'Or,' said Hurlochel in a low voice, 'wept.' He thought to ask more questions regarding this new Sha'ik Reborn, but a succession of tragic images, variants on that fated duel at Raraku, before the seas rose from the desert, raced through his mind. And so he rode in silence up the slope, beside the warriors, and before long was thoroughly consumed with the necessities of reorganizing Mathok's horse-warriors.
So preoccupied, he did not report his conversation to the High Fist.
Three leagues from the City of the Fallen, Paran turned the Host away, and set them on their path for distant Aren. The road that would take them from Seven Cities.
Never to return.
****
Saur Bathrada and Kholb Harat had walked into an upland village four leagues inland from the harbour city of Sepik. Leading twenty Edur warriors and forty Letherii marines, they had gathered the enslaved degenerate mixed-bloods, ritually freeing the uncomprehending primitives from their symbolic chains, then chaining them in truth for the march back to the city and the Edur ships. Following this, Saur and Kholb had driven the Sepik humans into a sheep pen where a bonfire was built. One by one, mothers were forced to throw their babes and children into the roaring flames. Those women were then raped and, finally, beheaded. Husbands, brothers and fathers were made to watch. When they alone remained alive, they were systematically dismembered and left, armless and legless, to bleed out among bleating, blood-splashed sheep.
A scream had been birthed that day in the heart of Ahlrada Ahn, and it had not ceased its desperate, terrible cry. Rhulad's shadow covered the Tiste Edur, no matter how distant that throne and the insane creature seated upon it. And in that shadow roiled a nightmare from which there could be no awakening.
That scream was echoed in his memories of that day, the shrieks wrung from the throats of burning children, the writhing forms in their bundled flames, the fires reflected on the impassive faces of Edur warriors. Even the Letherii had turned away, overcome with horror. Would that Ahlrada Ahn could have done the same, without losing face. Instead he stood, one among the many, and revealed nothing of what raged inside. Raged, breaking… everything. Within me, he told himself that night, back in Sepik where the sounds of slaughter continued beyond the room he had found, within me, nothing is left standing. On that night, for the first time ever, he considered taking his own life.
A statement of weakness. The others would have seen it in no other way — they could not afford to — so, not a protest, but a surrender, and they would line up to spit upon his corpse. And warriors like Saur Bathrada and Kholb Harat would draw their knives and crouch down, and with pleasure in their eyes they would disfigure the senseless body. For these two Edur had grown to love blood and pain, and in that they were not alone.
The king of Sepik was the last to die. He had been made to witness the obliteration of his cherished people. It was said that he was a benign ruler — oh how the Edur despised that statement, as if it was an insult, a grievous, vicious insult. That wretched man collapsing between two warriors who struggled to hold him upright, grasping his grey hair to force his head up, to see. Oh, how he'd shrieked and wailed. Until Tomad Sengar wearied of those cries and ordered the king flung from the tower. And, as he fell, his wail became a sound filled with relief. He looked upon those cobbles, rising fast to meet him, as salvation. And this is our gift. Our only gift.
Ahlrada Ahn drew out his Merude cutlasses once again, studied their deadly sharp edges. The grips felt good, felt proper, nestled in his large hands. He heard a stirring among the warriors gathered on the deck and looked up to see the one named Taralack Veed pushing through the crowd, at his side Atri-Preda Yan Tovis and in their wake the Jhag known as Icarium.
Taller than most Edur, the silent, sad-faced warrior carried naught but his old, single-edged sword. No bow, no scabbard for the weapon in his right hand, no armour of any kind. Yet Ahlrada Ahn felt a chill whisper through him. Is he in truth a champion? What will we see this day, beyond the gate?
Two hundred Edur warriors, the Arapay warlock Sathbaro Rangar — now dragging his malformed hulk on a route that would intercept Icarium — and sixty Letherii archers. All ready, all eager to begin the killing.
The warlock squinted up at the Jhag, who halted before him — not out of deference or even much in the way of attentiveness; rather, because the twisted old man blocked his path. 'I see,' Sathbaro Rangar said in a rasp, 'in you... nothing. Vast emptiness, as if you are not even here. And your companion claims you to be a great warrior? I think we I are deceived.'
