Reaper's Gale

  ‘My betrayal means nothing,’ the Warlock King snapped. ‘Warrior, we are blessed! This place, it is not simply a temple of Kurald Emurlahn! It is a temple of Scabandari! Of our god himself! The very first such temple in this realm – do you not grasp what that means? He is coming back. To us.’

  ‘Then perhaps what we seek is pointless,’ Bruthen replied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Scabandari will return, and he will stand before Rhulad Sengar. Tell me, will your Crippled God risk that confrontation?’

  ‘Do not be a fool, Bruthen Trana. You ask the wrong question. Will Scabandari risk that confrontation? Upon the very moment of his return? We cannot know Father Shadow’s power, but I believe he will be weak, exhausted. No, warrior, it is for us to protect him upon his return. Protect, and nourish.’

  ‘Has Fear Sengar found him then?’

  Hannan Mosag’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘What do you know of that, Bruthen Trana?’

  ‘Only what most Edur know. Fear left, to seek out Father Shadow. In answer to his brother. In answer to you, Warlock King.’

  ‘Clearly,’ Hannan Mosag said in a tight voice, ‘there has been a reconciliation.’

  ‘Perhaps there has. You did not answer my question.’

  ‘I cannot. For I do not know.’

  ‘Do you dissemble yet again?’

  ‘Your accusation is unjust, Bruthen Trana.’

  ‘Let us begin this ritual. Tell me, will I journey in the flesh?’

  ‘No. You would die, and instantly, warrior. No, we must tug free your spirit.’

  Hannan Mosag watched as Bruthen Trana moved to the centre of the chamber. The warrior divested himself of his sword and belt and lay down on his back.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ the Warlock King said, crawling closer. ‘Lead your mind into the comfort of Shadow. You shall feel my touch, upon your chest. Shortly after, all sense of your physical body will vanish. Open your eyes then, and you will find yourself . . . elsewhere.’

  ‘How will I know when I have found the path I seek?’

  ‘By virtue of seeking, you will find, Bruthen Trana. Now, silence please. I must concentrate.’

  A short time later the Warlock King reached out and settled his hand upon the warrior’s chest.

  As easy as that.

  The body lying before him drew no breath. Left alone for too long it would begin to rot. But this was sanctified ground, alive now with the power of Kurald Emurlahn. There would be no decay. There would, for the body, be no passage of time at all.

  Hannan Mosag pulled himself closer. He began searching Bruthen Trana’s clothing. The warrior had something hidden on him – something with an aura of raw power that struck the Warlock King’s senses like a stench. He worked through the pockets on the underside of the warrior’s leather cloak and found naught but a tattered note of some kind. He emptied the coin pouch tied to the sword-belt. A lone polished stone, black as onyx but nothing more than wave-eroded obsidian. Three docks – the local Letherii currency. And nothing else. With growing irritation, Hannan Mosag began stripping the warrior.

  Nothing. Yet he could smell it, permeating the clothing.

  Snarling, Hannan Mosag settled back, his hands twitching.

  He’s taken it with him. That should have been impossible. Yet . . . what other possibility is there?

  His fevered gaze found the crumpled note. Collecting it, he flattened the linen and read what had been written there.

  At first he could make no sense of the statement – no, not a statement, he realized. A confession. A signature he had not seen before, so stylized in the Letherii fashion as to be indecipherable. Moments later, his mind racing, revelation arrived.

  His eyes lifted, fixed upon Bruthen Trana’s now naked form. ‘What deceit were you planning with this, warrior? Perhaps you are cleverer than I had imagined.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘No matter now.’

  The Warlock King drew his dagger. ‘Some blood, yes, to seal the sacred life of my temple. Scabandari, you would understand this. Yes. The necessity.’

  He crawled up beside Bruthen Trana. ‘Deliver the one we seek, warrior. Yes. Beyond that, alas, my need for you ends.’ He raised the knife, then drove it hard into the warrior’s heart.

  Glancing over at Bugg, Tehol Beddict saw his manservant complete an entire turn, his eyes tracking the huge Tarthenal as if they had been nailed to the barbaric warrior with his absurd stone sword. The cordon of guards flanking the giant looked appropriately terrified. ‘Well,’ Tehol said, ‘he’s no Ublala Pung, now is he?’

