Midnight Tides

by Steven Erikson

  Trull edged his way back up to peer over the tree-fall. No movement below. The air seemed preternaturally still.

  ‘If they don’t close soon,’ Ahlrada said in a low voice, ‘they will have lost the advantage.’

  Trull nodded. Sufficient concerns to occupy his mind, to steal his fullest attention. He did not have the luxury of thinking of other things. This, he decided, was preferable. A relief. And I can stay here, in this tense cast of my mind’s thoughts, from now on. It will take me through this war. It has to. Please, take me through this war.

  The shadows were long on the slope below, cutting crossways, the shafts of dusty sunlight ebbing into golden mist through which insects flitted.

  A whisper of sound – behind them, then on all sides.

  Wraiths, streaming down, slipping past into the spreading gloom below.

  ‘They’ve arrived,’ Ahlrada said.

  Trull slid back down and rolled onto his back. Padding between brush and trees upslope, silver-backed wolves. A half-dozen, then a score, lambent eyes flashing from lowered heads.

  One beast approached Trull. It suddenly blurred, the air filling with a pungent, spicy scent, and a moment later Trull found himself looking into the amber eyes of B’nagga.

  The Jheck grinned. ‘A thousand paces below, Trull Sengar. They are in full retreat.’

  ‘You made good time,’ Ahlrada said.

  The grin widened. ‘The warriors are but two thousand paces from the bridge. My brothers found a body, hidden in the brush. Your work?’

  ‘An advance scout,’ Trull said.

  ‘The mages had tied a thread to him. They knew you were coming. No doubt that slowed them even more.’

  ‘So,’ Ahlrada said, ‘are we to contest their retreat?’

  ‘It was a thought. But no, the wraiths will do naught but hound them. Keep them on edge and moving at double-march. By the time they reach High Fort they will be footsore and bleary-eyed. We won’t be giving them much time to rest.’ He settled into a crouch. ‘I have news. First Maiden Fort has fallen. No battle – the garrison had already fled back to Fent Reach.’

  ‘As anticipated,’ Trull said.

  ‘Yes. If the Letherii choose to make a stand at Fent Reach, it will be a short siege. Even now, our ships have made landing and the warriors march on the city.’

  ‘No contact with any Letherii fleets?’ Trull was surprised. Those transports were vulnerable.

  ‘None. The emperor’s forces are poised above Trate, undetected as yet. Within the next few days, my friends, there will be four major battles. And, sword willing, the northern frontier shall fall.’

  At the very least, we’ll have their fullest attention.

  ****

  Blind drunk. A description Seren Pedac sought to explore, with all the fumbling murky intent of a mind poisoned into stupidity. But, somehow, she was failing. Instead of blind, she was painfully aware of the figures on all sides of her small table, the seething press and the loose rubble sound of countless voices. Stupidity had yet to arrive and possibly never would, as stolid sobriety held on, dogged and immovable and indifferent to the seemingly endless cups of wine she drank down.

  Fevered excitement, scores of voices uttering their I-told-you-so variations to herds of nodding heads. Proclamations and predictions, the gleaming words of greed eager to be unleashed on the booty of battlefields crowded with dead Edur. Give ’em First Maiden Fort, aye. Why not? Pull the bastards in and in. You saw what the cadre did that night? They’ll do it again, this time against the ash-faced bastards themselves. I’ve got a perch halfway up the lighthouse, paid a fortune for it, I’ll see it all.

  It’ll all be over at Fent Reach. They’ll get their noses bloodied and that’s when the cadre will hit the fleet in Katter Sea. I got an interest in a stretch on Bight Coast, salvage rights. Heading up there as soon as it’s over.

  They let themselves get surrounded, I tell you. Twilight’s just waiting for the siege to settle in. What’s that? You saying she surrendered? Errant take us, man, what kind of lies you throwing about in here? You a damned traitor, you a damned Hull Beddict? Shut that mouth of yours or I’ll do it for you—

  I’ll help, Cribal, that’s a promise. Sewing lips tight is easy as mending sails an’ I been doing that for years—

  Where’d he go?

