Yet he remained, slumped onto the cold floor, surrounded in darkness. Thinking. But even thoughts did not come free, without a price.
Abyss below, I think I have made a mistake. And now I must live with it.
And make plans.
Gadalanak stepped in behind and under his round-shield. A huge hand grasped his arm, wrapping round it just below his shoulder, and a moment later he was flying across the compound, landing hard, skidding then rolling until he crashed up against the wall.
The Meckros warrior groaned, shook his head, then released his short-handled double-bladed axe and reached up to tug clear his helm. ‘Not fair,’ he said, wincing as he sat up. He glared across at Karsa Orlong. ‘The Emperor couldn’t have done that.’
‘Too bad for him,’ the Toblakai rumbled in reply.
‘I think you tore something in my arm.’
Samar Dev spoke from where she sat on a chair in the shade, ‘Best find a healer, then, Gadalanak.’
‘Who else will dare face me?’ Karsa demanded, eyeing the half-dozen other warriors as he leaned on his sword. All eyes turned to the masked woman, who stood silent and motionless, worn and weathered like a forgotten statue in some ruin. She seemed indifferent to the attention. And she had yet to draw her two swords.
Karsa snorted. ‘Cowards.’
‘Hold on,’ the one named Puddy said, his scarred face twisting. ‘It ain’t that, y’damned bhederin bull. It’s your style of fighting. No point in learning to deal with it, since this Edur Emperor don’t fight that way. He couldn’t. I mean, he ain’t got the strength. Nor the reach. Besides, he’s civilized – you fight like an animal, Karsa, and you just might take the bastard down – only you won’t have to, ‘cause I’ll do it before you.’ He hefted the short javelin in one hand. ‘I’ll skewer him first – then let’s see him fight with a shaft of wood impaling him. I skewer him from six paces, right? Then I close with my cutlass and chop him into pieces.’
Samar Dev stopped listening, since she had heard Puddy’s boasts before, and held her gaze on the woman the Meckros warrior had called a Seguleh. First Empire word, that. The Anvil. Strange name for a people – probably some remnant clan from the colonial period of Dessimbelackis’s empire. A fragment of an army, settled on some pleasant island as their reward for some great victory – those armies were each named, and ‘the Anvil’ was but a variation on a theme common among the First Empire military. The mask, however, was a unique affectation. Gadalanak said all Seguleh were so attired, and something in the glyphs and scratches on those enamel masks indicated rank. But if those marks are writing, it’s not First Empire. Not even close. Curious. Too bad she never says anything.
Cradling his shield arm, Gadalanak used the wall to lever himself upright, then set off in search of a healer.
There had been events in the palace, sending tremors far enough to reach the challengers’ compound. Perhaps the List had been formalized, the order of the battles decided. A rumour to please the idiotic warriors gathered here – although Karsa’s only response to the possibility was a sour grunt. Samar Dev was inclined to agree with him – she was not convinced that the rumour was accurate. No, something else had happened, something messy. Factions sniping like mongrels at a feast all could share had they any brains. But that’s always the way, isn’t it? Enough is never enough.
She felt something then, a shivering along the strands – the bones – buried beneath the flesh of this realm. This realm . . . and every other one. Gods below . . . The witch found she was on her feet. Blinking. And in the compound’s centre she saw Karsa now facing her, a fierce regard in his bestial eyes. The Toblakai bared his teeth.
Shaking her gaze free of the terrible warrior, she walked quickly into the colonnaded hallway, then through to the passage lined by the cells where the champions were quartered. Down the corridor.
Into her modest room.
She closed the door behind her, already muttering the ritual of sealing. Trouble out there, blood spilled and sizzling like acid. Dreadful events, something old beyond belief, exulting in new power—
Her heart stuttered in her chest. An apparition was rising from the floor in the centre of the room. Shouldering through her wards.
She drew her knife.
A damned ghost. The ghost of a damned mage, in fact.
Luminous but faint eyes fixed on her. ‘Witch,’ it whispered, ‘do not resist, I beg you.’
‘You are not invited,’ she said. ‘Why would I not resist?’
‘I need your help.’
‘Seems a little late for that.’
‘I am Ceda Kuru Qan.’