  Bugg did not even seem to hear him.

  ‘Oh, be like that, then. I think I want to talk to that other one – what did you call him? Oh yes, the Jhag. Any person who would not flinch in the grip of that Tarthenal is either brainless or – oh, not a pleasant thought – even scarier. Perhaps it would do to hesitate at this moment, mindful as ever of loyal manservant’s advice . . . no? No it is. So please, do stand there like a man whose heart has just dropped through to lodge somewhere underneath his spliver or some such organ I don’t want to know about. Yes, then, do that.’

  Tehol set off towards the Jhag. The other savage who had been punched unconscious by the Tarthenal – the Tarthenal whom Ublala Pung had broken into the compound to find – was now sitting up, looking dazedly about. Blood still streamed from his thoroughly broken nose. The woman, attractive in an earthy way, Tehol noted again, was speaking to the tattooed giant, while a dozen paces away a foreigner stood gazing with something like awe upon either the woman or the Jhag.

  In all, Tehol decided, an interesting scenario. Interesting enough to interrupt in his usual charming manner. As he drew closer, he spread his arms and announced, ‘Time, I think, for a more proper welcome to our fair city!’ And his blanket slipped down to gather at his feet.

  Bugg, alas, missed this delightful introduction, for even as his eyes had clung to the Toblakai, so he found himself walking, following, step after step, as the warrior and his escort marched towards the Champion’s Compound – or whatever unintentionally ironic name the guileless officials of the palace had named it. They had come to within a street of the walled enclosure when all hopes of continuing came to a sudden but confused end. For the street was filled with people.

  Emaciated, fouled with excrement, mostly naked flesh covered in welts and sores, they packed the street like abandoned children, lost and forlorn, blinking in the harsh afternoon sun. Hundreds of the wretched creatures.

  The Toblakai’s guards halted at this unexpected barrier, and Bugg saw the foremost one reel back as if assailed by a stench, then turn to argue with the others. Their ‘prisoner’, on the other hand, simply bellowed at the mob to clear the way, then walked on, shouldering through the press.

  He had gone perhaps twenty paces when he too drew to a halt. Shoulders and head above the crowd, he glared about, then shouted in a rude version of Malazan: ‘I know you! Once slaves of Sepik Island! Hear me!’

  Faces swung round. The crowd shifted on all sides, forming a rough circle.

  They hear. They are desperate to hear.

  ‘I, Karsa Orlong, will give answer! So I vow. Your kin refuse you. They cast you out. You live or you die and neither matters to them. Nor to any in this cursed land. To your fate I offer nothing! In vengeance for what has been done to you, I offer everything. Now, go your way – your chains are gone. Go, so that never again will they return to you!’ With that, the Toblakai warrior moved on, towards the compound’s main gate.

  Not precisely what they needed to hear, I think. Not yet, anyway. In time, I suspect, it may well return to them.

  No, this – here and now – this demands another kind of leadership.

  The guards had retreated, seeking another route.

  The few citizens within sight were doing the same. Noone wanted to see this legacy.

  Bugg pushed himself forward. He drew upon his power, felt it struggle at this unseemly purpose. Damn my worshippers – whoever, wherever you are. I will hav
e my way here! Power, devoid of sympathy, cold as the sea, dark as the depths. I will have my way.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ he said to the mob. The words were little more than a whisper, yet all heard them, solid and undeniable in their minds. Close your eyes.

  They did. Children, women, men. Motionless now. Eyes closed tight, breaths held in sudden tension, perhaps even fear – but Bugg suspected that these people were beyond fear. They waited for what would come next. And did not move.

  I will have my way. ‘Hear me. There is a place of safety. Far from here. I will send you there. Now. Friends will find you. They will bring healing, and you will have food, clothing and shelter. When you feel the ground shift beneath you, open your eyes to your new home.’

  The sea did not forgive. Its power was hunger and swelling rage. The sea warred with the shore, with the very sky. The sea wept for no-one.

  Bugg did not care.

