Scabandari bowed his head in greeting. ‘Silchas Ruin, brother in spirit. Most stalwart of allies. Behold the plain—we are victorious.’
The albino Tiste Andii’s pallid face twisted in a silent snarl.
‘My legions were late in coming to your aid,’ Scabandari said. ‘And for that, my heart breaks at your losses. Even so, we now hold the gate, do we not? The path to this world belongs to us, and the world itself lies before us…to plunder, to carve for our people worthy empires.’
Ruin’s long-fingered, stained hands twitched, and he faced the plain below. The Edur legions had re-formed into a rough ring around the last surviving Andii. ‘Death fouls the air,’ Silchas Ruin growled. ‘I can barely draw it to speak.’
‘There will be time enough for making new plans later,’ Scabandari said.
‘My people are slaughtered. You now surround us, but your protection is far too late.’
‘Symbolic, then, my brother. There are other Tiste Andii on this world—you said so yourself. You must needs only find that first wave, and your strength will return. More, others will come. My kind and yours both, fleeing our defeats.’
Silchas Ruin’s scowl deepened. ‘This day’s victory is a bitter alternative.’
‘The K’Chain Che’Malle are all but gone—we know this. We have seen the many other dead cities. Now, only Morn remains, and that on a distant continent—where the Short-Tails even now break their chains in bloody rebellion. A divided enemy is an enemy quick to fall, my friend. Who else in this world has the power to oppose us? Jaghut? They are scattered and few. Imass? What can weapons of stone achieve against our iron?’ He was silent a moment, then continued, ‘The Forkrul Assail seem unwilling to pass judgement on us. And each year there seem to be fewer and fewer of them in any case. No, my friend, with this day’s victory this world lies before our feet. Here, you shall not suffer from the civil wars that plague Kurald Galain. And I and my followers shall escape the rivening that now besets Kurald Emurlahn—’
Silchas Ruin snorted. ‘A rivening by your own hand, Scabandari.’
He was still studying the Tiste forces below, and so did not see the flash of rage that answered his offhand remark, a flash that vanished a heartbeat later as Scabandari’s expression returned once more to equanimity. ‘A new world for us, brother.’
‘A Jaghut stands atop a ridge to the north,’ Silchas Ruin said. ‘Witness to the war. I did not approach, for I sensed the beginning of a ritual. Omtose Phellack.’
‘Do you fear that Jaghut, Silchas Ruin?’
‘I fear what I do not know, Scabandari…Bloodeye. And there is much to learn of this realm and its ways.’
‘Bloodeye.’
‘You cannot see yourself,’ Ruin said, ‘but I give you this name, for the blood that now stains your…vision.’
‘Rich, Silchas Ruin, coming from you.’ Then Scabandari shrugged and walked to the north edge of the heap, stepping carefully on the shifting carcasses. ‘A Jaghut, you said…’ He swung about, but Silchas Ruin’s back was to him as the Tiste Andii stared down upon his few surviving followers on the plain below.
‘Omtose Phellack, the Warren of Ice,’ Ruin said without turning. ‘What does he conjure, Scabandari Bloodeye? I wonder…’
The Edur Soletaken walked back towards Silchas Ruin.
He reached down to the outside of his left boot and drew out a shadow-etched dagger. Sorcery played on the iron.
A final step, and the dagger was driven into Ruin’s back.
The Tiste Andii spasmed, then roared—
—even as the Edur legions turned suddenly on the Andii, rushing inward from all sides to deliver the day’s final slaughter.
Magic wove writhing chains about Silchas Ruin, and the albino Tiste Andii toppled.
Scabandari Bloodeye crouched down over him. ‘It is the way of brothers, alas,’ he murmured. ‘One must rule. Two cannot. You know the truth of that. Big as this world is, Silchas Ruin, sooner or later there would be war between the Edur and the Andii. The truth of our blood will tell. Thus, only one shall command the gate. Only the Edur shall pass. We will hunt down the Andii who are already here—what champion can they throw up to challenge me? They are as good as dead. And so it must be. One people. One ruler.’ He straightened, as the last cries of the dying Andii warriors echoed from the plain below. ‘Aye, I cannot kill you outright—you are too powerful for that. Thus, I will take you to a suitable place, and leave you to the roots, earth and stone of its mangled grounds…’
He veered into his draconean form. An enormous taloned foot closed about the motionless Silchas Ruin, and Scabandari Bloodeye rose into the sky, wings thundering.
