‘—with sharpers in hand. Koryk, you’re next—’
‘Sergeant—’
‘What in Hood’s name is it, Corabb?’
The man was pointing. Northward.
Fiddler and the others all turned.
To see an enormous white dragon bearing down on them.
An infrequent scattering of cut-down Letherii soldiers and small fires left behind by munitions had provided enough of a trail for Quick Ben and Hedge, and they were now crouched at the foot of a door to a burnt-out building.
‘Listen,’ Hedge was insisting, ‘the roof here’s right opposite the gate. I know Fid and I’m telling you, he’s on that Hood-damned roof!’
‘Fine, fine, lead on, sapper.’ Quick Ben shook his head. Something…I don’t know…
They plunged inside. The stench of smoke was acrid, biting. Charred wreckage lay all about, the detritus of a ruined empire.
‘There,’ Hedge said, then headed on into a corridor, down to a set of stairs leading upward.
Something…oh, gods!
‘Move it!’ Quick Ben snarled, shoving the sapper forward.
‘What—’
‘Hurry!’
The huge dragon angled down, straight for them.
Fiddler stared for a moment longer, seeing the beast opening its mouth, knowing what was coming, then he raised his crossbow and fired.
The bolt shot upward.
A hind limb of the dragon snapped out to bat the quarrel aside.
And the cusser detonated.
The explosion flattened the marines on the rooftop, sent Fiddler tumbling backward.
The roof itself sagged beneath them with grinding, crunching sounds.
Fiddler caught a glimpse of the dragon, streaming blood, its chest torn open, sliding off to one side, heading towards the street below, shredded wings flailing like sails in a storm.
A second bolt flew out to intercept it.
Another explosion, sending the dragon lurching back, down, into a building, which suddenly folded inward on that side, then collapsed with a deafening roar.
Fiddler twisted round—
—and saw Hedge.
—and Quick Ben, who was running towards the roof’s edge, his hands raised and sorcery building round him as if he was the prow of a ship cutting through water.
Fiddler leapt to his feet and followed the wizard.
From the wreckage of the building beside the Eternal Domicile, the dragon was pulling itself free. Lacerated, bones jutting and blood leaking from terrible wounds. And then, impossibly, it rose skyward once more, rent wings flapping – but Fiddler knew that it was sorcery that was lifting the creature back into the air.
As it cleared the collapsed building, Quick Ben unleashed his magic. A wave of crackling fire crashed into the dragon, sent it reeling back.
Another.
And then another – the dragon was now two streets away, writhing under the burgeoning assault.
Then, with a piercing cry, it wheeled, climbed higher, and flew away, in full retreat.
Quick Ben lowered his arms, then fell to his knees.
Staring after the fast-diminishing dragon, Fiddler leaned his crossbow onto his shoulder.
‘This ain’t your fight,’ he said to the distant creature. ‘Fucking dragon.’
Then he turned and stared at Hedge.
Who, grinning, stared back.
‘No ghost?’
‘No ghost. Aye, Fid, I’m back.’
Fiddler scowled, then shook his head. ‘Hood help us all.’ Then he turned to Quick Ben. ‘And where in the Abyss have you been?’
Picking himself up from the buckled rooftop, Bottle stared across at those three soldiers. Didn’t know one of them except that he was a sapper. And a damned Bridgeburner.
Beside him, Koryk groaned, then spat. ‘Look at ’em,’ he said.
Bottle nodded.
And, oddly enough, for all the soldiers in the squad, nothing more about it needed saying.
Bottle squinted at the fast-dwindling dragon. Allow us to introduce ourselves…
Trull Sengar gently lifted Seren’s arms and stepped back from her embrace. She almost sagged forward, not wanting the moment to end, and something cold formed a fist in her stomach. Wincing, she turned away.
‘Seren—’
She waved a hand, then met his eyes once more.
