Should he crouch here in his room, terrified of creatures he could crush underfoot? He needed to master this unseemly panic – listen! He could hear nothing from the fort lookouts. No alarms shouted out.
But the damned orthen carpeted the forest floor up the pass, massing in unimaginable numbers, and that dread scaly flood was sweeping down, and Ventrala’s panic rose yet higher, threatening to erupt from his throat in shrieks. He struggled to think.
Some kind of once in a decade migration, perhaps. Once in a century, even. A formless hunger. That and nothing more. The creatures would heave up against the walls, seethe for a time, then leave before the dawn. Or they’d flow around the fort, only to plunge from the numerous ledges and cliffs to either side of the approach. Some creatures were driven to suicide – yes, that was it . . .
The bloodlust suddenly burgeoned. The K’risnan’s head rocked back, as if he’d just been slapped. Chills swept through him. He heard himself begin gibbering, even as he awakened the sorcery within him. His body flinched as chaotic power blossomed like poison in his muscles and bones. Sister Shadow had nothing to do with this magic racing through him, nothing at all, but he was past caring about such things.
Then, as shouts rose from the wall, K’risnan Ventrala sensed another presence in the forest beyond, a focus to all that bloodlust, a presence – and it was on its way.
Atri-Preda Hayenar awoke to distant shouts. An alarm was being raised, from the wall facing up-trail. And that, she realized as she quickly donned her uniform, made little sense. Then again, there wasn’t much about this damned assignment that did. Pursue, she’d been told, but avoid contact. And now, one of those disgusting K’risnan had arrived, escorted by twenty-five Merude warriors. Well, if there was any real trouble brewing, she would let them handle it.
Their damned fugitives, after all. They could have them, with the Errant’s blessing.
A moment later she was flung from her feet as a deafening concussion tore through the fort.
K’risnan Ventrala screamed, skidding across the floor to slam up against the wall, as a vast cold power swept over him, plucking at him as would a crow a rotted corpse. His own sorcery had recoiled, contracted into a trembling core deep in his chest – it had probed towards that approaching presence, probed until some kind of contact was achieved. And then Ventrala – and all that churning power within him – had been rebuffed.
Moments later, the fort’s wall exploded.
Atri-Preda Hayenar stumbled from the main house and found the compound a scene of devastation. The wall between the up-trail bastions had been breached, the impact spilling huge pieces of stone and masonry onto the muster area. And the rock was burning – a black, sizzling coruscation that seemed to devour the stone even as it flared wild, racing across the rubble.
Broken bodies were visible amidst the wreckage, and from the stables – where the building’s back wall leaned precariously inward – horses were screaming as if being devoured alive. Swarming over everything in sight were orthen, closing on fallen soldiers, and where they gathered, skin was chewed through and the tiny scaled creatures then burrowed in a frenzy into pulped meat.
Through the clouds of dust in the breach, came a tall figure with drawn swords.
White-skinned, crimson-eyed.
Errant take me – he’s had enough of running – the White Crow—
She saw a dozen Tiste Edur appear near the barracks. Heavy throwing spears darted across the compound, converging on the ghastly warrior.
He parried them all aside, one after the other, and with each clash of shaft against blade the swords sang, until it seemed a chorus of deathly voices filled the air.
Hayenar, seeing a score of her Letherii soldiers arrive, staggered towards them. ‘Withdraw!’ she shouted, waving like a madwoman. ‘Retreat, you damned fools!’
It seemed they had but awaited the command, as the unit broke into a rout, heading en masse for the down-trail gate.
One of the Tiste Edur closed on the Atri-Preda. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘The K’risnan is coming – he’ll slap this gnat down—’
‘When he does,’ she snarled, pulling back, ‘we’ll be happy to regroup!’
The Edur unsheathed his cutlass. ‘Call them into battle, Atri-Preda – or I’ll cut you down right here!’
She hesitated.
To their right, the other Tiste Edur had rushed forward and now engaged the White Crow.
The swords howled, a sound so filled with glee that Hayenar’s blood turned to ice. She shook her head, watching, as did the warrior confronting her, as the White Crow carved his way through the Merude in a maelstrom of severed limbs, decapitations and disembowelling slashes that sent bodies reeling away.