Icarium said nothing.
The human named Taralack Veed stepped forward, pausing to spit on his hands and sweep them back through his hair. 'Warlock,' he said in passable trader's tongue, 'when the fight begins, you shall see the birth of all that waits within him. This I promise. Icarium exists to destroy, exists to fight, I mean to say, and that is all—'
'Then why does he weep at your words?' Tomad Sengar asked from behind Ahlrada Ahn.
Taralack Veed turned, then bowed low. 'Preda, he grieves for what is lost within him, for all that your warlock perceives... the absence, the empty vessel. It is no matter.'
'It is no matter.' Ahlrada Ahn did not believe that. He could not. You fools! Look at him! What you see, Sathbaro Rangar, is nothing more than loss. Do none of you grasp the significance of that? What do we invite among us? And this Taralack Veed, this foul-smelling savage, see how nervous he looks, as if he himself dreads what is coming —no, I am not blind to the eager light in his eyes, but I see fear there, too. It cries out in his every gesture.
What are we about to do here?
Tomad Sengar said, 'Warlock, prepare the path.'
At that, everyone readied their weapons. Saur Bathrada and Kholb Harat would lead, followed by Sathbaro Rangar himself, and then Taralack and his charge, with the bulk of the Edur behind them, and the Letherii appearing last, arrows nocked.
This would be Ahlrada Ann's first foray against the guardians of the throne. But he had heard enough tales. Battle without quarter. Battle as vicious as any the Edur had experienced. He adjusted his grip on the cutlasses and moved into position, in the front line of the main body. Low-voiced greetings reached him — every Edur warrior emboldened by Ahlrada Ahn's presence in their ranks. Spearbreaker. Fearless, as if eager for death.
Oh yes, I am that indeed. Death. My own.
And yet... do I not still dream of going home?
He watched the ragged gate blister the air, then split wide, limned in grey flames, its maw nothing but blurred darkness.
The warlock stepped to one side, and Saur and Kholb lunged into it, vanished into the gloom. Sathbaro Rangar followed, then Taralack and Icarium. And it was Ahlrada Ahn's turn. He pushed himself forward, into the void—
—and stumbled onto crackling loam, the air sweet with forest scents. As with the world they had just left, it was late afternoon. Continuing to move forward, Ahlrada Ahn looked around. They were alone, unopposed.
He heard Icarium ask, 'Where are we?'
And the Arapay warlock turned. 'Drift Avalii, warrior. Where resides the Throne of Shadow.'
'And who guards it?' Taralack Veed demanded. 'Where is this fierce enemy of yours?'
Sathbaro Rangar lifted his head, as if sniffing the air, then he grunted in surprise. 'The demons have fled. They have fled! Why? Why did they yield us the throne? After all those battles? I do not understand.'
Ahlrada Ahn glanced over at Icarium. Demons... fleeing.
'I do not understand this,' the warlock said again.
Perhaps I do. Oh Sisters, who now walks among us?
He was startled, then, by a faint whispering sound, and he whirled, weapons lifting.
But it was naught but an owl, gliding away down the wide path before them.
He saw a flicker of motion among the humus, and the raptor's talons snapped down. The owl then flapped upward once more, a tiny broken form clutched in its reptilian grip.
'No matter,' the Arapay warlock was saying. 'Le
t us go claim our throne.' And he set off, hobbling, dragging one bent leg, down the trail.
Baffled, Taralack Veed faced Icarium. 'What do you sense? Of this place?'
The eyes that regarded him were flat. 'The Shadow demons left with our arrival. There was... someone... a man, but he too is gone. Some time past. He is the one I would have faced.'
'Skilled enough to unleash you, Icarium?'
'Skilled enough, perhaps, to kill me, Taralack Veed.'
'Impossible.'
'Nothing is impossible,' Icarium said.
They set off after the half-dozen Edur who had hastened ahead to join Sathbaro Rangar.
Fifteen paces down the path they came upon the first signs of past battle. Bloated bodies of dead aptorians and azalan demons. They would not have fallen easily, Taralack Veed knew. He had heard of egregious losses among the Edur and, especially, the Letherii. Those bodies had been recovered.