The tower was less than a hundred leagues to the south, only its low battered wall enclosing the yard revealing that it was not of Jaghut construction, that it had arisen beside the three Jaghut towers of its own accord, in answer to a law unfathomable to god and mortal alike. Arisen…to await the coming of those whom it would imprison for eternity. Creatures of deadly power.
Such as the Soletaken Tiste Andii, Silchas Ruin, third and last of Mother Dark’s three children.
Removing from Scabandari Bloodeye’s path his last worthy opponent among the Tiste.
Mother Dark’s three children.
Three names…
Andarist, who long ago surrendered his power in answer to a grief that could never heal. All unknowing that the hand that delivered that grief was mine…
Anomandaris Irake, who broke with his mother and with his kind. Who then vanished before I could deal with him. Vanished, probably never to be seen again.
And now Silchas Ruin, who in a very short time will know the eternal prison of the Azath.
Scabandari Bloodeye was pleased. For his people. For himself. This world he would conquer. Only the first Andii settlers could pose any challenge to his claim.
A champion of the Tiste Andii in this realm? I can think of no-one…no-one with the power to stand before me…
It did not occur to Scabandari Bloodeye to wonder where, of the three sons of Mother Dark, the one who had vanished might have gone.
But even that was not his greatest mistake…
On a glacial berm to the north, the lone Jaghut began weaving the sorcery of Omtose Phellack. He had witnessed the devastation wrought by the two Soletaken Eleint and their attendant armies. Little sympathy was spared for the K’Chain Che’Malle. They were dying out anyway, for myriad reasons, none of which concerned the Jaghut overmuch. Nor did the intruders worry him. He had long since lost his capacity for worry. Along with fear. And, it must be admitted, wonder.
He felt the betrayal when it came, the distant bloom of magic and the spilling of ascendant blood. And the two dragons were now one.
Typical.
And then, a short while later, in the time when he rested between weavings of his ritual, he sensed someone approaching him from behind. An Elder god, come in answer to the violent rift torn between the realms. As expected. Still…which god? K’rul? Draconus? The Sister of Cold Nights? Osserc? Kilmandaros? Sechul Lath? Despite his studied indifference, curiosity finally forced him to turn to look upon the newcomer.
Ah, unexpected…but interesting.
Mael, Elder Lord of the Seas, was wide and squat, with deep blue skin that faded to pale gold at throat and bared belly. Lank blond hair hung unbound from his broad, almost flat pate. And in Mael’s amber eyes, sizzling rage.
‘Gothos,’ Mael rasped, ‘what ritual do you invoke in answer to this?’
The Jaghut scowled. ‘They’ve made a mess. I mean to cleanse it.’
‘Ice,’ the Elder god snorted. ‘The Jaghut answer to everything.’
‘And what would yours be, Mael? Flood, or…flood?’
The Elder god faced south, the muscles of his jaw bunching. ‘I am to have an ally. Kilmandaros. She comes from the other side of the rent.’
‘Only one Tiste Soletaken is left,’ Gothos said. ‘Seems he struck down his companion, and even now deliv
ers him into the keeping of the Azath Tower’s crowded yard.’
‘Premature. Does he think the K’Chain Che’Malle his only opposition in this realm?’
The Jaghut shrugged. ‘Probably.’
Mael was silent for a time, then he sighed and said, ‘With your ice, Gothos, do not destroy all of this. Instead, I ask that you…preserve.’
‘Why?’
‘I have my reasons.’
‘I am pleased for you. What are they?’
The Elder god shot him a dark look. ‘Impudent bastard.’
‘Why change?’
