Midnight Tides

by Steven Erikson

  A moment later the other one cried out and stepped back.

  ‘Show them!’ screamed the Warlock King.

  At that, even the emperor turned, startled.

  The warrior on the left drew a deep, ragged breath, then stepped forward until he could grip the edges of the sack. With strangely gentle motions, he tugged the leather down.

  A Letherii, bound tight. Blistered, suppurating skin, fingers worn to stubs, lumps and growths everywhere on his naked body. He had lost most of his hair, although some long strands remained. Blinking in the light, he tried lifting his head, but the malformed tendons and ligaments in his neck forced the motion to one side. The lower jaw settled and a thread of drool slipped down from the gaping mouth.

  Then Brys recognized him.

  Prince Quillas—

  A cry from the king, a terrible, animal wail.

  The other sack was pulled down. The queen, her flesh as ruined as that of her son. From her, however, came a wet cackle as if to answer her husband’s cry, then a tumbling of nonsensical words, a rush of madness grating out past her swollen, broken lips. Yet, in her eyes, fierce awareness.

  Hannan Mosag laughed. ‘I used them. Against the Ceda. I used them. Letherii blood, Letherii flesh. Look upon the three of us. See, dear king, see the glory of what is to come.’

  The emperor shrieked, ‘Take them away! Fear! Trull! Take them away!’

  The two warriors closed on the huddled figures, drawing the sacks up to what passed for shoulders, then dragging the queen and her son back towards the corridor.

  Trembling, the emperor faced the king once more. He opened his mouth to say something, winced, then shut it again. Then he slowly straightened, and spoke in a rasping voice. ‘We are Rhulad Sengar, emperor of the Tiste Edur. And now, of Lether. Yield the throne, Diskanar. Yield… to us.’

  From Brys’s left the First Eunuch strode forward, a wine jug and two goblets in his hands. He ascended the dais, offered Ezgara one of the goblets. Then he poured out the wine.

  Bemused, the Champion took a step to his right and half turned to regard his king.

  Who calmly drank down the wine in three quick swallows. At some time earlier the crown had been placed on his brow once again. Nisall was standing just behind the throne, her eyes narrowed on the First Eunuch, who had finished his own wine and was stepping back down from the dais, making his way to stand near the Chancellor at the far wall.

  Ezgara Diskanar fixed dull eyes on Brys. ‘Stand aside, Champion. Do not die this day.’

  ‘I cannot do as you ask, my king,’ Brys said. ‘As you well know.’

  A weary nod, then Ezgara looked away. ‘Very well.’

  Nifadas spoke. ‘Champion. Show these savages the measure of a Letherii swordsman. The final act of our kingdom on this dark day.’

  Brys frowned, then faced Rhulad Sengar. ‘You must fight me, Emperor. Or call upon more of your warriors to cut us down.’ A glance at the kneeling Hannan Mosag. ‘I believe your sorcery is done for now.’

  Rhulad sneered. ‘Sorcery? We would not so discard this opportunity, Champion. No, we will fight, the two of us.’ He stepped back and raised the mottled sword. ‘Come. We have lessons for one another.’

  Brys did not reply. He waited.

  The emperor attacked. Surprisingly fast, a half-whirl of the blade high, then a broken-timed diagonal downward slash intended to meet the Champion’s sword and drive it down to the tiles.

  Brys matched the momentary hesitation and leaned back, drawing his sword round as he side-stepped to his right. Blade now resting on the top of Rhulad’s own as it flashed downward, the Champion darted the tip up to the emperor’s left forearm and sliced through a tendon near the elbow.

  He leapt back, thrusting low as he was pulling away, to push the tip of his sword between the tendon and kneecap of Rhulad’s left leg.

  Snip.

  The emperor stumbled forward, almost to the edge of the dais, then, astonishingly, righted himself to lunge in a two-handed thrust.

  The mottled blade seemed to dance of its own accord, evading two distinct parries from Brys, and the Champion only managed to avoid the thrust by pushing the heavy blade aside with his left hand.

  The two lower fingers spun away from that hand, even as Brys backpedalled until he was in the centre of the space once more, this time with Rhulad between himself and the king on his throne.

  Ezgara was smiling.

  As Rhulad wheeled to face him once more, his weapon dipping low, Brys attacked.