A short distance beyond rose the walls of an overgrown a courtyard. The gate had been shattered. Icarium trailing a step behind, Taralack Veed followed the others into the compound, then the Jhag reached out and halted the Gral, 'No further.'
'What?'
There was an odd expression on Icarium's face. 'There is no need.'
****
Ahlrada Ahn, along with Saur and Kholb, accompanied the Arapay warlock into the shadowy, refuse-filled chamber of the throne room. The Seat of Shadow, the soul of Kurald Emurlahn, the throne that needed to be claimed, before the sundered realm could be returned to what it once was, a warren whole, seething with power.
Perhaps, with this, Rhulad could break the—
Sathbaro Rangar cried out, a terrible sound, and he staggered.
Ahlrada Ahn's thoughts fell away. He stared.
The Throne of Shadow, there on a raised dais at the far end of the room...
It has been destroyed.
Smashed to pieces, the black wood splintered to reveal its blood-red heartwood. The demons yielded us... nothing. The Throne of Kurald Emurlahn is lost to us.
The warlock was on his knees, shrieking at the stained ceiling. Saur and Kholb stood, weapons out, yet seemingly frozen in place.
Ahlrada Ahn strode up to Sathbaro Rangar and grasped the warlock by the collar, then pulled him onto his feet. 'Enough of this,' he said. 'Gather yourself. We may be done here, but we are not done — you know this. The warriors will be thirsting for slaughter, now. You must return to the gate — there is another throne to be won, and those defending it will not flee as these ones have done here. Attend to yourself, Sathbaro Rangar!'
'Yes,' the warlock gasped, tugging free from Ahlrada Ahn's grip. 'Yes, you speak truth, warrior. Slaughter, yes, that is what is needed. Come, let us depart — ah, in the name of Father Bloodeye, let us leave this place!'
****
'They return,' Taralack Veed said, as the Tiste Edur reappeared at the entrance to the temple. 'The warlock, he looks... aggrieved. What has happened?'
Icarium said nothing, but something glittered in his eyes.
'Jhag,' snarled Sathbaro Rangar as he limped past, 'gather yourself. A true battle awaits us.'
Confusion among the ranks of Edur, words exchanged, then an outcry, curses, bellows of fury. The anger spread out, a wildfire suddenly eager to devour all that would dare oppose it. Wheeling about, hastening towards the flickering gate.
They were not returning to the ships.
Taralack Veed had heard, from Twilight, that an Edur commander named Hanradi Khalag had been sending his warriors against another foe, through a gate — one that led, in a journey of days, to yet another private war. And it was these enemies who would now face the wrath of these Edur here. And that of Icarium.
So they shall see, after all. That is good.
At his side there came a sound from the Jhag that drew Taralack Veed around in surprise. Low laughter.
'You are amused?' he asked Icarium in a hoarse whisper.
'Of Shadow both,' the Jhag said enigmatically, 'the weaver deceives the worshipper. But I will say nothing. I am, after all, empty..'
'I do not understand.'
'No matter, Taralack Veed. No matter.'
****
The throne room was abandoned once more, dust settling, shadows slinking back to their predictable haunts. And, from the shattered throne itself, there grew a faint shimmering, a blurring of edges, then a wavering that would have alarmed any who witnessed it — but of such sentient creatures there were none.
The broken, crushed fragments of wood melted away.
And once more there on the dais stood the Throne of Shadow. And stepping free of it, a shadowy form more solid than any other. Hunched, short, shrouded in folds of midnight gauze. From the indistinct smudge where a face belonged, only the eyes were visible, momentarily, a glinting flash.
The figure moved away from the throne, towards the doorway... silver and ebony cane tapping on the pavestones.
A short while later it reached the temple's entrance and looked out. There, at the gate, walked the last of them. A Gral, and the chilling, dread apparition that was Icarium.
A catch of breath from the huddling shadow beneath the arched frame, as the Jhag paused once to glance back.
And Shadowthrone caught, in Icarium's expression, something like a smile, then the faintest of nods, before the Jhag turned away.
The god cocked his head, listening to the party hurry back up the path.
A short time later and they were gone, back through their gate.
