Midnight Tides

by Steven Erikson

  The gloom of the hallway vanished, a white, glowing light suffusing the dusty air.

  Revealing the row of Tiste Edur now facing the Ceda, less than fifteen paces between them.

  The Edur in the centre of the row spoke. ‘Ceda Kuru Qan. The kingdom you serve has fallen. Step aside. The emperor wishes to claim his throne.’

  ‘Fallen?’ The Ceda’s voice was thin in comparison, almost quavering. ‘Relevant? Not in the least. I see you, Hannan Mosag, and your K’risnan. I feel you gathering your power. For your mad emperor to claim the throne of Lether, you shall have to pass through me.’

  ‘It is pointless, old man,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘You are alone. All your fellow mages are dead. Look at you. Half blind, barely able to stand—’

  ‘Seek out the demon you chained in the sea, Warlock King.’

  From this distance, Trull could not make out Hannan Mosag’s expression, but there was sudden fury in his voice. ‘You have done this?’

  ‘Letherii are well versed in using greed to lay traps,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘You’ll not have its power today, nor ever again.’

  ‘For that,’ the Warlock King said in a growl, ‘you will—’ The white mist exploded, the roar shaking ceiling and walls, and thundered forward, striking the Tiste Edur warlocks.

  ****

  Ten paces behind Hannan Mosag and his K’risnan, Trull Sengar cried out, ducking away at the blazing concussion, his brothers following suit. He heard screams, cut short, then a body skidded across the polished floor to thud against Trull’s feet, knocking him down—

  He found himself staring at a K’risnan, burnt beyond recognition, blackened slime melting away from split bones. Rising to his hands and knees, Trull looked up.

  Only two Edur remained standing, battling the raging sorcery of the Ceda. Hannan Mosag and Binadas. The other K’risnan were all dead, as were the four slaves who had been crouching beside the two sacks.

  As Trull stared, he saw Binadas flung to the ground as if by a thousand fists of light. Blood sprayed—

  Then Fear was diving forward, skidding on the bucking tiles to within reach of his brother. Hands closed on a wrist and an ankle, then Fear was dragging Binadas back, away from the conflagration.

  Hannan Mosag bellowed. Swirling grey tendrils sprang up from the floor, entwining the raging motes of fire. A blinding detonation—

  Then darkness once more, slowly giving way to gloom.

  Hannan Mosag, standing alone now, facing the Ceda.

  A heartbeat—

  Kuru Qan struck again, a moment before Hannan Mosag’s own attack. The two powers collided three paces in front of the Warlock King—

  —and Trull saw Hannan Mosag stagger, sheathed in blood, his hands reaching back, groping, the left one landing atop one of the sacks and clutching tight. The other hand then found the other and grasped hold. The Warlock King steadied himself, then began to straighten once more against the onslaught.

  ****

  The sorcery pouring from the Ceda had twisted the marble walls, until they began to bleed white liquid. The ceiling overhead had sagged, its paints scorched away, its surfaces polished and slick. Brys had stared, disbelieving, as the magic swatted away whatever defensive spells the K’risnan had raised before themselves, swatted it away in an instant, to rush in and slaughter them.

  Against Hannan Mosag himself, it battered again and again, driving ever closer.

  Then the Warlock King riposted, and the pressure in that hallway pushed Brys and Turudal back a step, then two.

  All at once, the two battling powers annihilated each other in a flash, the thunder of the detonation sending cracks through the floor, bucking tiles into the air – everywhere but where the two sorcerors stood.

  Dusty silence.

  The marble columns to either side were burning in patches, melting from the top down like massive tallow candles. Overhead, the ceiling groaned, as if moments from collapse.

  ‘Now,’ Turudal Brizad hoarsely whispered, ‘we will see the measure of Hannan Mosag’s desperation…’

  The sorceries roared to life once again, and Brys saw the Warlock King stagger.

  The Ceda, Kuru Qan, the small, ancient man, stood unscathed, and the magic raging from him in wave after wave seemed to Brys to be that of a god.