‘In the seas, Jaghut, time is unveiled. In the depths ride currents of vast antiquity. In the shallows whisper the future. The tides flow between them in ceaseless exchange. Such is my realm. Such is my knowledge. Seal this devastation in your damned ice, Gothos. In this place, freeze time itself. Do this, and I will accept an indebtedness to you…which one day you might find useful.’
Gothos considered the Elder god’s words, then nodded. ‘I might at that. Very well, Mael. Go to Kilmandaros. Swat down this Tiste Eleint and scatter his people. But do it quickly.’
Mael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘Because I sense a distant awakening—but not, alas, as distant as you would like.’
‘Anomander Rake.’
Gothos nodded.
Mael shrugged. ‘Anticipated. Osserc moves to stand in his path.’
The Jaghut’s smile revealed his massive tusks. ‘Again?’
The Elder god could not help but grin in answer.
And though they smiled, there was little humour on that glacial berm.
1159th Year of Burn’s Sleep
Year of the White Veins in the Ebony
Three years before the Letherii Seventh Closure
He awoke with a bellyful of salt, naked and half buried in white sand amidst the storm’s detritus. Seagulls cried overhead, their shadows wheeling across the rippled beach. Cramps spasming his gut, he groaned and slowly rolled over.
There were more bodies on the beach, he saw. And wreckage. Chunks and rafts of fast-melting ice rustled in the shallows. Crabs scuttled in their thousands.
The huge man lifted himself to his hands and knees. And then vomited bitter fluids onto the sands. Pounding throbs racked his head, fierce enough to leave him half blind, and it was some time before he finally rocked back to sit up and glare once more at the scene around him.
A shore where no shore belonged.
And the night before, mountains of ice rising up from the depths, one—the largest of them all—reaching the surface directly beneath the vast floating Meckros city. Breaking it apart as if it were a raft of sticks. Meckros histories recounted nothing remotely like the devastation he had seen wrought. Sudden and virtually absolute annihilation of a city that was home to twenty thousand. Disbelief still tormented him, as if his own memories held impossible images, the conjuring of a fevered brain.
But he knew he had imagined nothing. He had but witnessed.
And, somehow, survived.
The sun was warm, but not hot. The sky overhead was milky white rather than blue. And the seagulls, he now saw, were something else entirely. Reptilian, pale-winged.
He staggered to his feet. The headache was fading, but shivers now swept through him, and his thirst was a raging demon trying to claw up his throat.
The cries of the flying lizards changed pitch and he swung to face inland.
Three creatures had appeared, clambering through the pallid tufts of grass above the tideline. No higher than his hip, black-skinned, hairless, perfectly round heads and pointed ears. Bhoka’ral—he recalled them from his youth, when a Meckros trading ship had returned from Nemil—but these seemed to be muscle-bound versions, at least twice as heavy as the pets the merchants had brought back to the floating city. They made directly for him.
He looked round for something to use as a weapon, and found a piece of driftwood that would serve as a club. Hefting it, he waited as the bhoka’ral drew closer.
They halted, yellow-shot eyes staring up at him.
Then the middle one gestured.
Come. There was no doubting the meaning of that all-too-human beckoning.
The man scanned the strand again—none of the bodies he could see were moving, and the crabs were feeding unopposed. He stared up once more at the strange sky, then stepped towards the three creatures.
They backed away and led him up to the grassy verge.
Those grasses were like nothing he had ever seen before, long tubular triangles, razor-edged—as he discovered once he passed through them when he found his low legs crisscrossed with cuts. Beyond, a level plain stretched inland, bearing only the occasional tuft of the same grass. The ground in between was salt-crusted and barren. A few chunks of stone dotted the plain, no two alike and all oddly angular, unweathered.
In the distance stood a lone tent.
The bhoka’ral guided him towards it.
As they drew near, he saw threads of smoke drifting out from the peak and the slitted flap that marked the doorway.
His escort halted and another wave directed him to the entrance. Shrugging, he crouched and crawled inside.
In the dim light sat a shrouded figure, a hood disguising its features. A brazier was before it, from which heady fumes drifted. Beside the entrance stood a crystal bottle, some dried fruit and a loaf of dark bread.
