The Malazan Empire, page 448
‘Why not act for yourself?’ Bugg asked.
‘I cannot. My aspect enforces certain…prohibitions.’
‘Ah, the nudge, the pull or the push.’
‘Yes, only that.’
‘You have been about as direct as you can be.’
The Errant nodded.
‘Well, I see your dilemma,’ Bugg said.
‘Thus my query—do you have any suggestions?’
The manservant considered for a time, whilst the god waited patiently, then he sighed and said, ‘Perhaps. Wait here. If I am successful; I will send someone to you.’
‘All right. I trust you will not be overlong.’
‘I hope not. Depends on my powers of persuasion.’
‘Then I am encouraged.’
Without another word, Bugg headed off. He quickened his pace as he made his way towards the docks. Fortunately, it was not far, and he arrived at Front Street to see that only the main piers had been commandeered by the landing warriors of the Tiste Edur. They were taking their time, he noted, a sign of their confidence. No-one was opposing their landing. Bugg hurried along Front Street until he came to the lesser berths. Where he found his destination, a two-masted, sleek colt of a ship that needed new paint but seemed otherwise relatively sound. There was no-one visible on its deck, but as soon as he crossed the gangway he heard voices, then the thump of boots.
Bugg had reached the mid-deck when the cabin door swung open and two armed women emerged, swords out.
Bugg halted and held up his hands.
Three more figures appeared once the two women stepped to either side. A tall, grey-maned man in a crimson surcoat, and a second man who was clearly a mage of some sort. The third arrival Bugg recognized.
‘Good morning, Shand. So this is where Tehol sent you.’
‘Bugg. What in the Errant’s name do you want?’
‘Well said, lass. And are these fine soldiers Shurq Elalle’s newly hired crew?’
‘Who is this man?’ the grey-haired man asked Shand.
She scowled. ‘My employer’s manservant. And your employer works for my employer. His arrival means there’s going to be trouble. Go on, Bugg, we’re listening.’
‘First, how about some introductions, Shand?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Iron Bars—’
‘An Avowed of the Crimson Guard,’ Bugg cut in, smiling. ‘Forgive me. Go on, please.’
‘Corlo—’
‘His High Mage. Again, forgive me, but that will have to do. I have very little time. I need these Guardsmen.’
‘You need us for what?’ Iron Bars asked.
‘You have to kill the god of the Soletaken Jheck.’
The Avowed’s expression darkened. ‘Soletaken. We’ve crossed paths with Soletaken before.’
Bugg nodded. ‘If the Jheck reach their god, they will of course protect it—’
‘How far away?’
‘Just a few streets, in an abandoned temple.’
Iron Bars nodded. ‘This god, is it Soletaken or D’ivers?’
‘D‘ivers.’
The Avowed turned to Corlo, who said, ‘Ready up, soldiers, we’ve some fighting ahead.’
Shand stared at them. ‘What do I tell Shurq if she shows up in the meantime?’
‘We won’t be long,’ Iron Bars said, drawing his sword.
‘Wait!’ Shand swung to Bugg. ‘You! How did you know they’d be here?’
The manservant shrugged. ‘Errant’s nudge, I suppose. Take care, Shand, and say hello to Hejun and Rissarh for me, won’t you?’
Fifty paces’ worth of empty cobbled road between them and the yawning gates of Letheras. Trull Sengar leaned on his spear and glanced over at Rhulad.
The emperor, fur-shouldered and hulking, was pacing like a beast, eyes fixed on the gateway. Hannan Mosag and his surviving K’risnan had advanced ten paces in the midst of shadow wraiths, the latter now sliding forward.
The wraiths reached the gate, hovered a moment, then swept into the city.
Hannan Mosag turned and strode back to where the emperor and his brothers waited. ‘It is as we sensed, Emperor. The Ceda’s presence is nowhere to be found. There are but a handful of minor mages among the garrison. The wraiths and demons will take care of them. We should be able to carve our way through the barricades and reach the Eternal Domicile by noon. A fitting time for you to ascend the throne.’
‘Barricades,’ Rhulad said, nodding. ‘Good. We wish to fight. Udinaas!’
‘Here.’ The slave stepped forward.
‘This time, Udinaas, you will accompany the Household under Uruth’s charge.’
‘Emperor?’