Meticulous illusion, crafted with genius, triggered by the arrival of strangers — of, indeed, any but Shadowthrone himself – triggered to transform into a shattered, powerless wreck. Meanas, bound with Mockra, flung across the span of the chamber, invisible strands webbing the formal entrance. Mockra, filaments of suggestion, invitation, the surrendering of natural scepticism, easing the way to witness the broken throne.
Lesser warrens, yet manipulated by a god's hands, and not any god's hands, either. No... mine!
The Edur were gone.
'Idiots.'
****
'Three sorceror kings,' Destriant Run'Thurvian said, 'rule Shal-Morzinn. They will contest our passage, Adjunct Tavore Paran, and this cannot be permitted.'
'We would seek to negotiate,' the Adjunct said. 'Indeed, to purchase supplies from them. Why would they oppose this?'
'Because it pleases them to do so.'
'And they are formidable?'
'Formidable? It may well prove,' the Destriant said, 'that even with the assistance of your sorcerors, including your High Mage here, we will suffer severe, perhaps devastating losses should we clash with them. Losses sufficient to drive us back, even to destroy us utterly.'
The Adjunct frowned across at Admiral Nok, then at Quick Ben.
The latter shrugged. 'I don't even know who they are and I hate them already.'
Keneb grunted. Some High Mage.
'What, Destriant Run'Thurvian, do you suggest?'
'We have prepared for this, Adjunct, and with the assistance of your sorcerors, we believe we can succeed in our intention.'
'A gate,' Quick Ben said.
'Yes. The Realm of Fanderay and Togg possesses seas. Harsh, fierce seas, but navigable nonetheless. It would not be wise to extend our journey in that realm overlong — the risks are too vast — but I believe we can survive them long enough to, upon re-emerging, find ourselves off the Dal Honese Horn of Quon Tali.'
'How long will that take?' Admiral Nok asked.
'Days instead of months, sir,' the Destriant replied.
'Risks, you said,' Keneb ventured. 'What kind of risks?'
'Natural forces, Fist. Storms, submerged ice; in that realm the sea levels have plunged, for ice grips many lands. It is a world caught in the midst of catastrophic changes. Even so, the season we shall enter is the least violent — in that, we are most fortunate.'
Quick Ben snorted. 'Forgive me, Destriant, but I sense nothing fortuitous in all this. We hav
e some savanna spirit driving us along with these winds, as if every moment gained is somehow crucial. A savannah spirit, for Hood's sake. And now, you've worked a ritual to fashion an enormous gate on the seas. That ritual must have been begun months ago—'
'Two years, High Mage.'
'Two years! You said you were waiting for us — you knew we were coming — two years ago? Just how many spirits and gods are pushing us around here?'
The Destriant said nothing, folding his hands together before him on the map-table.
'Two years,' Quick Ben muttered.
'From you, High Mage, we require raw power — taxing, yes, but not so arduous as to leave you damaged.'
'Oh, that's nice.'
'High Mage,' the Adjunct said, 'you will make yourself available to the Grey Helms.'
He sighed, then nodded.
'How soon, Destriant?' Admiral Nok asked. 'And how shall we align the fleet?'
'Three ships across at the most, two cables apart, no more — the span of a shortbow arrow's flight between each. I suggest you begin readying your fleet immediately, sir. The gate shall be opened at dawn tomorrow.'
Nok rose. 'Then I must take my leave. Adjunct.'
Keneb studied Quick Ben on the other side of the table. The High Mage looked miserable.
****
Kalam waited until Quick Ben emerged onto the mid deck, then made his way over. 'What's got you shaking in your boots?' he asked.
'Never mind. If you're here to badger me about something — anything — I'm not in the mood.'
'I just had a question,' the assassin said, 'but I need to ask it in private.'
'Our hole in the knuckle below.'
'Good idea.'
A short time later they crouched once more in the narrow unlit aisle between crates and bales. 'It's this,' Kalam said, dispensing with any small talk. 'The Adjunct.'
'What about her?'
'I'm nervous.'
'Oh, how sad for you. Take it from me, it beats being scared witless, Kalam.'
'The Adjunct.'
'What is that? A question?'
'I need to know, Quick. Are you with her?'
'With her? In what? In bed? No. T'amber would kill me. Now, maybe if she decided to join in it'd be a different matter—'