  The Warlock King would not survive this. And, once he fell, this ancient, primal sorcery would sweep out, taking the emperor and his kin, devouring them one and all. Outward, into the city. An entire people, the Tiste Edur, would be annihilated – Brys could sense its hunger, its outrage, its cold lust for vengeance – this was the power of the Letherii, the Cedance, the voice of destiny, a thing terrible beyond comprehension—

  ****

  Trull saw the Warlock King steady himself, his hands gripping the sacks, and power began to flow from them, up his arms, as he began, slowly, to push back the Ceda’s attack.

  Those arms twisted, grew into horrific, misshapen appendages. Hannan Mosag’s torso began to bend, the spine curving, writhing like a snake on hot stones, new muscles rising, knobs of bone pushing at the skin. He shrieked as the power burgeoned through him.

  A grey wave rising, battering at the white fire, tearing its edges, pushing harder, filling half the long, colonnaded hallway, closing on the Ceda, who stood unmoving, head tilted up, the strange lenses flashing before his eyes. Standing, as if studying the storm clawing towards him.

  ****

  Brys stared in horror as the foul sorcery of the Edur edged ever closer to the Ceda, towering over the small man. He saw a nearby column turn porous, then crumble to dust. A section of the ceiling it had been supporting collapsed downward, only to vanish in a cloudy haze and land in a thud of billowing dust.

  Kuru Qan was looking up at the raging wall looming over him.

  Brys saw him cock his head, the slightest of gestures.

  A renewed burst of white fire, expanding outward from where he stood, surging up and outward, hammering into the grey wall.

  Driving fissures through it, tearing enormous pieces away to whip like rent sails up towards the malformed ceiling.

  Brys heard the Warlock King’s shriek, as the white flames roared towards him.

  ****

  Trull felt himself dragged to his feet. He turned, stared into Fear’s face. His brother was shouting something—

  —but the Warlock King was failing. Crumbling beneath the onslaught. Whatever energies he had drawn upon from what was hidden within the sacks were ebbing. Insufficient to counter the Ceda. The Warlock King was about to die – and with him – all of us…

  ‘Trull!’ Fear shook him. ‘Along the wall.’ He pointed. ‘There, edge forward. For a throw—’

  A throw? He stared at the spear in his hands, the Blackwood glistening with beads of red sweat.

  ‘From the shadows, Trull, behind that pillar! From the shadows, Trull!’

  It was pointless. Worse, he did not want to even try. What if he succeeded? What would be won?

  ‘Trull! Do this or we all die! Mother, Father – Mayen – her child! All the children of the Edur!’

  Trull stared into Fear’s eyes, and did not recognize what he saw in them. His brother shook him again, then pushed him along the wall, into the bathing heat of the sorcery battering down at Hannan Mosag, then behind a friable column of what had once been solid marble.

  Into cool shadow. Absurdly cool shadow. Trull stumbled forward at a final push from his brother. He was brought up against a warped, rippled wall – and could see, now, the Ceda. Less than seven paces distant. Head tilted upward, watching his assault on the Warlock King’s failing defences.

  Tears blurred Trull’s eyes. He did not want to do this. But they will kill us all. Every one of us, leaving not a single Tiste Edur alive. I know this. In my heart I know this. They will take our lands, our riches. They will sow salt on our burial grounds. They will sweep us into history’s forgotten worlds. I… I know this.

  He raised his spear, balanced now in his right hand. Was sti
ll for a moment, breath held, then two quick strides, arm flashing forward, the weapon flying straight and true.

  Piercing the Ceda in his side, just below his left ribs, its solid weight and the momentum from Trull’s arm driving the point deep.

  The Ceda spun with the impact, left leg buckling, and fell – away from the painted tile—

  —that suddenly shattered.

  The white fire vanished, and darkness swept in from all sides.

  ****

  Numbed, Brys stepped forward—

  —and was stayed by the hand of Turudal Brizad. ‘No, Champion. He’s gone.’

  The Ceda. Kuru Qan. My friend…

  ****

  Kettle sat in the mud, staring down at the man’s face. It looked to be a kind face, especially with the eyes closed in sleep. The scars were fading, all across his lean, tanned body. Her blood had done that. She had been dead, once, and now she had given life.

  ‘You’re a strange one,’ the wraith whispered from where it crouched by the water.

  ‘I am Kettle.’

  A grunted laugh. ‘And what boils within you, I wonder?’

  ‘You,’ she said, ‘are more than just a ghost.’