  Ah, never mind him, Cribal—

  Traitors need to be taught a lesson, Feluda. Come on, I see ’im making for the door—

  Sittin’ alone don’t do no woman no good, sweetheart. Let a decent man take you away from all this…

  Seren Pedac frowned, looked up at the figure looming over her table. Her mind replied, All right, even as she scowled and turned away.

  ‘Nothing worth its spit is being said here, lass. You want to drink. Fine, jus’ sit and drink. All I was offerin’ was a quieter place to do it, is all.’

  ‘Go away.’

  Instead, the man sat down. ‘Been watchin’ you all evening. Jus’ another Letherii? Asked myself that once and once only. No, I think, not this one. So I ask, and someone says “That’s the Acquitor, Seren Pedac. Was up at the treaty that went sour. Was under contract with Buruk the Pale, the one that hung himself and damned if it wasn’t her that found him all fish-eyed and fouled.” And I think, that ain’t an easy thing. No wonder she’s sittin’ there tryin’ t’get drunk an’ it’s not working.’

  She fixed her gaze on him, seeing him clearly for the first time. Seamed face, clean-shaven, hair shoulder-length and the hue of polished iron. His voice sounded again in her head, confirming what she saw. ‘You’re no Letherii.’

  A broad smile, even, white teeth. ‘You got that right, and, no offence, but glad of it.’

  ‘You’re not Faraed. Nerek. Tarthenal. Not Fent, either, not even Meckros—’

  ‘What I am you never heard of, believe me, lass. A long way from home.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Was making an offer, but it needed to be done in quiet. Private—’

  ‘I’m sure—’

  ‘Not like that, though I’d consider my fortunes on the upswing if it was to happen the way you think I meant. No.’ He leaned forward, gesturing her closer as well.

  Her smile ironic, she tilted over the table until their noses were almost touching. ‘I can’t wait.’

  He withdrew a fraction. ‘Lass, you’re a breathin’ vineyard. All right, then, listen. We got ourselves a boat—’

  ‘We?’

  ‘A boat, and we’re leaving this pock-on-Hood’s-ass of a kingdom.’

  ‘Where to? Korshenn? Pilott, Truce? Kolanse?’

  ‘What would be the point of that? The first three you named are all paying tribute to Lether, and Kolanse is a mess from all we hear. Acquitor, the world’s a lot bigger than you might think—’

  ‘Is it? Actually, it’s smaller than I think.’

  ‘Same rubbish, different hole, eh? Maybe you’re right. But maybe not.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Just someone a long way from home, like I said. We clawed our way out of Assail, only to find ourselves here, and just by arriving in our damned sieve of a boat, we owed money. Just by steppin’ onto the dock, we owed more. It’s been seven months, and we’re so far in debt Prince K’azz himself couldn’t clear our way back out. Livin’ off scraps and doin’ ugly work and it’s rotting us all—’

  ‘You were a soldier.’

  ‘Still am, lass.’

  ‘So join a brigade—’

  He rubbed at his face, closed his eyes for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. He fixed her with his cool, blue eyes. ‘It’s shouting to the Abyss, lass, and not one Letherii’s listening. You people are in trouble. Serious trouble. Fent Reach surrendered. Now, Twilight’s a smart, able commander, so what made her do that? Think, Acquitor.’

  ‘She saw it was hopeless. She saw she couldn’t hold the city, and there was no way to retreat.’

  He nodded. ‘You weren’t here when the harvest ships returne
d. You didn’t see what delivered ’em. We did. Lass, if dhenrabi worship a god then that was it, right there in the harbour.’

  ‘Who are dhenrabi?’

  He shook his head. ‘We got room for people worth their salt. And you won’t be the only woman, so it’s not like that.’

  ‘So why me at all, then?’

  ‘Because you ain’t blind, Seren Pedac.’

  Smiling, she leaned back, then looked away. Not drunk, either. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It won’t mean a thing—’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘Iron Bars, Second Blade, Fourth Company, Crimson Guard. Was in the service of Commander Cal-Brinn before we was all scattered between here and Hood’s gates.’

  ‘Meaningless and long. I’m impressed, Iron Bars.’