‘My brother. My parents.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I cannot pretend that they are not there. That they mean nothing to me.’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He crossed the dusty room, kicking through rubbish – the place had been stripped of virtually everything, no matter how worthless. They had lain together on their cloaks, watched by spiders in the corners near the ceiling and bats slung in a row beneath a window sill. He picked up the Imass spear from where it leaned against a wall and faced her, offering a faint smile. ‘I can protect myself. And alone, I can move quickly—’
‘Go, then,’ she said, and felt anguish at the sudden hardness in her voice.
His half-smile held a moment longer, then he nodded and walked into the corridor that led to the front door.
After a moment Seren Pedac followed. ‘Trull—’
He paused at the doorway. ‘I understand, Seren. It’s all right.’
No it’s not all right! ‘Please,’ she said, ‘come back.’
‘I will. I can do nothing else. You have all there is of me, all that’s left.’
‘Then I have all I need,’ she replied.
He reached out, one hand brushing her cheek.
And then was gone.
Emerging from the pathway crossing the yard, Trull Sengar, the butt of the spear ringing like the heel of a staff on the cobbles, walked out into the street.
And set off in the direction of the Eternal Domicile.
From the shadows of an alley opposite, the Errant watched him.
‘I feel much better.’
Brys Beddict smiled across at his brother. ‘You look it. So, Tehol, your manservant is an Elder God.’
‘I’ll take anybody I can find.’
‘Why are your eyes two different colours now?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think Bugg may be colour blind. Blue and green, green and blue, and as for brown, forget it.’
Said manservant who happened to be an Elder God walked into the room. ‘I found her.’
Tehol was on his feet. ‘Where? Is she alive?’
‘Yes, but we’ve work to do…again.’
‘We need to find that man, that Tanal—’
‘No need for that,’ Bugg replied, eyes settling on the corpse of Karos Invictad.
Brys did the same. A two-headed insect was slowly making its way towards the spilled entrails. ‘What in the Errant’s name is that?’
And Bugg hissed through his teeth. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he’s next.’
Outside, in the compound, in the street beyond, a mass of citizens were gathering. Their sound was like an advancing tide. There had been some thunderous explosions, and the unmistakable roar of sorcery, from the direction of the Eternal Domicile, but that had all been short-lived.
Tehol faced Bugg, ‘Listen to that mob. We going to be able to leave here alive? I’m really not in the mood for a Drowning. Especially my own.’
Brys grunted. ‘You’ve not been paying attention, brother. You’re a hero. They want to see you.’
‘I am? Why, I never imagined that they had it in them.’
‘They didn’t,’ Bugg replied, with a sour expression. ‘Ormly and Rucket have spent a fortune on criers.’
Brys smiled. ‘Humbled, Tehol?’
‘Never. Bugg, take me to Janath. Please.’
At that, Brys Beddict’s brows rose. Ah, it is that way, then.
Well.
Good.
A surviving officer of the city garrison formally surrendered to the Adjunct just inside the west gate, and now Tavore led her occupying
army into Letheras.
Leaving Fist Blistig in charge of the main force, she assembled the five hundred or so surviving marines, along with Fist Keneb, and her own troop of mounted cavalry, and set out for the imperial palace. This ill-named ‘Eternal Domicile’.
Sinn, riding behind Lostara Yil, had cried out when the dragon had appeared over the city; then had laughed and clapped her hands when at least two cussers and then wave after wave of ferocious sorcery routed the creature.
Captain Faradan Sort’s advance squads were still active – that much had been made abundantly clear. And they were at the palace, or at least very close. And they were in a mood.
Most commanders would have raged at this – uncontrolled soldiers raising mayhem somewhere ahead, a handful of grubby marines who’d lived in the wilds for too long now battering at the palace door, frenzied with bloodlust and eager to deliver vengeance. Was this how she wanted to announce her conquest? Would the damned fools leave anything still breathing in that palace?
And what of this un-killable Emperor? Lostara Yil did not believe such a thing was even possible. A cusser in the bastard’s crotch there on that throne and he’ll be giving to the people for days and days. She wouldn’t put it past Fiddler, either. One step into the throne room, the thwock of that oversized crossbow, and then the sergeant diving back, trying to get clear as the entire room erupted. He’d probably happily kill himself for that pleasure.