  ‘Yes.’ Amused. ‘I am Wither. A good name, don’t you think? I was Tiste Andii, once, long, long ago. I was murdered, along with all of my kin. Well, those of us that survived the battle, that is.’

  ‘Why are you here, Wither?’

  ‘I await my lord, Kettle.’ The wraith suddenly rose – she had not known how tall it was before. ‘And now… he comes.’

  An up-rush of muddy water, and a gaunt figure rose, white-skinned as a blood-drained corpse, long pale hair plastered across its lean face. Coughing, pulling itself clear, crawling onto the bank.

  ‘The swords,’ he gasped.

  Kettle hurried over to him and pushed the weapons into his long-fingered hands. He used them, points down, to help himself to his feet. Tall, she saw, shrinking back, taller even than the wraith. And such cold, cold eyes, deep red. ‘You said you would help us,’ she said, cowering beneath his gaze.

  ‘Help?’

  The wraith knelt before his lord. ‘Silchas Ruin, I was once Killanthir, Third High Mage of the Sixth Cohort—’

  ‘I remember you, Killanthir.’

  ‘I have chosen the new name of Wither, my lord.’

  ‘As you like.’

  The wraith glanced up. ‘Where is the Wyval?’

  ‘I fear he will not survive, but he keeps her occupied. A noble beast.’

  ‘Please,’ Kettle whimpered, ‘they’re out. They want to kill me – you promised—’

  ‘My lord,’ Wither said, ‘I would help the Wyval. Together, we can perhaps succeed in driving her deep. Even in binding her once again. If you would give me leave…’

  Silchas Ruin was silent for a moment, staring down at the kneeling wraith. Then he said, ‘As you like.’

  Wither bowed his head, paused to glance over at Kettle, and said, ‘Leave the Letherii to me. He will not awaken for some time.’ Then the wraith flowed down into the swirling water.

  Silchas Ruin drew a deep breath, and looked down at the swords in his hands for the first time. ‘Strange, these. Yet I sense the mortal chose well. Child, get behind me.’ He regarded her, then nodded. ‘It is time to fulfil my promise.’

  ****

  Corlo had no idea what would come of this. An Avowed could indeed die, if sufficiently damaged. It was, he believed, a matter of will as much as anything else. And he had known Iron Bars for a long time, although not as long as he had known other of the Avowed. To his mind, however, there was no other who could compare with Iron Bars, when it came to sheer will.

  The High Mage was exhausted, used up. No longer could he deftly manipulate the four remaining gods, although, luckily, one of those was in enough trouble all on its own, with a crazed Tarthenal seemingly doing the impossible – squeezing the very life out of it. Talk about stubborn.

  He had been beaten on, again and again, yet he would not relax his deadly embrace. Iron Bars had fought brilliantly, distracting the remaining three repeatedly, sufficient to keep the Tarthenal alive, but the Avowed was very nearly done. Corlo had never before seen such fighting, had never before witnessed the fullest measure of this Avowed’s ability. It had been said, by Guardsmen who would know, that he was nearly a match to Skinner. And now Corlo believed it.

  He was more than a little startled when two corpses walked past him towards the gateway, one of them clawing the air and hissing.

  They halted at the entrance to the yard, and he heard the woman swear with admirable inventiveness, then say, ‘I don’t know how we can help them. Oh, Ublala, you big, stupid fool.’

  The other said, ‘We must attack, Shurq Elalle. I have fangs and talons, you know.’

  ‘Well, go on then.’

  Shurq Elalle? The captain of the ship we’ve signed on with? Our… employer? Corlo pried his legs loose from their crossed position, wincing in pain, and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Hey, you.’

  Shurq Elalle, standing alone now, slowly turned. ‘Are you addressing me?’

  Corlo hobbled over. ‘Corlo, ma’am. Crimson Guard. We signed on with you—’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, the one helping your big, stupid friend. That’s Iron Bars, my commander.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be waiting onboard!’

  He blinked.

  She scowled. ‘Your commander is about to die.’

  ‘I know – wait—’ He stepped past her, onto the track. ‘Wait, something’s coming – quick!’ He ran into the yard, Shurq Elalle following.