  ‘Lass, you got more sharp teeth than an enkar’al with a mouthful of rhizan. Probably why I like you so much.’

  All right. ‘I’m not interested in your offer, Iron Bars.’

  ‘Try thinking on it. There’s time for that, provided you get out of Trate as soon as you can.’

  She looked at him. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘You’d be right, if our boat was in the harbour here. But it isn’t. It’s in Letheras. We signed on as crew, through an agent.’ He shrugged. ‘As soon as we get out to sea…’

  ‘You’ll kill the captain and mates and turn pirate.’

  ‘We won’t kill anybody if there’s a way round it, and we’re not pirates. We just want to get home. We need to get home.’ He studied her for a moment, then rose. ‘If it works out right, we’ll look you up in Letheras.’

  All right. ‘You’d be wasting your time.’

  He shrugged. ‘Between here and then, Acquitor, a whole lot is going to change. Get out of this city, lass. As soon as you sober up, go. Just go.’

  Then he was gone.

  They caught him, dragged him into the alley and they’re sewing up his mouth – c’mon, let’s watch—

  Just his mouth? He’s a damned traitor. No reason to go easy on the bastard. Sew him up everywhere, see how he likes that—

  Wish it was Hull Beddict, that’s what I wish—

  They’ll do a lot worse on ’im, mark my words. You just wait and see…

  ****

  Her blue silks snapping in the wind, Nekal Bara stood atop the lighthouse tower and faced out to sea. Nothing was going as planned. Their pre-emptive attack had destroyed empty villages; the entire Tiste Edur people were on the move. And they’re about to arrive on our very doorstep.

  The fleet that had appeared in Katter Sea, poised to interpose its forces to prevent the retreat of Twilight’s garrison at Fent Reach, had, upon the city’s surrender, simply moved on. Preternaturally swift, the blood-red sails of five hundred raiders now approached Trate Bay. And in the waters beneath those sleek hulls… a thing. Ancient, terrible, eager with hunger. It knew this path. It had been here before.

  Since that time, and at the Ceda’s command, she had delved deep in her search to discover the nature of the creature the Tiste Edur had bound to their service. The harbour and the bay beyond had once been dry land, a massive limestone shelf beneath which raced vast underground rivers. Erosion had collapsed the shelf in places, creating roughly circular, deep wells. Sometimes the water below continued to flow as part of the rivers. But in some, the percolating effect of the limestone was blocked by concretions over time, and the water was black and still.

  One such well had become, long ago, a place of worship. Treasures were flung into its depths. Gold, jade, silver, and living sacrifices. Drowning voices had screamed in the chill water, cold flesh and bone had settled on the pale floor.

  And a spirit was fashioned. Fed on blood and despair, beseeching propitiation, the unwilling surrender of mortal lives. There were mysteries to this, she well knew. Had the spirit existed before the worship began, and was simply drawn to the gifts offered? Or was it conjured into existence by the very will of those ancient worshippers? Either way, the result was the same. A creature came into being, and was taught the nature of hunger, of desire. Made into an addict of blood and grief and terror.

  The worshippers vanished. Died out or departed, or driven to such extreme sacrifices as to destroy themselves. There was no telling how deep the bed of bones at the bottom of that well, but, by the end, it must have been appalling in its vastness.

  The spirit was doomed, and should have eventually died. Had not the seas risen to swallow the land, had not its world’s walls suddenly vanished, releasing it to all that lay beyond.

  Shorelines were places of worship the world over. The earliest records surviving from the First Empire made note of that again and again among peoples encountered during the explorations. The verge between sea and land marked the manifestation of the symbolic transition between the known and the unknown. Between life and death, spirit and mind, between an unlimited host of elements and forces contrary yet locked together. Lives were given to the seas, treasures were flung into their depths. And, upon the waters themselves, ships and their crews were dragged into the deep time and again.

  For all that, the spirit had known… competition. And, Nekal Bara suspected, had fared poorly. Weakened, suffering, it had returned to its hole, there beneath the deluge. Returned to die.

  There was no way of knowing how the Tiste Edur warlocks had found it, or came to understand its nature and the potential within it. But they had bound it, fed it blood until its strength returned, and it had grown, and with that growth, a burgeoning hunger.

