They stepped into the narrow corridor, turned left and approached the street.
Three more strides.
She threw a desperate look over her shoulder, then lunged forward in a sudden burst of speed.
Gerun snarled, reaching out with one hand.
A whimpering sound escaped her, and she raised the knife just as she reached the mouth of the alley.
And thrust it into her own chest.
Gerun was a hand’s width behind her, coming opposite a side corridor between two warehouses, when he was grasped hard, pulled off his feet, and yanked into the dark corridor.
A fist crashed into his face, shattering his nose. Stunned, he was helpless as the sword was plucked from his hand, the helmet dragged from his head.
The massive hands lifted him and slammed him hard against a wall. Once, twice, three times, and with each impact the back of Gerun’s head crunched against the cut stone. Then he was smashed onto the greasy cobbles, breaking his right shoulder and clavicle. Consciousness slipped away. When it returned a moment later he was vaguely aware of a huge, hulking figure crouched over him in the gloom.
A massive hand snapped down to cover Gerun’s mouth and the figure froze.
The sound of running feet in the alleyway, a dozen, maybe more, all moccasined, the rasp of weapons. Then past.
Blearily, Gerun Eberict stared up at an unfamiliar face. A mixed blood. Half Tarthenal, half Nerek.
The huge man crouched closer. ‘For what you did to her,’ he said in a hoarse whisper. ‘And don’t think it’ll be quick…’
The hand over his mouth, Gerun could say nothing. Could ask no questions. And he had plenty of those.
It was clear, however, that the mixed blood wasn’t interested.
And that, Gerun said to himself, was too bad.
Tehol was three paces behind the guard, who was nearing the warehouse wall, when a scraping noise alerted him. He looked to his right, in time to see an Edur woman stagger out from an alley. A knife handle jutted from her chest, and blood was streaming down.
Dumb misery in her eyes, she saw Tehol. Reached out a red-stained hand, then fell, landing on her left side and skidding slightly on the cobbles before coming to a stop.
‘Guard!’ Tehol hissed, changing direction. ‘She’s hurt—
From the warehouse wall: ‘No!’
As Tehol reached her, he looked up to see Tiste Edur warriors rushing from the alley mouth. A spear sailed towards him—
—and was intercepted by the guard lunging in from Tehol’s left side. The weapon caught the man under his left arm, snapping ribs as it sank deep into his chest. With a soft groan, the guard stumbled past, then sprawled onto the street, blood pouring from his mouth and nose.
Tehol went perfectly still.
The Edur ranged out cautiously, until they formed a rough circle around Tehol and the dead woman. One checked on the bodyguard, turning the man over with one foot. It was clear that the man was also dead.
In trader tongue, one of the Tiste Edur said, ‘You have killed her.’
Tehol shook his head. ‘No. She ran into view, already wounded. I was coming to…to help. I am sorry…’
The warrior sneered, then said to the younger Edur beside him, ‘Midik, see if this Letherii is armed.’
The one named Midik stepped up to Tehol. Reached out to pat him down, then snorted. ‘He’s wearing rags, Theradas. There is no place he could hide anything.’
A third warrior said, ‘He killed Mayen. We should take him back—’
‘No,’ Theradas growled. He sheathed his sword and pushed Midik to one side as he came close to Tehol. ‘Look at this one,’ he said in a growl. ‘See the insolence in his eyes.’
‘You do poorly at reading a Letherii’s expression,’ Tehol said sadly.
‘That is too bad, for you.’
‘Yes,’ Tehol replied, ‘I imagine—’
Theradas struck him with a gloved fist.
Pitching Tehol’s head back, his nose cracking loudly. He bent over, both hands to his face, then a foot slammed down diagonally against his right shin, snapping both bones. He fell. A heel crunched down on his chest, breaking ribs.
Tehol could feel his body trying to curl up as heels and fists battered at him. A foot smashed down on his left cheek, crushing bone and bursting that eye. White fire blazed in his brain, swiftly darkening to murky black.
Another kick dislocated his left shoulder.
