Tearing the sword loose burst the ribcage, and Samar stared to see the victim’s heart, still beating, pitch free of its broken nest, dangling for a moment from torn arteries and veins, before the warrior fell from sight.
Someone was screaming – away from the battle – off to the far left, where there was a shoreline of rocks, and, beyond, open water – a row of low-slung, broad-beamed wooden canoes – and she saw there a woman, slight, golden-haired – a human – casting spells.
Yet whatever sorcery she worked seemed to achieve nothing. Impossibly, Karsa Orlong had somehow carved his way through to the other side of the press, where he spun round, his back to a huge pine, the flint sword almost contemptuous in its batting aside attacks – as the Toblakai paused for a rest.
Samar could not believe what she was seeing.
More shouts now, a single warrior, standing well beyond the jostling mob, bellowing at his companions – who began to draw back, disengaging from Karsa Orlong.
Seeing the Toblakai draw a deep, chest-swelling breath, then raise his sword, Samar Dev yelled, ‘Karsa! Wait! Do not attack, damn you!’
The cold glare that met her gaze made Samar flinch.
The giant gestured with the sword. ‘See what’s left of the Anibar, woman?’ His voice was deep in tone, the beat of words like a drum of war.
She nodded, refusing to look once more at the row of prisoners, bound head-down and spreadeagled to wooden frames along the inland edge of the encampment, their, naked forms painted red in blood, and before each victim a heap of live embers, filling the air with the stench of burnt hair and meat. Karsa Orlong, she realized, had been driven by rage, yet such fury set no tremble in the huge warrior, the sword was motionless, now, held at the ready, the very stillness of that blade seeming to vow a tide of destruction. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But listen to me, Karsa. If you kill them all – and I see that you mean to do just that – but listen! If you do, more will come, seeking to find their vanished kin. More will come, Toblakai, and this will never end – until you make a mistake, until there are so many of them that even you cannot hope to prevail. Nor can you be everywhere at once, so more Anibar will die.’
‘What do you suggest, then, woman?’
She strode forward, ignoring, for the moment, the grey-skinned warriors and the yellow-haired witch. ‘They fear you now, Karsa, and you must use that fear—’ She paused, distracted by a commotion from among the half-tent-half-huts near the beached canoes. Two warriors were dragging someone into view. Another human. His face was swollen by constant beatings, but he seemed otherwise undamaged. Samar Dev studied the new arrival with narrowed eyes, then quickly approached Karsa, lowering her voice to a harsh whisper. ‘They now have an interpreter, Karsa. The tattoos on his forearms. He is Taxilian. Listen to me. Quickly. Use that fear. Tell them there are more of your kind, allies to the Anibar, and that you are but the first of a horde, coming in answer to a plea for help. Karsa, tell them to get the Hood off this land!’
‘If they leave I cannot kill more of them.’ An argument was going on among the raiders. Th« warrior who had issued commands was rejecting – in an obvious fashion – the frantic pleas of the yellow-haired human. The Taxilian, held by the arms off to one side, was clearly following the debate, but his face was too mangled to reveal any expression. Samar saw the man’s eyes flick over to her and Karsa, then back to her, and, with slow deliberation, the Taxilian winked.
Gods below. Good. She nodded. Then, to spare him any retribution, she averted her gaze, and found herself looking upon a scene of terrible carnage. Figures lay moaning in blood-drenched humus. Broken spear-shafts were everywhere like scattered kindling from an overturned cart. But mostly, there were motionless corpses, severed limbs, exposed bones and spilled intestines.
And Karsa Orlong was barely out of breath. Were these tall, unhuman strangers such poor fighters? She did not believe so. By their garb, theirs was a warrior society. But many such societies, if stagnant – or isolated – for a long enough period of time, bound their martial arts into ritualized forms and techniques. They would have but one way of fighting, perhaps with a few variations, and would have difficulty adjusting to the unexpected… such as a lone Toblakai with an unbreakable flint sword nearly as long as he is tall – a Toblakai possessing mind-numbing speed and the cold, detached precision of a natural killer.