  And now, I must find a way to kill it.

  She could sense its approach, drawing ever nearer beneath the Edur raiders. Along the harbour front below, soldiers were crowding the fortifications. Crews readied at the trebuchets and ballistae. Fires were stoked and racks of hull-breaching quarrels were wheeled out.

  Arahathan in his black furs had positioned himself at the far end of the main pier and, like her, stood facing the fast-approaching Edur fleet. He would seek to block the spirit’s attack, engage it fully for as long as it took for Nekal Bara to magically draw close to the entity and strike at its heart.

  She wished Enedictal had remained in the city, rather than returning to his battalion at Awl. Indeed, she wished the Snakebelts had marched to join them here. Once the spirit was engaged, Enedictal could have then shattered the Edur fleet. She had no idea how much damage she and Arahathan would sustain while killing the spirit – it was possible they would have nothing left with which to destroy the fleet. It might come down to hand to hand fighting along the harbour front.

  And that is the absurdity of magic in war – we do little more than negate each other. Unless one cadre finds itself outnumbered…

  She had six minor sorcerors under her command, interspersed among the companies of the Cold Clay Battalion arrayed below. They would have to be sufficient against the Edur warlocks accompanying the fleet. Nekal Bara was worried, but not unduly so.

  The red sails fluttered. She could just make out the crews, scampering on the foredecks and in the rigging. The fleet was heaving to. Beneath the lead ships, a dark tide surged forward, spreading its midnight bruise into the harbour.

  She felt a sudden fear. It was… huge.

  A glance down. To the lone, black-swathed figure at the very end of the main pier. The arms spreading wide.

  The spirit heaved up in a swelling wave, gaining speed as it rushed towards the harbour front. On the docks, soldiers behind shields, a wavering of spear-heads. Someone loosed a ball of flaming pitch from one of the trebuchets. Fascinated, Nekal Bara watched its arcing flight, its smoke-trailing descent, down towards the rising wave. It vanished in a smear of steam.

  She heard Arahathan’s roar, saw a line of water shiver, then boil just beyond the docks, lifting skyward a wall of steam even as the spirit’s bulk seemed to lunge a moment before striking it.

  The concussion sent the lighthouse wavering beneath her feet and she threw her arms out for balance. Two-thirds
of the way down, along a narrow iron balcony, onlookers were flung into the air, to pitch screaming down to the rocks below. The balcony twisted like thin wire in the hands of a blacksmith, the fittings exploding in puffs of dust. A terrible groaning rose up through the tower as it rocked back and forth.

  Steam and dark water raged in battle, clambering ever higher directly before Arahathan. The sorceror was swallowed by shadow. The lighthouse was toppling. Nekal Bara faced the harbour, held her arms out, then flung herself from the edge.

  Vanishing within a tumbling shaft of magic. Slanting downward in coruscating threads of blue fire that swarmed around a blinding, white core.

  Like a god’s spear, the shaft pierced the flank of the spirit. Tore a path of incandescence into the dark, surging water.

  Errant – he’s failing! Falling! She sensed, then saw, Arahathan. Red flesh curling away from his bones, blackening, snatched away as if by a fierce whirling wind. She saw his teeth, the lips gone, the grimace suddenly a maddening smile. Eyes wrinkled, then darkening, then collapsing inward.

  She sensed, in that last moment, his surprise, his disbelief—

  Into the spirit’s flesh, down through layer upon layer of thick, coagulated blood, matted hair, slivered pieces of bone. Encrusted jewellery, mangled coins. Layers of withered newborn corpses, each one wrapped in leather, each one with its forehead stove in, above a face twisted with pain and baffled suffering. Layers. Oh, Mistress, what have we mortals done? Done, and done, and done?

  Stone tools, pearls, bits of shell—

  Through—

  To find that she had been wrong. Terribly wrong.

  The spirit – naught but a shell, held together by the memory within bone, teeth and hair, by that memory and nothing more.

  Within—

  Nekal Bara saw that she was about to die. Against all that rose to greet her, she had no defence. None. Could not – could never – Ceda! Kuru Qan! Hear me! See—