Beneath yet another heel, his left elbow was crushed. As kicks hammered into his gut, he tried to draw his knees up, only to feel them stamped on and broken. Something burst low in his gut and he felt himself spilling out.
Then a heel landed on the side of his head.
Fifty paces up the street, Hull Beddict approached. He saw a crowd of Tiste Edur, and it was clear they were kicking someone to death. A sudden uneasiness in his stomach, he quickened his pace. There were bodies, he saw, beyond the circle. A soldier in the garb of a palace guard, the shaft of a spear jutting from him. And…an Edur woman.
‘Oh, Errant, what has happened here?’
He made to run—
—and found his path blocked.
A Nerek, and a moment later Hull Beddict recognized him. One of Buruk the Pale’s servants.
Frowning, wondering how he had come to be here, Hull moved to step around the man—who sidestepped once more to block him.
‘What is this?’
‘You have been judged, Hull Beddict,’ the Nerek said. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Judged? Please, I must—’
‘You chose to walk with the Tiste Edur emperor,’ the Nerek said. ‘You chose…betrayal.’
‘An end to Lether, yes—what of it? No more will this damned kingdom destroy people like the Nerek, and the Tarthenal—’
‘We thought we knew your heart, Hull Beddict, but now we see that it has turned black. It is poisoned, because forgiveness is not within you.’
‘Forgiveness?’ He reached out to push the Nerek aside. They’re beating someone. To death. I think—
From behind, two knives slid into his back, one under each shoulder blade, angling upward.
Arching in shock, Hull Beddict stared at the Nerek standing before him, and saw that the young man was weeping. What? Why—
He sank to his knees, weakness rising through him, and the storm of thoughts—the emotions and desires that had haunted him for years—they too weakened, fell away into a grey, calm mist. The mist rising yet higher, a sudden coldness in his muscles. It is…it is…so…
Hull Beddict pitched forward, onto his face, but he never felt the impact with the cobbles.
‘Stop. Please—’
The Tiste Edur turned, to see a Letherii step from where he had been hiding, round the corner of the warehouse. Nondescript, limping, a knout tucked into a rope belt, the man edged forward and continued in the trader tongue, ‘He’s never hurt no-one. Don’t kill him, please. I saw, you see.’
‘You saw what!’ Theradas demanded.
‘The woman, she stabbed herself. Look at the knife, see for yourself.’ Chalas wrung his hands, eyes on the bleeding, motionless form of Tehol. ‘Please, don’t hurt him no more.’
‘You must learn,’ Theradas said, baring his teeth. ‘We heed our emperor’s words. This shall be a day of suffering, old man. Now, leave us, or invite the same fate.’
Chalas surprised them, lunging forward to drape himself over Tehol, shifting to protect as much of him as he could.
Midik Buhn laughed.
Blows rained down, more savage than ever, and it was not long before Chalas lost consciousness. A half-dozen more kicks dislodged the man from Tehol, until the two were lying side by side. With sudden impatience, Theradas slammed his heel down on a head, hard enough to collapse the skull and crush the brain.
Standing on the far side of the bridge, Turudal Brizad felt the malign sorcery wash over him. The soldiers barricading the bridge had died in the grey conflagration a moment earlier, and now it se
emed the terrible sorcery would reach out into the rest of the city. Into the nearby buildings, and, for the Errant, enough was enough.
He nudged the wild power coursing through those buildings, angling it ever downward, slipping it past occupied rooms, downward, past the hidden tunnels of the Rat Catchers’ Guild where so many citizens huddled, and into the insensate mud and clays of the long dead swamp. Where it could do nothing, and was slowed, slowed, then trapped.
It was clear, a moment later, that the Warlock King had not detected the manipulation, as the magic was surrendered, the poisoning conduit from the Crippled God closed once more. Hannan Mosag’s flesh would not suffer much more of that, fortunately.
Not that it would matter.
He watched as a score of Tiste Edur set off into the city, seeking, no doubt, the fleeing woman from their tribe. But nothing good would come of it, the Errant knew. Indeed, a most egregious error was in the offing, and he grieved for that.