  Leading foot lifting high, stamping down on the emperor’s wavering sword-blade – not a perfect contact, but sufficient to bat it momentarily away – as he drove his point into Rhulad’s right kneecap. Slicing downward from the upper edge. Biting deep into the bone near the bottom edge. Twisting withdrawal, pulling the patella out through the cut A shriek, as Rhulad’s leg shot out to the side.

  The kneecap still speared on Brys’s sword-point, he darted in again as the emperor drove his own sword down and to the left in an effort to stay upright, and slashed lightly across the tendons of the Edur’s right arm, just above the elbow.

  Rhulad fell back, thudded hard on the tiles, coins snapping free. The sword should have dropped from the Edur’s hands, yet it remained firm within two clenched fists. But Rhulad could do nothing with it.

  Trying to sit up, eyes filling with rage, he strained to lift the weapon. Brys struck the floor with his sword-tip, dislodging the patella, stepped close to the emperor and severed the tendons and ligaments in the Edur’s right shoulder, sweeping the blade across to slice a neck tendon, then, point hovering a moment, thrusting down to disable the left shoulder in an identical manner. Standing over the helpless emperor, Brys methodically cut through both tendons above Rhulad’s heels, then sliced diagonally across his victim’s stomach, parting the wall of muscles there. A kick sent Rhulad over, exposing his back.

  Slashes above each shoulder blade, two more neck tendons. Lower back, ensuring that the sheets of muscle there fully separated, rolling up beneath the coin-studded skin. Back of shoulders, coins dancing away to bounce across the floor.

  Brys then stepped back. Lowered his sword.

  Rebounding shrieks from the emperor lying face down on the floor, limbs already curling of their own accord, muscles drawing up. The only movement in the chamber.

  A slow settling of dust from the corridor.

  Then, from one of the Edur warriors, ‘Sisters take me…’

  King Ezgara Diskanar sighed, leaned drunkenly forward, then said, ‘Kill him. Kill him’

  Brys looked over. ‘No, sire.’

  Disbelief on the old man’s face. ‘What?’

  ‘The Ceda was specific on this, sire. I must not kill him.’

  ‘He will bleed out,’ Nifadas said, his words strangely dull.

  But Brys shook his head. ‘He will not. I opened no major vessels, First Eunuch.’

  The Edur warrior named Trull then spoke. ‘No major vessels… how – how could you know? It is not possible… so fast…

  Brys said nothing.

  The king suddenly slumped back on his throne. Rhulad’s shrieks had fallen away, and now he wept. Heaving, helpless cries. A sudden gasp, then, ‘Brothers! Kill me!’

  Trull Sengar recoiled at Rhulad’s command. He shook his head, looked across at Fear, and saw a terrible realization in his brother’s eyes.

  Rhulad was not healing. Leaking blood onto the polished tiles. His body… destroyed. And he was not healing. Trull turned to Hannan Mosag, and saw the ugly gleam of satisfaction in the Warlock King’s eyes.

  ‘Hannan Mosag,’ Trull whispered.

  ‘I cannot. His flesh, Trull Sengar, is beyond me. Beyond all of us. Only the sword… and only by the sword. You, Trull Sengar. Or Fear.’ A weak wave of one hand. ‘Oh, call in someone else, if you’ve not the courage…’

  Courage.

  Fear grunted at that. As if punched in the chest.

  Trull studied him – but Fear had not moved, no
t a single step. He dragged his eyes away, fixed them once more on Rhulad.

  ‘My brothers.’ Rhulad wept where he lay. ‘Kill me. One of you. Please.’

  The Champion – that extraordinary, appalling swordsman – walked over to where the wine jug sat near the foot of the throne. The king looked half asleep, indifferent, his face flushed and slack. Trull drew a deep breath. He saw the First Eunuch, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. Another man, elderly, stood near Nifadas, hands to his eyes – a posture both strange and pathetic. The woman standing behind the throne was backing away, as if in sudden realization of something. There had been another man, young, handsome, but it seemed he had vanished.

  Along the walls, the six palace guards had all drawn their weapons and held them across their chest, a silent salute to the King’s Champion. A salute Trull wanted to match. His gaze returned once more to Brys. So modest in appearance, so… his face. Familiar… Hull Beddict. So like Hull Beddict. Yes, his brother. The youngest. He watched the Letherii pour wine from the jug into the goblet the king had used earlier.