  Like any tidal pool motionless under the hot sun, his blood had grown . . . heated. And the smallest pool was filled with the promise of an ocean, a score of oceans – all their power could be held in a single drop of water. Such was Denaeth Rusen, such was Ruse, the warren where life was first born. And there, in that promise of life itself, will I find what I need.

  Of empathy.

  Of warmth.

  The power, when it came, was a true current. Angry, yes, yet true. Water had known life for so long it held no memory of purity. Power and gift had become one, and so it yielded to its god.

  And he sent them away.

  Bugg opened his eyes, and saw before him an empty street.

  In his room once more, Karsa Orlong lifted free his shoulder scabbard, then, holding the weapon and its harness in his hands, he stared down at the long table, on which sat an oil lantern set on low burn. After a moment he laid the sword and rigging down. And grew still once more.

  Many things to consider, a heaving of foam and froth from some struck well deep within him. The slaves. Cast out because their lives were meaningless. Both these Edur and the Letherii were heartless, yet cowards. Eager to turn away from witnessing the cost of their indifference. Content to strip fellowship from any whenever it suited them.

  Yet they would call him the barbarian.

  If so, then he was well pleased with the distinction.

  And, true to his savagely clear vision of right and wrong, he would hold in his mind that scene – those starved faces, the liquid eyes that seemed to shine so bright he felt burned by their touch – hold to it when he faced Emperor Rhulad. When he then faced every Letherii and every Edur who chose to stand in his way.

  So he had vowed, and so all would witness.

  This cold thought held him motionless for another dozen heartbeats, then a second image returned to him. Icarium, the one they called Lifestealer.

  He had been moments from breaking that Jhag’s neck.

  And then he had seen in the ash-skinned face . . . something. And with it, recognition.

  He would yield to Karsa. He had given his word, and Karsa now knew that would not be broken.

  There was Jhag blood in this Icarium, but of that Karsa knew little. Father or mother a Jaghut; it hardly mattered which.

  Yet the other parent. Father or mother. Well, he had seen enough in Icarium’s face to know that blood. To know it like the whisper of his very own.

  Toblakai.

  In his opulent office, Chancellor Triban Gnol slowly sat down with uncharacteristic caution. A dust-laden, sweat- and blood-stained Letherii soldier stood before him, flanked on his right by Sirryn Kanar, whose return from the crypts had coincided with the arrival of this messenger.

  Triban Gnol looked away from the exhausted soldier. He would call in the scrub-slaves afterwards, to wash down the floor where the man now stood; to scent the air once again with pine oil. Eyes on a lacquered box on the desktop before him, he asked, ‘How many did you come in with, Corporal?’

  ‘Three others. And an Edur.’

  Triban Gnol’s head snapped up. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Died not three steps into the Domicile’s grand entrance, sir.’

  ‘Indeed? Died?’

  ‘He was grievously wounded, sir. And I knew enough to prevent any healer reaching him in time. I moved close to help him as he staggered, and gave the arrow in his back a few twists, then a deeper push. He passed out with the pain of that, and as I caught him and lowered him to the floor, I closed my thumb upon the great artery in his neck. I was able to hold that grip for thirty or more heartbeats. That was more than the Edur could withstand.’

  ‘And you a mere corporal in my employ? I think not. Sirryn, after we are done here, draft a promotion for this man.’

  ‘Yes, Chancellor.’

  ‘And so,’ Triban Gnol resumed, ‘being of rank among the remaining Letherii, the responsibility for reporting fell to you.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘I need the names of the others.’

  The corporal seemed to flinch. ‘Sir, without my soldiers, I would never have—’

  ‘I understand your loyalty, and I commend you. Alas, we must face this situation with a clear eye. We must recognize necessity. Those soldiers are not mine. Not like you.’

  ‘They are loyal, sir—’

  ‘To whom? To what? No, the risk is too great. I will grant you this gift, however.’ The Chancellor’s gaze flicked to Sirryn. ‘Quick and painless. No interrogation.’

  Sirryn’s brows rose. ‘None?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘As you command, sir.’

  The corporal licked his lips, and then, clearly forcing out the words, he said, ‘I thank you, sir.’

