle, then slung it over a shoulder and faced his wife. ‘I must go.’

  ‘So you say,’ Kilava replied.

  ‘The journey, to where lies the body of my friend, will ease my spirit.’

  ‘Without doubt.’

  ‘And I must speak to Seren Pedac. I must tell her of her husband, of his life since the time he gave her his sword.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And now,’ Onrack said, ‘I must go and embrace our son.’

  ‘I will join you.’

  Onrack smiled. ‘That will embarrass him.’

  ‘No, you damned fool. I said I will join you. If you think you’re going anywhere without me, you are mad.’

  ‘Kilava—’

  ‘I have decided. I will let the journey ease your heart, husband. I will not chatter until your ears bleed and like a bhederin you look for the nearest cliff-edge.’

  He stared at her with love welling in his eyes. ‘Chatter? I have never heard you chatter.’

  ‘You never will, either.’

  He nodded. ‘This is very well, wife. Join me, then. Help me heal with your presence alone—’

  ‘Be very careful now, Onrack.’

  Wisely, he said nothing more.

  They went to say goodbye to their son.

  ‘This is exhausting!’ Emperor Tehol Beddict said, slumping down onto his throne.

  Bugg’s face soured as he said, ‘Why? You haven’t done anything yet.’

  ‘Well, it’s only been three weeks. I tell you, my list of reforms is so long I’ll never get around to any of them.’

  ‘I applaud your embrace of incompetence,’ Bugg said. ‘You’ll make a fine Emperor.’

  ‘Well,’ Brys ventured from where he stood leaning against the wall to the right of the dais, ‘there is peace in the land.’

  Bugg grimaced. ‘Yes, leading one to wonder just how long an entire empire can hold its breath.’

  ‘And if anyone has the answer to that one, dear manservant, it would be you.’

  ‘Oh, now I am amused.’

  Tehol smiled. ‘We can tell. And now, that wasn’t the royal “we”. Which we admit we cannot get used to in our fledgling innocence.’

  Brys said, ‘The Adjunct is on her way, and then there is Shurq Elalle who wants to talk to you about something. Aren’t there things that need discussing?’ He then waited for a reply, any reply, but instead earned nothing but blank stares from his brother and Bugg.

  From a side entrance, the new Chancellor entered in a swirl of gaudy robes. Brys hid his wince. Who would have thought she’d plunge right into bad taste like a grub into an apple?

  ‘Ah,’ Tehol said, ‘doesn’t my Chancellor look lovely this morning?’

  Janath’s expre
ssion remained aloof. ‘Chancellors are not supposed to look lovely. Competence and elegance will suffice.’

  ‘No wonder you stand out so in here,’ Bugg muttered.

  ‘Besides,’ Janath continued, ‘such descriptions are better suited to the role of First Concubine, which tells me precisely which brain you’re thinking with, beloved husband. Again.’

  Tehol held up his hands as if in surrender, then he said in his most reasonable tone – one Brys recognized with faint dismay – ‘I still see no reason why you can’t be First Concubine as well.’

  ‘I keep telling you,’ Bugg said. ‘Wife to the Emperor means she’s Empress.’ He then turned to Janath. ‘Giving you three legitimate titles.’

  ‘Don’t forget scholar,’ Tehol observed, ‘which most would hold cancels out all the others. Even wife.’

  ‘Why,’ said Bugg, ‘now your lessons will never end.’

  Another moment of silence, as everyone considered all this.

  Then Tehol stirred on his throne. ‘There’s always Rucket! She’d make a fine First Concubine! Goodness, how the blessings flow over.’

  Janath said, ‘Careful you don’t drown, Tehol.’

  ‘Bugg would never let that happen, sweetness. Oh, since we’re discussing important matters before the Adjunct arrives to say goodbye, I was thinking that Preda Varat Taun needs an able Finadd to assist his reconstruction efforts and all that.’

  Brys straightened. Finally, they were getting to genuine subjects. ‘Who did you have in mind?’

  ‘Why, none other than Ublala Pung!’

  Bugg said, ‘I’m going for a walk.’

  * * *

  Using an iron bar as a lever, Seren Pedac struggled with the heavy pavestones at the entrance to her house. Sweat glistened on her bared arms and her hair had come loose from its ties – she would get it cut short soon. As befitted her life now.

  But on this morning, this task remained before her, and she set about it with unrelenting diligence, using her body without regard to the consequences. Prying loose the heavy stones, dragging and pushing them to one side with scraped and bleeding hands.