She frowned, then nodded. ‘I have heard that name. You fell at the Edur conquest.’
‘Fell? A notion worth consideration. Alas, not now. You must heal someone. Please. I can lead you to her.’
‘Who?’
‘A Letherii. She is named Feather Witch—’
Samar Dev hissed, then said, ‘You chose the wrong person, Ceda Kuru Qan. Heal that blonde rhinazan? If she’s dying, I am happy to help her along. That woman gives witches a bad name.’
Another tremor rumbled through the unseen web binding the world.
She saw Kuru Qan’s ghost flinch, saw the sudden terror in its eyes.
And Samar Dev spat on her knife blade, darted forward and slashed the weapon through the ghost.
The Ceda’s shriek was short-lived, as the iron weapon snared the ghost, drew it inward, trapped it. In her hand the knife’s hilt was suddenly cold as ice. Steam slithered from the blade.
She quickly added a few words under her breath, tightening the binding.
Then staggered back until her legs bumped against her cot. She sank down, shivering in the aftermath of the capture. Her eyes fell to the weapon in her hand. ‘Gods below,’ she mumbled. ‘Got another one.’
Moments later the door swung open. Ducking, Karsa Orlong entered.
Samar Dev cursed at him, then said, ‘Must you do that?’
‘This room stinks, witch.’
‘You walk through my wards as if they were cobwebs. Toblakai, it would take a damned god to do what you just did – yet you are no god. I would swear to that on the bones of every poor fool you’ve killed.’
‘I care nothing for your damned wards,’ the huge warrior replied, leaning his sword against a wall then taking a single step that placed him in the centre of the room. ‘I know that smell. Ghosts, spirits, it’s the stink of forgetting.’
‘Forgetting?’
‘When the dead forget they’re dead, witch.’
‘Like your friends in that stone sword of yours?’
The eyes that fixed on her were cold as ashes. ‘They have cheated death, Samar Dev. Such was my gift. Such was theirs, to turn away from peace. From oblivion. They live because the sword lives.’
‘Yes, a warren within a weapon. Don’t imagine that as unique as you might want it to be.’
He bared his teeth. ‘No. After all, you have that knife.’
She started. ‘Hardly a warren in this blade, Karsa Orlong. It’s just folded iron. Folded in a very specific way—’
‘To fashion a prison. You civilized people are so eager to blunt the meaning of your words. Probably because you have so many of them, which you use too often and for no reason.’ He looked round. ‘So you have bound a ghost. That is not like you.’
‘I could not argue that,’ she admitted, ‘since I am no longer sure who I am. What I’m supposed to be like.’
‘You once told me you did not compel, you did not bind. You bargained.’
‘Ah, that. Well, yes, given the choice. Seems that being in your company crushes under heel the privilege of choice, Toblakai.’
‘You blame me for your greed?’
‘Not greed. More like an overwhelming need for power.’
‘To oppose me?’
‘You? No, I don’t think so. To stay alive, I think. You are dangerous, Karsa Orlong. Your will, your strength, your . . . disregard. You pr
esent the quaint and appalling argument that through wilful ignorance of the laws and rules of the universe you cannot suffer their influence. As you might imagine, your very success poses evidence of that tenet, and it is one I cannot reconcile, since it runs contrary to a lifetime of observation.’
‘Too many words again, Samar Dev. State it plain.’
‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘Everything about you terrifies me.’
He nodded. ‘And fascinates as well.’
‘Arrogant bastard. Believe what you like!’
He turned back to the doorway. Collecting his sword, he said over one shoulder, ‘The Seguleh has unsheathed her swords for me, witch.’
Then he was gone.
Samar Dev remained on her cot for another dozen heartbeats, then, ‘Damn him!’ And she rose, hurrying to arrive before the bout began. Damn him!
The sun had crawled far enough to one side of the sky to leave the compound in shadow. As she emerged from the covered colonnade Samar Dev saw the Seguleh standing in the middle of the exercise area, a thin-bladed longsword in each gloved hand. Her dark hair hung in greasy strands down her shoulders, and through the eye-holes of the mask her midnight gaze tracked Karsa Orlong as he strode to join her in the sand-floored clearing.