And Karsa had said that he had fought this enemy once before.
The commander of the grey-skinned raiders was approaching, the Taxilian being dragged along in his wake, the yellow-haired witch hurrying to come up alongside the leader – who then straight-armed her back a step.
Samar saw the flash of unbridled hatred the small woman directed at the commander’s back. There was something dangling from the witch’s neck, blackened and oblong – a severed finger. A witch indeed, of the old arts, the lost ways of spiritual magic – well, not entirely lost, for I have made of that my own speciality, atavistic bitch that I am. By her hair and heart-shaped features – and those blue eyes – she reminded Samar Dev of the small, mostly subjugated peoples who could be found near the centre of the subcontinent, in such ancient cities as Halaf, Guran and Karashimesh; and as far west as Omari. Some remnant population, perhaps. And yet, her words earlier had been in a language Samar had not recognized.
The commander spoke, clearly addressing the yellow-haired witch, who then in turn relayed his words – in yet another language – to the Taxilian. At that latter exchange, Samar Dev’s eyes widened, for she recognized certain words – though she had never before heard them spoken, had only read them, in the most ancient tomes. Remnants, in fact, from the First Empire.
The Taxilian nodded when the witch was done. He faced first Karsa, then Samar Dev, and finally said, ‘To which of you should I convey the Preda’s words?’
‘Why not to both?’ Samar responded. ‘We can both understand you, Taxilian.’
‘Very well. The Preda asks what reason this Tarthenal had for his unwarranted attack on his Merude warriors.’
Tarthenal? ‘Vengeance,’ Samar Dev said quickly before Karsa Orlong triggered yet another bloody clash. She pointed towards the pathetic forms on the racks at the camp’s edge. ‘These Anibar, suffering your predations, have called upon their longstanding allies, the Toblakai—’
At that word the yellow-haired witch started, and the Preda’s elongated eyes widened slightly.
‘—and this warrior, a lowly hunter among the twenty-thousand-strong clan of the Toblakai, was, by chance, close by, and so he represents only the beginning of what will be, I am afraid, a most thorough retribution. Assuming the Preda is, of course, foolish enough to await their arrival.’
A certain measure of amusement glittered in the Taxilian’s eyes, quickly veiled as he turned to relay Samar’s words to the yellow-haired witch.
Whatever she in turn said to the Preda was twice as long as the Taxilian’s version.
Preda. Would that be a variation on Predal’atr, I wonder? A unit commander in a legion of the First Empire, Middle Period. Yet… this makes no sense. These warriors are not even human, after all.
The witch’s translation was cut short by a gesture from the Preda, who then spoke once more.
When the Taxilian at last translated, there was something like admiration in his tone. ‘The Preda wishes to express his appreciation for this warrior’s formidable skills. Further, he enquires if the warrior’s desire for vengeance is yet abated.’
‘It is not,’ Karsa Orlong replied.
The tone was sufficient for the Preda, who spoke again. The yellow-haired witch’s expression suddenly closed, and she related his words to the Taxilian in a strangely flat monotone.
She hides glee.
Suspicion rose within Samar Dev. What comes now?
The Taxilian said, ‘The Preda well understands the… Toblakai’s position. Indeed, he empathizes, for the Preda himself abhors what he has been commanded to do, along this entire foreign coastline. Yet he must follow the
needs of his Emperor. That said, the Preda will order a complete withdrawal of his Tiste Edur forces, back to the fleet. Is the Toblakai satisfied with this?’
‘No.’
The Taxilian nodded at Karsa’s blunt reply, as the Preda spoke again.
Now what?
‘The Preda again has no choice but to follow the commands of his Emperor, a standing order, if you will. The Emperor is the greatest warrior this world has seen, and he ever defends that claim in personal combat. He has faced a thousand or more fighters, drawn from virtually every land, and yet still he lives, triumphant and unvanquished. It is the Emperor’s command that his soldiers, no matter where they are, no matter with whom they speak, are to relate the Emperor’s challenge. Indeed, the Emperor invites any and every warrior to a duel, always to the death – a duel in which no-one can interfere, no matter the consequences, and all rights of Guest are accorded the challenger. Further, the soldiers of the Emperor are instructed to provide transportation and to meet every need and desire of such warriors who would so face the Emperor in duel.’