‘The bottle holds spring water,’ the figure rasped in the Meckros tongue. ‘Please, take time to recover from your ordeal.’
He grunted his thanks and quickly took the bottle.
Thirst blissfully slaked, he reached for the bread. ‘I thank you, stranger,’ he rumbled, then shook his head. ‘That smoke makes you swim before my eyes.’
A hacking cough that might have been laughter, then something resembling a shrug. ‘Better than drowning. Alas, it eases my pain. I shall not keep you long. You are Withal, the Swordmaker.’
The man started, and his broad brow knotted. ‘Aye, I am Withal, of the Third Meckros city—which is now no more.’
‘A tragic event. You are the lone survivor…through my own efforts, though it much strained my powers to intervene.’
‘What place is this?’
‘Nowhere, in the heart of nowhere. A fragment, prone to wander. I give it what life I can imagine, conjured from memories of my home. My strength returns, although the agony of my broken body does not abate. Yet listen, I have talked and not coughed. That is something.’ A mangled hand appeared from a ragged sleeve and scattered seeds onto the brazier’s coals. They spat and popped and the smoke thickened.
‘Who are you?’ Withal demanded.
‘A fallen god…who has need of your skills. I have prepared for your coming, Withal. A place of dwelling, a forge, all the raw materials you will need. Clothes, food, water. And three devoted servants, whom you have already met—’
‘The bhoka’ral?’ Withal snorted. ‘What can—’
‘Not bhoka’ral, mortal. Although perhaps they once were. These are Nachts. I have named them Rind, Mape and Pule. They are of Jaghut fashioning, capable of learning all that you require of them.’
Withal made to rise. ‘I thank you for the salvation, Fallen One, but I shall take my leave of you. I would return to my own world—’
‘You do not understand, Withal,’ the figure hissed. ‘You will do as I say here, or you will find yourself begging for death. I now own you, Swordmaker. You are my slave and I am your master. The Meckros own slaves, yes? Hapless souls stolen from island villages and such on your raids. The notion is therefore familiar to you. Do not despair, however, for once you have completed what I ask of you, you shall be free to leave.’
Withal still held the club, the heavy wood cradled on his lap. He considered.
A cough, then laughter, then more coughing, during which the god raised a staying hand. When the hacking was done, he said, ‘I advise you to attempt nothing untoward, Withal. I have plucked you from the seas for this pu
rpose. Have you lost all honour? Oblige me in this, for you would deeply regret my wrath.’
‘What would you have me do?’
‘Better. What would I have you do, Withal? Why, only what you do best. Make me a sword.’
Withal grunted. ‘That is all?’
The figure leaned forward. ‘Ah well, what I have in mind is a very particular sword…’
Book One
Frozen Blood
There is a spear of ice, newly thrust into the heart
of the land. The soul within it yearns to kill.
He who grasps that spear will know death.
Again and again, he shall know death.
HANNAN MOSAG’S VISION
Chapter One
Listen! The seas whisper
and dream of breaking truths
in the crumbling of stone
HANTALLIT OF MINER SLUICE
Year of the Late Frost
One year before the Letherii Seventh Closure
The Ascension of the Empty Hold
Here, then, is the tale. Between the swish of the tides, when giants knelt down and became mountains. When they fell scattered on the land like the ballast stones of the sky, yet could not hold fast against the rising dawn. Between the swish of the tides, we will speak of one such giant. Because the tale hides with his own.
And because it amuses.
Thus.
In darkness he closed his eyes. Only by day did he elect to open them, for he reasoned in this manner: night defies vision and so, if little can be seen, what value seeking to pierce the gloom?
Witness as well, this. He came to the edge of the land and discovered the sea, and was fascinated by the mysterious fluid. A fascination that became a singular obsession through the course of that fated day. He could see how the waves moved, up and down along the entire shore, a ceaseless motion that ever threatened to engulf all the land, yet ever failed to do so. He watched the sea through the afternoon’s high winds, witness to its wild thrashing far up along the sloping strand, and sometimes it did indeed reach far, but always it would sullenly retreat once more.
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