A full score of champions looked on, indicating that word had travelled, and Samar Dev saw – with shock – the Gral, Taralack Veed, and, behind him, Icarium. Gods below, the name, the Jhag . . . all that I know, all that I have heard. Icarium is here. A champion.
He will leave this city a heap of rubble. He will leave its citizens a mountain of shattered bones. Gods, look at him! Standing calm, so deep in shadow as to be almost invisible – Karsa does not see him, no. The Toblakai’s focus rests on the Seguleh, as he circles her at a distance. And she moves like a cat to ever face him.
Oh, she is a fighter all right.
And Karsa will throw her over the damned wall.
If she dares close. As she must. Get inside that huge flint sword.
Over the wall. Or through it.
Her heart pounded, the beat rapid, disturbingly erratic.
She sensed someone at her side and saw, with a jolt of alarm, a Tiste Edur – and she then recognized him. Preda . . . Tomad. Tomad Sengar.
The Emperor’s father.
Karsa, you don’t want this audience—
* * *
An explosion of motion as the two contestants closed – afterwards, none could agree on who moved first, as if some instinctive agreement was reached between the Seguleh and Karsa, and acted upon faster than thought itself.
And, as iron rang on stone – or stone on iron – Karsa Orlong did something unexpected.
Pounded down with one foot. Hard onto the packed sand.
In the midst of the Seguleh’s lithe dance.
Pounded down, hard enough to stagger onlookers as the entire compound floor thundered.
The Seguleh’s perfect balance . . . vanished.
No doubt it was but a fraction, the dislodging so minor few would even register it, and no doubt her recovery was as instantaneous – but she was already reeling back to a savage blow with the flat of Karsa’s blade, both wrists broken by the impact.
Yet, as she toppled, she twisted, one foot lashing upward towards the Toblakai’s crotch.
He caught her kick with one hand, blocking the blow, then boldly lifted her into the air.
She swung the other foot.
And the Toblakai, laughing, released his sword and snagged that leg as well.
And held her there.
Dangling.
Behind Taralack Veed, there was a soft sigh, and the Gral, blinking, turned round.
Icarium smiled. Then said in a low voice, ‘We have met, I think. He and I. Perhaps long ago. A duel that was interrupted.’
By Mappo. Has to be. Mappo, who saw a storm coming between these two. Oh, Trell . . .
Taralack licked dry lips. ‘Would you resume that duel, Icarium?’
The Jhag’s brows lifted fractionally. Then he shook his head, leaving that as his answer.
Thank the spirits.
From Preda Tomad Sengar, a grunt.
‘These games,’ Samar Dev ventured, drawing his attention, ‘they are intended to entertain, yes? Each contest more challenging than the last.’
The Tiste Edur eyed her, expressionless, then he said, ‘Among the audience, there are those who are entertained.’
‘Yes.’
After a moment, he added, ‘Yes, this Tarthenal will come last. The decision was unanimous among our observers.’ Then he shrugged and said, ‘I came to see for myself. Although my judgement has no relevance.’
‘That Seguleh was very good,’ Samar Dev said.
‘Perhaps. But she has sparred with no others.’
‘They hold her in great respect.’
‘Even now? When will he set her down?’
She shook her head.
Tomad Sengar turned away. ‘The Tarthenal is superb.’
‘And yet your son is better.’
This halted him once more and he stared back at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Your Tarthenal is superb,’ he repeated. ‘But he will die anyway.’
The Tiste Edur walked away.
Finally responding to shouts and entreaties from the onlookers, Karsa Orlong set the woman down onto the ground.
Three Letherii healers rushed in to tend to her.
Collecting his sword, Karsa straightened, then looked round.
Oh, thought Samar Dev, oh no.
But Icarium was gone. As was his Gral keeper.
The Toblakai walked towards her.
‘I didn’t need to know,’ she said.
‘No, you knew already.’
Oh, gods!
Then he drew closer and stared down at her. ‘The Jhag fled. The Trell who was with him is gone. Probably dead. Now there is a desert warrior I could break with one hand. There would have been none to stop us, this Icarium and me. He knew that. So he fled.’
‘You damned fool, Karsa. Icarium is not the kind of warrior who spars. Do you understand me?’