  Sisters, this Champion – what has he done? He has given us this… this answer. This… solution.

  Rhulad screamed. ‘Fear!’

  Hannan Mosag coughed, then said, ‘He is gone, Emperor.’

  Trull spun round, looked about. Gone? No— ‘Where? Hannan Mosag, where—’

  ‘He… walked away.’ The Warlock King’s smile was bloodstained. ‘Just that, Trull Sengar. Walked. You understand, now, don’t you?’

  ‘To call the others, to bring them here…’

  ‘No,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘I do not think so.’

  Rhulad whimpered, then snapped, ‘Trull! I command you! Your emperor commands you! Stab me with your spear. Stab me!’

  Tears filled Trull’s eyes. And how shall I look upon him… now? How? As my emperor, or as my brother? He tottered, almost collapsing as anguish washed through him. Fear. You have left. Left us. Me, with… this.

  ‘Brother! Please!’

  From the entrance came a low cackle.

  Trull turned, saw the bound forms of the queen and the prince, leaning against the wall like two obscene trophies. The sound was coming from the queen, and he saw a glitter from her eyes.

  Something – something else – there’s more here…

  He turned. Watched as the Champion straightened, goblet in his hand. Watched, as the man lifted it to his lips.

  Trull’s gaze flicked to the king. To that half-lidded stare. The senseless eyes. The Edur’s head snapped round, to where the First Eunuch sat. Chin on chest, motionless.

  ‘No!’

  As the Champion drank, head tilting back. Two swallows, then three. Lowering the cup, he turned to regard Trull. Frowned. ‘You had better leave,’ he said. ‘Drag your warlock with you. Approach the emperor and I will kill you.’

  Too late. All… too late. ‘What – what do you intend?’

  The Champion looked down at Rhulad. ‘We will… take him somewhere. You will not find him, Edur.’

  The queen cackled again, clearly startling the swordsman.

  ‘It is too late,’ Trull said. ‘For you, in any case. If you have any mercy in you, Champion, best send your guards away now. And have them take the woman with them. My kin will be here at any moment.’ His gaze fell to Rhulad. ‘The emperor is for the Edur to deal with.’

  The quizzical expression in the Champion’s face deepened. Then he blinked, shook his head. ‘What… what do you mean? I see that you will not kill your brother. And he must die, mustn’t he? To heal. To… return.’

  ‘Yes. Champion, I am sorry. I was too late to warn you.’

  The swordsman sagged suddenly, and he threw a bloody hand out to the edge of the throne for balance. The sword, still in the other hand, wavered, then dipped until the point touched the floor. ‘What – what—’

  Trull said nothing.

  But Hannan Mosag cared nothing for compassion, and he laughed once more. ‘I understood your gesture, Champion. The coolness to match that of your king. Besides—’ His words broke into a cough. He spat phlegm, then resumed. ‘Besides, it hardly mattered, did it? Whether you lived or died. That’s how it seemed, anyway. At that brazen, fateful moment, at least.’

  The Champion sank down to the floor, staring dully at the Warlock King.

  ‘Swordsman,’ Hannan Mosag called out. ‘Hear me, these final words. You have lost. Your king is dead. He was dead before you even began your fight. You fought, Champion, to defend a dead man.’

  The Letherii, eyes widening, struggled to pull himself round, striving to look up, to the throne, to the figure seated there. But the effort proved too great, and he slid back down, head lolling.

  The Warlock King was laughing. ‘He had no faith. Only gold. No faith in you, swordsman—’

  Trull stalked towards him. ‘Be silent!’

  Hannan Mosag sneered up at him. ‘Watch yourself, Trull Sengar. You are as nothing to me.’

  ‘You would claim the throne now, Warlock King?’ Trull asked.

  An enraged shriek from Rhulad.

  Hannan Mosag said nothing.

  Trull looked back over his shoulder. Saw the Champion lying sprawled on the dais, at the king’s slippered feet. Lying, perfectly still, a mixture of surprise and dismay on his young face. Eyes staring, seeing nothing. But then, there could be no other way. No other way to kill such a man.