‘—your Letherii! Charge him, damn you!’
She stared across at the Edur warrior. ‘Where’s your K’risnan?’ she demanded. ‘Where is he?’
Ventrala clawed his way into the corner of the room furthest from the conflagration outside. Endless, meaningless words were spilling from his drool-threaded mouth. His power had fled. Abandoning him here, in this cursed room. Not fair. He had done all that was asked of him. He had surrendered his flesh and blood, his heart and his very bones, all to Hannan Mosag.
There had been a promise, a promise of salvation, of vast rewards for his loyalty – once the hated youngest son of Tomad Sengar was torn down from the throne. They were to track Fear Sengar, the traitor, the betrayer, and when the net was finally closed around him it would not be Rhulad smiling in satisfaction. No, Rhulad, the fool, knew nothing about any of this. The gambit belonged to Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King, who had had his throne stolen from him. And it was Hannan who, with Fear Sengar in his hands – and the slave, Udinaas – would work out his vengeance.
The Emperor needed to be stripped, every familiar face twisted into a mask of betrayal, stripped, yes, until he was completely alone. Isolated in his own madness.
Only then—
Ventrala froze, curled tight into a foetal ball, at soft laughter spilling towards him . . . from inside his room!
‘Poor K’risnan,’ it then murmured. ‘You had no idea this pale king of the orthen would turn on you, this strider of battlefields. His road is a river of blood, you pathetic fool, and . . . oh! look! his patience, his forbearance – it’s all gone!’
A wraith, here with him, whispering madness. ‘Begone,’ he hissed, ‘lest you share my fate! I did not summon you—’
‘No, you didn’t. My chains to the Tiste Edur have been severed. By the one out there. Yes, you see, I am his, not yours. The White Crow’s – hah, the Letherii surprised me there – but it was the mice, K’risnan . . . seems a lifetime ago now. In the forest north of Hannan Mosag’s village. And an apparition – alas, no-one understands, no-one takes note. But that is not my fault, is it?’
‘Go away—’
‘I cannot. Will not, rather. Can you hear? Outside? It’s all quiet now. Most of the Letherii got away, unfortunately. Tumbling like drunk goats down the stairs, with their captain among them – she was no fool. As for your Merude, well, they’re all dead. Now, listen! Boots in the hallway – he’s on his way!’
The terror drained away from Ventrala. There was no point, was there? At least, finally, he would be delivered from this racked, twisted cage of a body. As if recalling the dignity it had once possessed, that body now lurched into motion, lifting itself into a sitting position, back pushed into the corner – it seemed to have acquired its own will, disconnected from Ventrala, from the mind and spirit that held to that name, that pathetic identity. Hannan Mosag had once said that the power of the Fallen One fed on all that was flawed and imperfect in one’s soul, which in turn manifested in flesh and bone – what was then necessary was to teach oneself to exult in that power, even as it twisted and destroyed the soul’s vessel.
Ventrala, with the sudden clarity that came with approaching death, now realized that it was all a lie. Pain was not to be embraced. Chaos was anathema to
a mortal body. It ruined the flesh because it did not belong there. There was no exaltation in self-destruction.
A chorus of voices filled his skull, growing ever louder. The swords . . .
There was a soft scuffing sound in the hallway beyond, then the door squealed open.
Orthen poured in, flowing like grey foam in the grainy darkness. A moment later, the White Crow stepped into view. The song of the two swords filled the chamber.
Red, lambent eyes fixed on Ventrala.
The Tiste Andii then sheathed his weapons, muting the keening music. ‘Tell me of this one who so presumes to offend me.’
Ventrala blinked, then shook his head. ‘You think the Crippled God is interested in challenging you, Silchas Ruin? No, this . . . offence . . . it is Hannan Mosag’s, and his alone. I understand that now, you see. It’s why my power is gone. Fled. The Crippled God is not ready for the likes of you.’
The white-skinned apparition was motionless, silent, for a time. Then he said, ‘If this Hannan Mosag knows my name, he knows too that I have reason to be affronted. By him. By all the Tiste Edur who have inherited the rewards of Scabandari’s betrayal. Yet he provokes me.’