More words from the Preda.
A deep chill was settling in Samar Dev, a dread she could not identify – but there was something here… something vastly wrong.
The Taxilian resumed. ‘Thus, if this Toblakai hunter seeks the sweetest vengeance of all, he must face the one who has so commanded that his soldiers inflict atrocities upon all strangers they encounter. Accordingly, the Preda invites the Toblakai – and, if desired, his companion – to be Guest of the Tiste Edur on this, their return journey to the Lether Empire. Do you accept?’
Karsa blinked, then looked down at Samar Dev. ‘They invite me to kill their Emperor?’
‘It seems so. But, Karsa, there is—’
Tell the Preda,’ the Toblakai said, ‘that I accept.’
She saw the commander smile.
The Taxilian said, ‘Preda Hanradi Khalag then welcomes you among the Tiste Edur.’
Samar Dev looked back at the bodies lying sprawled through the camp. And for these fallen kin, Preda Hanradi Khalag, you care nothing? No, gods below, something is very wrong here—
‘Samar Dev,’ Karsa said, ‘will you stay here?’
She shook her head.
‘Good,’ he grunted. ‘Go get Havok.’
‘Get him yourself, Toblakai.’
The giant grinned. ‘It was worth a try.’
‘Stop looking so damned pleased, Karsa Orlong. I don’t think you have any idea to what you are now bound. Can you not hear the shackles snapping shut? Chaining you to this… this absurd challenge and these damned bloodless Tiste Edur?’
Karsa’s expression darkened. ‘Chains cannot hold me, witch.’
Fool, they are holding you right now.
Glancing across, she saw the yellow-haired witch appraising Karsa Orlong with avid eyes.
And what does that mean, I wonder, and why does it frighten me so?
‘Fist Temul,’ Keneb asked, ‘how does it feel, to be going home?’
The young, tall Wickan – who had recently acquired full-body blue tattooing in the style of the Crow Clan, an intricate geometric design that made his face look like a portrait fashioned of tesserae – was watching as his soldiers led their horses onto the ramps down on the strand below. At Keneb’s question he shrugged. ‘Among my people, I shall face yet again all that I have faced here.’
‘But not alone any more,’ Keneb pointed out. ‘Those warriors down there, they are yours, now.’
‘Are they?’
‘So I was led to understand. They no longer challenge your orders, or your right to command, do they?’
‘I believe,’ Temul said, ‘that most of these Wickans will choose to leave the army once we disembark at Unta. They will return to their families, and when they are asked to recount their adventures in Seven Cities, they will say nothing. It is in my mind, Fist Keneb, that my warriors are shamed. Not because of how they have shown me little respect. No, they are shamed by this army’s list of failures.’ He fixed dark, hard eyes on Keneb. ‘They are too old, or too young, and both are drawn to glory as if she was a forbidden lover.’
Temul was not one for speeches, and Keneb could not recall ever managing to pull so many words from the haunted young man. ‘They sought death, then.’
‘Yes. They would join with Coltaine, Bult and the others, in the only way still possible. To die in battle, against the very same enemy. It is why they crossed the ocean, why they left their villages. They did not expect ever to return home, and so this final journey, back to Quon Tali, will break them.’
‘Damned fools. Forgive me—’
A bitter smile from Temul as he shook his head. ‘No need for that. They are fools, and even had I wisdom, I would fail in its sharing.’
From the remnants of the camp behind them, cattle-dogs began howling. Both men turned in surprise. Keneb glanced over at Temul. ‘What is it? Why—’
‘I don’t know.’
They set off, back towards the camp.
Lieutenant Pores watched Bent race up the track, skirls of dust rising in the dog’s wake. He caught a momentary glimpse of wild half-mad eyes above that mangled snout, then the beast was past. So only now we find out that they’re terrified of water. Well, good. We can leave the ugly things behind. He squinted towards the file of Wickans and Seti overseeing the loading of their scrawny horses – not many of those animals would survive this journey, he suspected, which made them valuable sources of meat. Anything to liven up the deck-wash and bilge-crud sailors call food. Oh, those horse-warriors might complain, but that wouldn’t keep them from lining up with their bowls when the bell tolled.