  Trull swung his gaze back down to the Warlock King. ‘Someone will do as he commands,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘His chosen kin—’

  ‘Will do… nothing. No, Trull, not even Binadas. Just as your hand is stayed, so too will theirs be. It is a mercy, don’t you see? Of course you do. You see that all too well. A mercy.’

  ‘Whilst you heave that ruin of a body onto the throne, Hannan Mosag?’

  The answer was plain in the eyes of the Warlock King. It is mine.

  A hoarse whisper from Rhulad, ‘Trull… please. I am your brother. Do not… do not leave me. Like this. Please.’

  Everything was breaking inside him. Trull stepped away from Hannan Mosag, and sank slowly to his knees. I need Fear. I need to find him. Talk.

  ‘Please, Trull… I never meant, I never meant…’

  Trull stared down at his hands. He’d dropped his spear – he did not even know where it was. There were six Letherii guards – he looked up – no, they were gone. Where had they gone? The old man standing beside the body of the First Eunuch – where was he? The woman? Where had everybody gone?

  ****

  Tehol Beddict opened his eyes. One of them, he noticed, did not work very well. He squinted. A low ceiling. Dripping.

  A hand stroked his brow and he turned his head. Oh, now that hurts. Bugg leaned forward, nodded. Tehol tried to nod back, almost managed. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘In a crypt. Under the river.’

  ‘Did we… get wet?’

  ‘Only a little.’

  ‘Oh.’ He thought about that for a time. Then said. ‘I should be dead.’

  ‘Yes, you should. But you were holding on. Enough, anyway, which is more than can be said for poor Chalas.’

  ‘Chalas?’

  ‘He tried to protect you, and they killed him for it. I am sorry, Tehol. I was too late in arriving.’

  He thought about that, too. ‘The Tiste Edur.’

  ‘Yes. I killed them.’

  ‘You did?’

  Bugg nodded, looked briefly away. ‘I am afraid I lost my temper.’

  ‘Ah.’

  The manservant looked back. ‘You don’t sound surprised.’

  ‘I’m not. I’ve seen you step on cockroaches. You are ruthless.’

  ‘Anything for a meal.’

  ‘Yes, and what about that, anyway? We’ve never eaten enough – not to have stayed as healthy as we did.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Tehol tried to sit up, groaned and lay back down. ‘I smell mud.’


  ‘Mud, yes. Salty mud at that. There’s footprints here, were here when we arrived. Footprints, passing through.’

  ‘Arrived. How long ago?’

  ‘Not long. A few moments…’

  ‘During which you mended all my bones.’

  ‘And a new eye, most of your organs, this and that.’

  ‘The eye doesn’t work well.’

  ‘Give it time. Babies can’t focus past a nipple, you know.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But I fully understand the sentiment.’

  They were silent for a time.

  Then Tehol sighed and said, ‘But this changes everything.’

  ‘It does? How?’

  ‘Well, you’re supposed to be my manservant. How can I continue the conceit of being in charge?’

  ‘Just the same as you always have.’

  ‘Hah hah.’

  ‘I could make you forget.’

  ‘Forget what?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘No,’ Tehol said, ‘I mean specifically.’

  ‘Well,’ Bugg rubbed his jaw, ‘the events of this day, I suppose.’

  ‘So, you killed all those Tiste Edur.’

  ‘Yes, I am afraid so.’

  ‘Then carried me under the river.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But your clothes are dry.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And your name’s not really Bugg.’

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  ‘But I like that name.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And your real one?’

  ‘Mael.’

  Tehol frowned, studied his manservant’s face, then shook his head. ‘It doesn’t fit. Bugg is better.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘So, if you could kill all those warriors. Heal me. Walk under a river. Answer me this, then. Why didn’t you kill all of them? Halt this invasion in its tracks?’ .

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘To see Lether conquered? Don’t you like us?’

  ‘Lether? Not much. You take your natural vices and call them virtues. Of which greed is the most despicable. That and betrayal of commonality. After all, whoever decided that competition is always and without exception a healthy attribute? Why that particular path to self-esteem? Your heel on the hand of the one below. This is worth something? Let me tell you, it’s worth nothing. Nothing lasting. Every monument that exists beyond the moment – no matter which king, emperor or warrior lays claim to it – is actually a testament to the common, to co-operation, to the plural rather than the singular.’