‘Perhaps,’ Ventrala said, ‘Hannan Mosag presumed the Crippled God’s delight in discord was without restraint.’
Silchas Ruin cocked his head. ‘What is your name, K’risnan?’
Ventrala told him.
‘I will let you live,’ the Tiste Andii said, ‘so that you may deliver to Hannan Mosag my words. The Azath cursed me with visions, its own memories, and so I was witness to many events on this world and on others. Tell Hannan Mosag this: a god in pain is not the same as a god obsessed with evil. Your Warlock King’s obsessions are his own. It would seem, alas, that he is . . . confused. For that, I am merciful this night . . . and this night alone. Hereafter, should he resume his interference, he will know the extent of my displeasure.’
‘I shall convey your words with precision, Silchas Ruin.’
‘You should choose a better god to worship, Ventrala. Tortured spirits like company, even a god’s.’ He paused, then said, ‘Then again, perhaps it is the likes of you who have in turn shaped the Crippled God. Perhaps, without his broken, malformed worshippers, he would have healed long ago.’
Soft rasping laughter from the wraith.
Silchas Ruin walked back through the doorway. ‘I am conscripting some horses,’ he said without turning round.
Moments later, the wraith slithered after him.
The orthen, which had been clambering about in seemingly aimless motion, now began to withdraw from the chamber.
Ventrala was alone once more. To the stairs, find the Atri-Preda – an escort, for the journey back to Letheras. And I will speak to Hannan Mosag. And I will tell him about death in the pass. I will tell him of a Soletaken Tiste Andii with two knife wounds in his back, wounds that will not heal. Yet . . . he forbears.
Silchas Ruin knows more of the Crippled God than any of us, barring perhaps Rhulad. But he does not hate. No, he feels pity.
Pity, even for me.
Seren Pedac heard the horses first, hoofs thumping at the walk up the forested trail. The night sky above the fort was strangely black, opaque, as if from smoke – yet there was no glow from flames. They had heard the concussion, the destruction of at least one stone wall, and Kettle had yelped with laughter, a chilling, grotesque sound. Then, distant screams and, all too quickly thereafter, naught but silence.
Silchas Ruin appeared, leading a dozen mounts, accompanied by sullen moaning from the scabbarded swords.
‘And how many of my kin did you slay this time?’ Fear Sengar asked.
‘Only those foolish enough to oppose me. This pursuit,’ he said, ‘it does not belong to your brother. It is the Warlock King’s. I believe we cannot doubt that he seeks what we seek. And now, Fear Sengar, the time has come to set our knives on the ground, the two of us. Perhaps Hannan Mosag’s desires are a match to yours, but I assure you, such desires cannot be reconciled with mine.’
Seren Pedac felt a heaviness settle in the pit of her stomach. This had been a long time in coming, the one issue avoided again and again, ever excused to the demands of simple expediency. Fear Sengar could not win this battle – they all knew it. Did he intend to stand in Silchas Ruin’s way? One more Tiste Edur to cut down? ‘There is no compelling reason to broach this subject right now,’ she said. ‘Let’s just get on these horses and ride.’
‘No,’ Fear Sengar said, eyes fixed on the Tiste Andii’s. ‘Let it be now. Silchas Ruin, in my heart I accept the truth of Scabandari’s betrayal. You trusted him, and you suffered unimaginably in consequence. Yet how can we make reparation? We are not Soletaken. We are not ascendants. We are simply Tiste Edur, and so we fall like saplings before you and your swords. Tell me, how do we ease your thirst for vengeance?’
‘You do not, nor is my killing your kin in any way an answer to my need. Fear Sengar, you spoke of reparation. Is this your desire?’
The Edur warrior was silent for a half-dozen heartbeats, then he said, ‘Scabandari brought us to this world.’ ‘Yours was dying.’
‘Yes.’