Kindly had made sure the Adjunct knew, in torrid detail, his displeasure with Fist Keneb’s incompetence. There was no question of Kindly lacking courage, or at least raging megalomania. But this time, dammit, the old bastard had had a point. An entire day and half a night had been wasted by Keneb. A Hood-damned kit inspection, presented squad by squad – and right in the middle of boarding assembly – gods, the chaos that ensued. ‘Has Keneb lost his mind?’ Oh yes, Kindly’s first question to the Adjunct, and something in her answering scowl told Pores that the miserable woman had known nothing about any of it, and clearly could not comprehend why Keneb would have ordered such a thing.
Well, no surprise, that, with her moping around in her damned tent doing who knew what with that cold beauty T’amber. Even the Admiral’s frustration had been obvious. Word was going through the ranks that Tavore was likely in line for demotion – Y’Ghatan could have been handled better. Every damned soldier turned out to be a tactical genius when it came to that, and more than once Pores had bitten out a chunk of soldier meat for some treasonous comment. It didn’t matter that Nok and Tavore were feuding; it didn’t matter that Tene Baralta was a seething cauldron of sedition among the officers; it didn’t even matter that Pores himself was undecided whether the Adjunct could have done better at Y’Ghatan – the rumours alone were as poisonous as any plague the Grey Goddess could spit out.
He was both looking forward to and dreading boarding the transports, and the long, tedious journey ahead. Bored soldiers were worse than woodworm in the keel – or so the sailors kept saying, as they cast jaded eyes on the dusty, swearing men and women who ascended the ramps only to fall silent, huddling like shorn sheep in the raft-like scuttles as the heave and haul chant rang out over the choppy water. Worse still, seas and oceans were nasty things. Soldiers would face death with nary a blink if they knew they could fight back, maybe even fight their way out of it, but the sea was immune to swinging swords, whistling arrows and shield-walls. And Hood knows, we’ve been swallowing that lumpy helpless thing enough as it is.
Damned cattle-dogs were all letting loose now.
Now what? Unsure of his own reasons, Pores set off in the direction Bent had gone. East on the track, past the command tent, then the inner ring of pickets, and out towards the latrine trenches – and the lieutenant saw the racing figure
s of a dozen or so cattle-dogs, their mottled, tanned shapes converging, then circling with wild barking – and on the road, the subjects of their excitement, a troop approaching on foot.
So who in the Queen’s name are they? The outriders were all in – he was sure of that – he’d seen the Seti practising heaving their guts up on the ramps – they got seasick standing in a puddle. And the Wickans had already surrendered their mounts to the harried transport crews.
Pores glanced round, saw a soldier leading three horses towards the strand. ‘Hey! Hold up there.’ He walked over. Give me one of those.’
‘They ain’t saddled, sir.’
‘Really? How can you tell?’
The man started pointing at the horse’s back—
‘Idiot,’ Pores said, ‘give me those reins, no, those ones.’
‘That’s the Adjunct’s—’
‘Thought I recognized it.’ He pulled the beast away then vaulted onto its back. Then set off onto the road. The foundling, Grub, was walking out from the camp, at one ankle that yipping mutt that looked like what a cow would regurgitate after eating a mohair rug. Ignoring them, Pores angled his mount eastward, and kicked it into a canter.
He could already put a name to the one in the lead: Captain Faradan Sort. And there was that High Mage, Quick Ben, and that scary assassin Kalam, and – gods below, but they’re all – no, they weren’t. Marines! Damned marines!
He heard shouts from the camp behind him now, an alarm being raised outside the command tent.
Pores could not believe his own eyes. Survivors – from the firestorm – that was impossible. Granted, they look rough, half-dead in fact. Like Hood used ’em to clean out his hoary ears. There’s Lostara Yil – well, she ain’t as bad as the rest—
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