‘We would not have sparred, Samar Dev.’
‘So why spend yourself against him? Is it not these Edur and their Letherii slaves you seek vengeance against?’
‘When I am finished with their Emperor, I will seek out Icarium. We will finish what we began.’
‘Beware gathering the men before the battering ram, Karsa Orlong.’
‘A foolish saying,’ he pronounced after a moment.
‘Oh, and why is that?’
‘Among the Teblor, men are the battering ram. Look upon me, Samar Dev. I have fought and won. See the sweat on my muscles? Come lie with me.’
‘No, I feel sick.’
‘I will make you feel better. I will split you in two.’
‘That sounds fun. Go away.’
‘Must I hunt down another whore?’
‘They all run when they see you now, Karsa Orlong. In the opposite direction, I mean.’
He snorted, then looked round. ‘Perhaps the Seguleh.’
‘Oh, really! You just broke her arms!’
‘She won’t need them. Besides, the healers are mending her.’
‘Gods below, I’m leaving.’
As she strode away, she heard his rumbling laugh. Oh, I know you make sport of me. I know and yet I fall into your traps every time. You are too clever, barbarian. Where is that thick-skulled savage? The one to match your pose?
* * *
Dragging mangled legs, every lurch stabbing pain along the length of his bent, twisted spine, Hannan Mosag squinted ahead, and could just make out the scree of river-polished stones rising like a road between the cliffs of the gorge. He did not know if what he was seeing was real.
Yet it felt right.
Like home.
Kurald Emurlahn, the Realm of Shadow. Not a fragment, not a torn smear riven through with impurities. Home, as it once was, before all the betrayals ripped it asunder. Paradise await
s us. In our minds. Ghost images, all perfection assembled by will and will alone. Believe what you see, Hannan Mosag. This is home.
And yet it resisted. Seeking to reject him, his broken body, his chaos-stained mind.
Mother Dark. Father Light. Look upon your crippled children. Upon me. Upon Emurlahn. Heal us. Do you not see the world fashioned in my mind? All as it once was. I hold still to this purity, to all that I sought to create in the mortal realm, among the tribes I brought to heel – the peace I demanded, and won.
None could have guessed my deepest desire. The Throne of Shadow – it was for me. And by my rule, Kurald Emurlahn would grow strong once again. Whole. Rightfully in its place.
Yes, there was chaos – the raw unbound power coursing like impassable rivers, isolating every island of Shadow. But I would have used that chaos – to heal.
Chains. Chains to draw the fragments together, to bind them together.
The Fallen God was a tool, nothing more.
But Rhulad Sengar had destroyed all that. In the reach of a child’s hand. And now, everything was dying. Poisoned. Crumbling into dissolution.
He reached the base of the scree, smooth round pebbles clacking beneath his clawed fingers. Coarse sand under his nails, wet, biting. My world.
Rain falling in wisps of mist, the pungent smell of moss and rotting wood. And on the wind . . . the sea. Surmounting the steep slope of stones, the boles of Blackwood trees stood arrayed like sentinels.
There were no invasive demons here. This world was the world of the Tiste Edur.
The shadow of a gliding owl slipped over the glistening slide, crossing his intended path, and Hannan Mosag froze.
No. It cannot be. There is no-one alive to claim that title.
He is dead.
He was not even Tiste Edur!
And yet, who stood alone before Rhulad Sengar? Yes, she has his severed finger. The owl – most ancient of omens – the owl, to mark the coming of the one.
Yet anger surged within him.
It is for me to choose. Me! Mother Dark! Father Light! Guide me to the Throne of Shadow. Emurlahn reborn! It is this, I tell you both, this or the King in Chains, and behind him the Crippled God! Hear my offer!
‘Andii, Liosan, Edur, the Armies of the Tiste. No betrayal. The betrayals are done – bind us to our words as you have bound each other. Light, Dark and Shadow, the first elements of existence. Energy and void and the ceaseless motion of the ebb and flow between them. These three forces – the first, the greatest, the purest. Hear me. I would so pledge the Edur to this alliance! Send to me those who would speak for the Andii. The Liosan. Send them – bring your children together!