‘You may not be aware of this,’ Silchas Ruin continued, ‘but Bloodeye was partly responsible for the sundering of Shadow. Nonetheless, of greater relevance, to me, are the betrayals that came before that particular crime. Betrayals against my own kin – my brother, Andarist – which set such grief upon his soul that he was driven mad.’ He slowly cocked his head. ‘Did you imagine me naive in fashioning an alliance with Scabandari Bloodeye?’
Udinaas barked a laugh. ‘Naive enough to turn your back on him.’
Seren Pedac shut her eyes. Please, Indebted, just keep your mouth shut. Just this once.
‘You speak truth, Udinaas,’ Silchas Ruin replied after a moment. ‘I was exhausted, careless. I did not imagine he would be so . . . public. Yet, in retrospect, the betrayal had to be absolute – and that included the slaughter of my followers.’
Fear Sengar said, ‘You intended to betray Scabandari, only he acted first. A true alliance of equals, then.’
‘I imagined you might see it that way,’ the Tiste Andii replied. ‘Understand me, Fear Sengar. I will not countenance freeing the soul of Scabandari Bloodeye. This world has enough reprehensible ascendants.’
‘Without Father Shadow,’ Fear said, ‘I cannot free Rhulad from the chains of the Crippled God.’
‘You could not, even with him.’
‘I do not believe you, Silchas Ruin. Scabandari was your match, after all. And I do not think the Crippled God hunts you in earnest. If it is indeed Hannan Mosag behind this endless pursuit, then the ones he seeks are myself and Udinaas. Not you. It is, perhaps, even possible that the Warlock King knows nothing of you – of who you are, beyond the mysterious White Crow.’
‘That does not appear to be the case, Fear Sengar.’
The statement seemed to rock the Tiste Edur.
Silchas Ruin continued, ‘Scabandari Bloodeye’s body was destroyed. Against me, now, he would be helpless. A soul without provenance is a vulnerable thing. Furthermore, it may be that his power is already being . . . used.’
‘By whom?’ Fear asked, almost whispering.
The Tiste Andii shrugged. ‘It seems,’ he said with something close to indifference, ‘that your quest is without purpose. You cannot achieve what you seek. I will offer you this, Fear Sengar. The day I choose to move against the Crippled God, your brother shall find himself free, as will all the Tiste Edur. When that time comes, we can speak of reparation.’
Fear Sengar stared at Silchas Ruin, then glanced, momentarily, at Seren Pedac. He drew a deep breath, then said, ‘Your offer . . . humbles me. Yet I could not imagine what the Tiste Edur could gift you in answer to such deliverance.’
‘Leave that to me,’ the Tiste Andii said.
Seren Pedac sighed, then strode to the horses. ‘It’s almost dawn. We should ride until midday at least. Then we can sleep.’ She
paused, looked once more over at Silchas Ruin. ‘You are confident we will not be pursued?’
‘I am, Acquitor.’
‘So, were there in truth wards awaiting us?’
The Tiste Andii made no reply.
As the Acquitor adjusted the saddle and stirrups on one of the horses to suit Kettle, Udinaas watched the young girl squatting on her haunches near the forest edge, playing with an orthen that did not seem in any way desperate to escape her attentions. The darkness had faded, the mists silver in the growing light.
Wither appeared beside him, like a smear of reluctant night. ‘These scaled rats, Udinaas, came from the K’Chain Che’Malle world. There were larger ones, bred for food, but they were smart – smarter perhaps than they should have been. Started escaping their pens, vanishing into the mountains. It’s said there are some still left—’ Udinaas grunted his derision. ‘It’s said? Been hanging round in bars, Wither?’
‘The terrible price of familiarity – you no longer respect me, Indebted. A most tragic error, for the knowledge I possess—’
‘Is like a curse of boredom,’ Udinaas said, pushing himself to his feet. ‘Look at her,’ he said, nodding towards Kettle. ‘Tell me, do you believe in innocence? Never mind; I’m not that interested in your opinion. By and large, I don’t. Believe, that is. And yet, that child there . . . well, I am already grieving.’
‘Grieving what?’ Wither demanded.
‘Innocence, wraith. When we kill her.’
Wither was, uncharacteristically, silent.
Udinaas glanced down at the crouching shade, then sneered. ‘All your coveted knowledge . . .’