  The Chancellor’s nod was distracted, his gaze once more on the gleaming box of Blackwood on his desk. ‘I would ask again,’ he said, ‘there was no indication of who they were? No formal declaration of war?’

  ‘Nothing like that at all, sir,’ the corporal replied. ‘Hundreds of burning ships – that was their declaration of war. And even then, they seemed . . . few. No army – no sign at all of the landing.’

  ‘Yet there was one.’

  ‘Errant fend, yes! Sir, I rode with twenty Letherii, veterans all, and six Tiste Edur of the Arapay. Edur magic or not, we were ambushed in a clearing behind an abandoned homestead. One moment – thinking to make our camp – we were reining in amidst the high grasses – alone – and the next there was thunder and fire, and bodies flying – flying, sir, through the air. Or just limbs. Pieces. And arrows hissing in the dusk.’

  ‘Yet your troop recovered.’

  But the corporal shook his head. ‘The Edur commanding us – he knew that the news we were bringing to the capital – that of the burning ships and the dead Tiste bodies on the roads – that news demanded that we disengage. As many of us as could fight clear. Sir, with the Edur in the lead, we bolted. Seven of us at first – they had killed the other five Edur in the first breath of the attack – seven, then five.’

  ‘Did this enemy pursue?’ Triban Gnol asked in a quiet, thoughtful voice.

  ‘No sir. They had no horses – none that we saw in any case.’

  The Chancellor simply nodded at that. Then asked, ‘Human?’

  ‘Yes sir. But not Letherii, not tribal either, from what we could see. Sir, they used crossbows, but not the small, weak fisher bows such as we use in the shallows during the carp run. No, these were weapons of blackened iron, with thick cords and quarrels that punched through armour and shield. I saw one of my soldiers knocked flat onto his back by one such quarrel, dead in the instant. And—’

  He halted when Triban Gnol raised a perfectly manicured finger.

  ‘A moment, soldier. A moment. Something you said.’ The Chancellor looked up. ‘Five of the six Edur, killed at the very beginning of the ambush. And the discovery of Edur corpses on the roads leading in from the coast. No Letherii bodies on those roads?’

  ‘None that we found, sir, no.’

  ‘Yet the sixth Edur survived that initial strike in th
e glade – how?’

  ‘It must have seemed that he didn’t. The quarrel in his back, sir, the one that eventually killed him. He was sent tumbling from his saddle. I doubt any one expected him to rise again, to regain his mount—’

  ‘You saw all this with your own eyes?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘That quarrel – before or after the thunder and fire?’

  The corporal frowned, then said, ‘Before. Just before – not even a blink from one to the next, I think. Yes, I am certain. He was the very first struck.’

  ‘Because he was clearly in command?’

  ‘I suppose so, sir.’

  ‘This thunder and fire, where did the sorcery strike first? Let me answer that for myself. In the midst of the remaining Edur.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘You may go now, soldier. Sirryn, remain with me a moment.’

  As soon as the door closed Triban Gnol was on his feet. ‘Errant fend! A damned invasion! Against the Letherii Empire!’

  ‘Sounds more like against the Edur,’ Sirryn ventured.

  The Chancellor glared across at him. ‘You damned fool. That is incidental – an interesting detail at most. Without true relevance. Sirryn, the Edur rule us – perhaps only in name, yes, but they are our occupiers. In our midst. Able to command Letherii forces as befits their need.’

  He slammed a fist down on the table. The lacquered box jumped, the lid clattering free. Triban Gnol stared at what lay within. ‘We are at war,’ he said. ‘Not our war – not the one we planned for – no. War!’

  ‘We will crush these invaders, sir—’

  ‘Of course we will, once we meet their sorcery with our own. That too is not relevant.’

  ‘I do not understand, sir.’

  Triban Gnol glared at the man. No, you don’t. Which is why your rank will never rise higher, you pathetic thug. ‘When you are done with silencing the other soldiers, Sirryn – oh yes, and the promotion for our enterprising young corporal – I want you to deliver, by hand, a message to Karos Invictad.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘An invitation. He is to come to the palace.’