It would have taken little, he knew. The simple reaching out for a nondescript, sad-eyed slave, the closing of hands, to lift Rhulad upright, to guide him back into sanity. That, and nothing more.
Rhulad turned to face them. ‘The doors stand unbarred.’
Hannan Mosag said, ‘Someone waits within, sire. I sense…something.’
‘What do you ask of us, Warlock King?’
‘Permit me and my K’risnan to enter first, to see what awaits us. In the corridor…’
Rhulad’s eyes narrowed, then he waved them forward, and added, ‘Fear, Trull, Binadas, join us. We shall follow immediately behind.’
Hannan Mosag in the lead, the K’risnan and the slaves dragging the two sacks immediately behind him, then Rhulad and his brothers, all approached the doors of the Eternal Domicile.
Standing just outside the throne room’s entrance, Brys Beddict saw movement down the corridor, on this side of the motionless form of the Ceda. The Champion reached for his sword, then let his hand fall away as the First Consort, Turudal Brizad, emerged from the shadows, approaching nonchalantly, his expression calm.
‘I did not,’ Brys said in a low voice, ‘expect to see you again, First Consort.’
Turudal’s soft eyes lifted past Brys to look into the throne room beyond. ‘Who waits, Champion?’
‘The king, his concubine. The First Eunuch and the Chancellor. And six of my guards.’
Turudal nodded. ‘Well, we will not have to wait much longer. The Tiste Edur are but moments behind me.’
‘How fares the city?’
‘There has been fighting, Brys Beddict. Loyal soldiers lie dead in the streets. Among them, Moroch Nevath.’
‘And Gerun Eberict? What of him?’
Turudal cocked his head, then frowned. ‘He pursues…a woman.’
Brys studied the man. ‘Who are you, Turudal Brizad?’
The eyes met his own. ‘Today, a witness. We have come, after all, to the day of the Seventh Closure. An end, and a beginning—’
Brys raised a hand to silence the man, then took a step past him.
The Ceda was stirring in the hallway beyond. Then, rising to his feet, adjusting his grimy, creased robes, he lifted the lenses to his face and settled them in place.
Turudal Brizad turned to join Brys. ‘Ah, yes.’
The silhouettes of a group of tall figures had appeared at the distant doors, which were now open.
‘The Ceda…’
‘He has done very well, thus far.’
Brys shot the First Consort a baffled look. ‘What do you mean? He has done…nothing.’
Brows rose. ‘No? He has annihilated the sea-god, the demon chained by Hannan Mosag. And he has been preparing for this moment for days now. See where he stands? See the tile he has painted beneath himself? A tile from which all the power of the Cedance shall pass, upward, into his hands.’
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 whi
te 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 still 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 B
ars, 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.
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