Yet, while without doubt the Adjunct shared such visions, Tavore said nothing. Nor did she urge her troops to any haste – not that any of them were in shape for that, especially the marines. Instead, they advanced at a measured pace, and citizens began appearing from the side lanes, alleys and avenues, to watch them march past. Some even cried out a welcome, with voices breaking with relief.
The city was a mess. Riots and earthquakes and Moranth munitions. Lostara Yil began to realize that, if the arrival of the Bonehunters signified anything, it was the promise of a return to order, a new settling of civilization, of laws and, ironically, of peace.
But Adjunct, if we tarry here too long, that will turn. It always does. Nobody likes being under an occupier’s heel. Simple human nature, to take one’s own despair and give it a foreigner’s face, then let loose the hounds of blood.
See these citizens? These bright, gladdened faces? Any one of them, before long, could turn. The reapers of violence can hide behind the calmest eyes, the gentlest of smiles.
The column’s pace was slowing, with ever more crowds before them. Chants were rising and falling here and there. Letherii words, the tone somewhere between hope and insistence.
‘Adjunct, what is it they’re all saying?’
‘A name,’ she replied. ‘Well, two names, I think. One they call the Saviour. The other…’
‘The other…what, sir?’
She cast Lostara a quick glance, then her mouth set, before she said, ‘Emperor.’
Emperor? ‘But I thought—’
‘A new Emperor, Captain. By proclamation, it would seem.’
Oh, and have we nothing to say on this?
Directly ahead was a wall of citizens, blocking all hopes of passage, through which a small group was moving, pushing its way to the forefront.
The Adjunct raised a gloved hand to signal a halt.
The group emerged, an enormously fat woman in the lead, followed by a gnarled little man who seemed to be carrying rats in the pockets of his cloak, and then two men who looked like brothers. Both lean, one in the uniform of an officer, the other wearing a tattered, blood-stained blanket.
Tavore dismounted, gesturing for Lostara to do the same.
The two women approached the group. As they drew closer, the fat woman stepped to one side and with a surprisingly elegant wave of one plump hand she said, ‘Commander, I present to you Brys Beddict, once Champion to King Ezgara Diskanar – before the Edur conquest – now proclaimed the Saviour. And his brother, Tehol Beddict, financial genius, liberator of the oppressed and not half bad in bed, even now being proclaimed the new Emperor of Lether by his loving subjects.’
The Adjunct seemed at a loss for a reply.
Lostara stared at this Tehol Beddict – although, truth be told, she’d rather let her eyes linger on Brys – and frowned at the disgusting blanket wrapped about him. Financial genius?
Brys Beddict now stepped forward and, as had the huge woman, spoke in the trader’s tongue. ‘We would escort you to the Eternal Domicile, Commander, where we will, I believe, find an emperor without an empire, who will need to be ousted.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I assume you come as liberators, Commander. And, accordingly, have no wish to overstay your welcome.’
‘By that,’ the Adjunct said, ‘you mean to imply that I have insufficient forces to impose a viable occupation. Were you aware, Brys Beddict, that your eastern borderlands have been overrun? And that an army of allies now marches into your empire?’
‘Do you come as conquerors, then?’ Brys Beddict asked.
The Adjunct sighed, then unstrapped and pulled off her helm. She drew her hand from its glove and ran it through her short, sweat-damp hair. ‘Hood forbid,’ she muttered. ‘Find us a way through these people, then, Brys Beddict.’ She paused, cast her gaze to Tehol Beddict, and slowly frowned. ‘You are rather shy for an emperor,’ she observed.
Tehol refuted that with the brightest smile, and it transformed him, and suddenly Lostara forgot all about the man’s martial-looking brother.
Spirits of the sand, those eyes…
‘I do apologize, Commander. I admit I have been somewhat taken aback.’