Reaching with his senses, he gained a vision of an overgrown, broken-up yard surrounding a squat tower, and watched in wonder and awe as a lone figure wove a deadly dance in the midst of five enraged Toblakai gods. Extraordinary—a scene the Errant would never forget. But it could not last much longer, he knew.
Nothing good ever did, alas.
Blinking, he saw that the Tiste Edur emperor was now leading his kin across the bridge. On their way to the Eternal Domicile.
Turudal Brizad pushed himself into motion once more.
The Eternal Domicile, a conjoining of destinations, for yet another sequence of tragic events to come. Today, the empire is reborn. In violence and blood, as with all births. And what, when this day is done, shall we find lying, in our lap? Eyes opening onto this world?
The Errant began walking, staying ahead of the Tiste Edur, and feeling, deep within him, the lurching, stumbling measure of time, the countless heartbeats, merging one and all—no need, finally, for a nudge, a push or a pull. No need, it seemed, for anything. He would but witness, now.
He hoped.
Seated cross-legged in the street, the lone High Mage of the Crimson Guard present in this fell city, Corlo Orothos, once of Unta in the days before the empire, cocked his head at the heavy, thumping feet of someone approaching from behind. He risked opening his eyes, then raised a hand in time to halt the newcomer.
‘Hello, half-blood,’ he said. ‘Have you come to worship your gods?’
The giant figure looked down at Corlo. ‘Is it too late?’ he asked.
‘No, they’re still alive. Only one man opposes them, and not for much longer. I’m doing all I can, but it’s no easy thing to confuse gods.’
The Tarthenal half-blood frowned. ‘Do you know why we pray to the Seregahl?’
An odd question. ‘To gain their favour?’
‘No,’ Ublala replied, ‘we pray for them to stay away. And now,’ he added, ‘they’re here. That’s bad.’
‘Well, what do you intend to do about it?’
Ublala squinted down at Corlo, said nothing.
After a moment, the High Mage nodded. ‘Go on, then.’
He watched the huge man lumber towards the gateway. Just inside, he paused beside a tree, reached up and broke free a branch as thick as one of Corlo’s thighs. Hefting it in both hands, the half-blood jogged into the yard.
It was tearing him apart, striving to burst free of his skeletal cage, the minuscule, now terribly abused muscles. In their journey across Letheras, they’d left thirty or more dead Soletaken in their wake. And six Tiste Edur who’d come up from the docks eager for a fight.
They’d taken wounds—no, the remnant that was Udinaas corrected, I’ve taken wounds. I should be dead. I’m cut to pieces. Bitten, torn, gouged. But that damned Wyval won’t surrender. It needs me still…for a few moments longer.
Through a red haze, the old Azath tower and its yard came into view, and a surge of eagerness from the Wyval flooded him.
The Master needed help. All was not yet lost.
In a blur of motion, Udinaas was past the strange man sitting cross-legged on the street—he caught the sudden jerk of surprise from the man as they swept by. A moment later, plunging through the gateway.
Into the yard.
In time to see a mortal Tarthenal half-blood rushing to close on a fight where a lone swordsman was surrounded by the Toblakai gods, moments from buckling under a hail of blows.
Then, past them all.
To the barrow of the Master. The churned, steaming earth. Diving forward with a piercing, reptilian scream—and into the hot darkness, down, clawing, scraping—tearing clear from the mortal’s flesh, the body the Wyval had used for so long, the body it had hidden within—clambering free at last, massive, scaled and sleek-hided, talons plunging into the soil—
The child Kettle squealed as the creature, winged and as big as an ox, rushed past her on all fours. A thumping splash, water spraying in a broad fan that rose, and rose, then slapped down on the now churning pool. Foam, a snaking red-purple tail slithering down then vanishing in the swirling maelstrom.