  ****

  The Toblakai in the Tarthenal’s arms sagged, and Iron Bars heard the cracking of ribs – a moment before one of the gods slipped past the Avowed and slammed the side of his wooden sword into the Tarthenal’s head. The huge man toppled, dragging down with him the dead god in his arms.

  Stunned, the Tarthenal tried feebly to extricate himself from the corpse.

  With the last of his failing strength, Iron Bars leapt over to position himself above him, arriving in time to deflect a sword-blow and counter with a slash that forced the attacker back a step. From the right, another lunged, then spun away of its own accord, wheeling towards a thunderous concussion from a nearby barrow.

  Where a tall, pale figure strode into view through a cloud of steam, a sword in each hand.

  The Avowed, momentarily distracted, did not even see the sword-blade that slipped over his guard and, deflected at the last moment by clipping the hilt of his sword, slammed flat like a paddle into his right shoulder, breaking everything it could. The impact sent him flying, crashing down into the earth, weapon flying from a senseless hand. He ended up lying on his back, staring up through straggly black tree branches. Too hurt to move. Too tired to care.

  From somewhere to his right he heard fighting, then a grunting bellow that sounded a lot like a death-cry. A Toblakai staggered, almost stumbling over Iron Bars, and the Avowed’s eyes widened upon seeing blood spurting from two stabs in the god’s neck, and a man gnawing on its left calf, being dragged along by its teeth, its taloned hands clawing up the god’s thigh.

  Well, he’d seen stranger things, he supposed – no, not a chance of that—

  The ground shook as another body thumped to the ground. A moment later, there was another dying groan.

  Then footsteps slowly approached Iron Bars where he lay, staring up at the sky. A shadow fell over him. The Avowed blinked, and found himself looking up at a pallid, lean face, and two red, very red, eyes.

  ‘You did passably well,’ the stranger said.

  ‘And my Tarthenal friend?’

  ‘Struck in the skull. He’ll be fine, since I doubt there’s much inside it.’ A pause, then, ‘Why are you still lying there?’

  ****

  Dust and smoke drifted out from the dark corridor. Turudal Brizad had drawn Brys back into the throne room, and the Champion now stood in the clear space be
fore the dais.

  From the throne behind him came a weary voice, ‘Finadd? The Ceda…’

  Brys simply shook his head, unable to speak, struggling to push aside his grief.

  From the gloom of the corridor, there was silence. Heavy, ominous.

  Brys slowly drew out his sword.

  A sound. The grate of footsteps dragging through dust and rubble, the scrape of a sword-tip, and a strange series of dull clicks.

  The footsteps halted.

  Then, a coin. The snap of its bounce—

  —rolling slowly into the throne room.

  Brys watched it arc a lazy, curling path over the tiles. Gold, blotched with dried blood.

  Rolling, tilting, then wobbling to a stop.

  The sounds resumed from the corridor, and a moment later a hulking figure shambled out from the shadows and roiling dust.

  No-one spoke in the throne room as the emperor of the Tiste Edur entered. Three steps, then four, then five, until he was almost within sword-reach of the Champion. Behind him, Hannan Mosag, almost unrecognizable, so twisted and bent and broken was the Warlock King. Two more Edur warriors, their faces taut with distress, appeared in Hannan Mosag’s wake, dragging two sacks.

  Brys spared the others the briefest of glances, noting the blood-smeared spear in the right hand of one of the warriors. The one who killed the Ceda. Then he fixed his attention once more on the emperor. The sword was too large for him. He walked as if in pain. Spasms flickered across his coin-studded face. His hooded eyes glittered as he stared past Brys… to the throne, and the king seated upon it.

  A racking cough from Hannan Mosag as he sagged to a kneeling position, a gasp, and, finally, words. ‘King Ezgara Diskanar. I have something… to show you. A… gift.’ He lifted a mangled hand, the effort sending a shudder through him, and gestured behind him.

  The two warriors glanced at each other, both uncertain.

  The Warlock King grimaced. ‘The sacks. Untie them. Show the king what lies within them.’ Another hacking cough, a bubbling of pink froth at the corners of Hannan Mosag’s mouth.

  The warriors worked at the knotted ropes, the one on the left pulling the strands loose a moment before the other one. Drawing the leather mouth open. The Edur, seeing what was within, suddenly recoiled, and Brys saw horror on the warrior’s face.