The Adjunct slowly nodded. ‘By this popular acclaim, yes, I imagine—’
‘No, not that. She said I was not half bad in bed. I am crushed by the other half, the “half good” bit—’
‘Oh, Tehol,’ the fat woman said, ‘I was being modest for your sake.’
‘Modesty from you, Rucket? You don’t know the meaning of the word! I mean, I just look at you and it’s hard not to, if you know what I mean.’
‘No.’
‘Anyway!’ Tehol clapped his hands together. ‘We’ve had the fireworks, now let’s get this parade started!’
Sirryn Kanar ran down the corridor, away from the fighting. The damned foreigners were in the Eternal Domicile, delivering slaughter – no calls for surrender, no demands to throw down weapons. Just those deadly quarrels, those chopping shortswords and those devastating grenados. His fellow guards were dying by the score, their blood splashing the once pristine walls.
And Sirryn vowed he was not going to suffer the same fate.
They wouldn’t kill the Chancellor. They needed him, and besides, he was an old man. Obviously unarmed, a peaceful man. Civilized. And the guard they’d find standing at his side, well, even he carried naught but a knife at his belt. No sword, no shield, no helm or even armour.
I can stay alive there, right at the Chancellor’s side.
But where is he?
The throne room had been empty.
The Emperor is in the arena. The mad fool is still fighting his pointless, pathetic fights. And the Chancellor would be there, attending, ironic witness to the last Tiste Edur’s drooling stupidity. The last Tiste Edur in the city. Yes.
He hurried on, leaving the sounds of fighting well behind him.
A day of madness – would it never end?
Chancellor Triban Gnol stepped back. The realization had come suddenly to him, with the force of a hammer blow. Rhulad Sengar will not return. The Emperor of a Thousand Deaths…has died his last death.
Toblakai. Karsa Orlong, I do not know what you have done, I do not know how – but you have cleared the path.
You have cleared it and for that I bless you.
He looked about, and saw that the meagre audience had fled – yes, the Eternal Domicile was breached, the enemy was within. He turned to the Finadd standing nearby. ‘Varat Taun.’
‘Sir?’
‘We are done here. Gather your soldiers
and escort me to the throne room, where we will await the conquerors.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And we bring that witch with us – I would know what has happened here. I would know why she laid open her hand with that knife. I would know everything.’
‘Yes, Chancellor.’
The captain was surprisingly gentle taking the pale woman into his custody, and indeed, he seemed to whisper something to her that elicited a weary nod. Triban Gnol’s eyes narrowed. No, he did not trust this new Finadd. Would that he had Sirryn with him.
As they made their way from the arena, the Chancellor paused for one look back, one last look at the pathetic figure lying on the bloody sand. Dead. He is truly dead.
I believe I always knew Karsa Orlong would be the one. Yes, I believe I did.
He was almost tempted to head back, down onto the arena floor, to walk across the pitch and stand over the body of Rhulad Sengar. And spit into the Emperor’s face.
No time. Such pleasure will have to wait.
But I vow I will do it yet.
Cuttle waved them to the intersection. Fiddler led the rest of his squad to join the sapper.
‘This is the main approach,’ Cuttle said. ‘It’s got to be.’
Fiddler nodded. The corridor was ornately decorated, impressively wide, with an arched ceiling gleaming with gold leaf. There was no-one about. ‘So where are the guards, and in which direction is the throne room?’
‘No idea,’ Cuttle replied. ‘But I’d guess we go left.’
‘Why?’
‘No reason, except everyone who tried to get away from us was more or less heading that way.’
‘Good point, unless they were all headed out the back door.’ Fiddler wiped sweat from his eyes. Oh, this had been a nasty bloodletting, but he’d let his soldiers go, despite the disapproving looks from Quick Ben. Damned High Mage and his nose in the air – and where in Hood’s name did all that magic come from? Quick had never showed anything like that before. Not even close.
He looked across at Hedge.
Same old Hedge. No older than the last time Fiddler had seen him. Gods, it doesn’t feel real. He’s back. Living, breathing, farting…He reached out and cuffed the man in the side of the head.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 694