She then heard a thud behind her and spun on the slick mud of the bank, the two swords still in her hands—
—to see a badly torn body, a man, lying face down. The shattered ends of long bones jutting from his arms and legs, blood pulsing slowly from ruptured veins. And, settling atop him, a wraith, descending like a shadow to match the contorted body beneath it. A shadowy face looking up at Kettle, the rasp of words—
‘Child, we need your help.’
She looked back over her shoulder—the surface of the pool was growing calm once more. ‘Oh, what do you want me to do? It’s all going wrong—’
‘Not as wrong as you think. This man, this Letherii. Help him, he’s dying. I cannot hold him together much longer. He is dying, and he does not deserve to die.’
She crawled closer. ‘What can I do?’
‘The blood within you, child. A drop or two, no more than that. The blood, child, that has returned you to life. Please…’
‘You are a ghost. Why would you have me do this for him—and not for you?’
The wraith’s red eyes thinned as it studied her. ‘Do not tempt me.’
Kettle looked down at the swords in her hands. Then she set one down and brought the freed hand to the gleaming blue edge of the one she still held. Slid her palm a bit along the edge, then lifted her hand to study the result. A long line of blood, a deep, perfect cut. ‘Oh, it’s sharp.’
‘Here, push him onto his back. Lay your wounded palm on his chest.’
Kettle moved forward.
A blow had broken his left arm, and the agony as Iron Bars dodged around and between the bellowing Seregahl sent white flashes through his brain. Half blinded, he wielded his battered, blunted sword on instinct alone, meeting blow after blow—he needed a moment free, a few heartbeats in which to recover, to clamp down on the pain—
But he’d run out of that time. Another blow got through, the strange wooden sword slicing as if glass-edged into his left hip. The leg on that side gave out beneath the biting wound. He looked up through sweat-stinging eyes, and saw the one-eyed Seregahl towering directly over him, teeth bared in triumph.
Then a tree branch struck the god in the head. Against its left temple, hard enough to snap the head right over to bounce from the opposite shoulder. The grin froze, and the Toblakai staggered. A second impact caught it, this time coming from behind, up into the back of the skull, the branch exploding into splinters. The god bent forward—
—as a knee drove up into its crotch—and forearms hammered its back, pushing it further down, the knee rising again, this time to crunch against the god’s face.
The grin, Iron Bars saw from where he crouched, was entirely gone now.
The Avowed rolled to one side a moment before the Toblakai landed atop him. Rolled, and rolled, stumbling to his feet finally to pivot round. And, rising to his name above the agony in his hip, straightening. Once more facing the Seregahl.
Two, then three heartbeats.
The cloudiness cleared from the Avowed’s eyes. A flicker of energy returned to his exhausted limbs. The pain faded away.
That mortal Tarthenal was moments from dying, as the other three stirred awake and moved forward.
Iron Bars raced to intercept them.
The odds were getting better.
Two huddled shapes on the street. Tiste Edur standing around, still kicking, still breaking bones. One stamped down, and brains sprayed out onto the cobbles.
Bugg slowed to a stagger, his face twisting with grief, then rage.
He roared.
Heads turned.
And the manservant unleashed what had remained hidden and quiescent within him for so long.
Fourteen Tiste Edur, standing, all reached up to clamp their ears—but the gesture was never completed, as thirteen of them imploded, as if beneath vast pressure, in horrible contractions of flesh, the wild spurt of blood and fluids, skulls collapsing inward.
Imploded, only to explode outward a moment later. In bloody pieces, spattering the warehouse wall and out across the street.
The fourteenth Tiste Edur, the one who had just crushed a head beneath his heel, was lifted into the air. Writhing, his eyes bulging horribly, wastes streaming down his legs.
As Bugg stalked forward.
Until he was standing before Theradas Buhn of the Hiroth. He stared up at the warrior, at his bloated face, at the agony in his eyes.
Trembling, Bugg said, ‘You, I am sending home…not your home. My home.’ A gesture, and the Tiste Edur vanished.
Into Bugg’s warren, away, then down, down, ever down.
Into depthless darkness, where the portal opened once more, flinging Theradas Buhn into icy, black water.
Where the pressure, immense and undeniable, embraced him.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 451