‘We shall not risk you, Udinaas. Should we fall, however, you will be sent to us immediately.’
The slave bowed and stepped back.
Rhulad swung to where stood his father and three brothers. ‘We shall enter Letheras now. We shall claim our empire. Ready your weapons, blood of ours.’
They began moving forward.
Trull’s gaze held on Hannan Mosag for a moment longer, wondering what the Warlock King was hiding, then he followed his brothers.
Hull Beddict was among the second company to enter Letheras, and twenty paces in from the gate he stepped to one side and halted, watching as the wary Edur marched on. None paid him any attention. From the nearby buildings, pallid faces looked down from windows and through slightly parted shutters. From out over the docks gulls wheeled and cried out in a cacophony of panic. Somewhere ahead, down the main avenue, the fighting began at the first barricade. There was a thump of sorcery, then screams.
A meaningless waste of life. He hoped not all the garrison soldiers would be so foolishly brave. There was no longer any reason for fighting. Lether was conquered. All that was left was to depose the ineffectual king and his treacherous advisers. The one truly just act of this war, as far as Hull Beddict was concerned.
His grieving for his brother Brys was done. Although Brys was not yet dead, his death was none the less as certain an outcome as could exist. The King’s Champion would die defending the king. It was tragic, and unnecessary, but it would be the last tradition acted out by the Letherii, and nothing Hull or anyone else could do or say would prevent it.
All the ashes had settled in Hull’s mind. The slaughter behind them, the murder waiting ahead of them. He had betrayed, to see an end to the corrupt insanity of his people. That the victory demanded the death of Brys offered the final layer of ash to shroud Hull’s soul. There would be no absolution.
Even so, one responsibility remained with Hull. As the third company of Tiste Edur entered through the gates, he turned and made his way down a side alley.
He needed to speak to Tehol. To explain things. To tell his brother that he knew of the deceptions, the schemes. Tehol was, he hoped, the one man in Letheras who would not hate Hull for what he had done. He needed to speak to him.
He needed something like forgiveness.
For not being there to save their parents all those years ago.
For not being there to save Brys now.
Forgiveness, a simple thing.
Udinaas stood among the other slaves of the Sengar household, awaiting their turn to enter Letheras. Word had already come that there was fighting ahead, somewhere. Uruth stood nearby, and with her was Mayen, wrapped in a heavy cloak, her face looking ravaged, eyes like a thing hunted. Uruth remained close, as if fearing an escape attempt from the younger woman. Not out of compassion for Mayen, however. The child was all that mattered now.
Poor Mayen.
He knew how she felt. Something like a fever gripped him, an urgency in his blood. Sweat trickled down his body beneath his tunic. His skin felt on fire. He held himself still, on the edge, he feared, of losing control.
The sensation had come on suddenly, like an inner wave of panic, a faceless terror. Worsening—
Head spinning, it was a moment before he realized what was happening. Then horror flooded through Udinaas.
The Wyval.
It was coming to life within him.
B’nagga in the lead, the Jheck entered the city. Soletaken, loping with heads sunk low, one and all seeking the scent of their god. And finding it within the fear-sour current drifting through Letheras, an impatience, a sentience consumed with rage.
Gleeful howls, rising to fill the city, reverberating down the streets, from over nine thousand wolves. Striking terror amongst cowering citizens. Nine thousand wolves, white-furred, racing on a score of convergent routes towards the old temple, an inward rush of bestial madness.
B’nagga joined his voice to the chilling howls, his heart filled with savage joy. The Pack awaited them. Demons, wraiths, Tiste Edur and damned emperors were as nothing now. Momentary allies of convenience. What would rise here in Letheras was the ascension of the Jheck. An empire of Soletaken, with a god-emperor upon the throne. Rhulad torn to pieces, every Edur sundered into bloody, sweet-tasting meat, rich marrow from split bones, skulls broken open, brains devoured.
This day would end in such slaughter that none who survived would forget.
This day, B’nagga told himself with a silent laugh, belonged to the Jheck.
Seventy-three of his company’s finest soldiers formed a shield wall behind Moroch Nevath. They held the principal bridge crossing Main Canal, a suitable site for this pathetic drama. Best of all, the Third Tiers were arrayed behind them, on which citizens had now appeared. Spectators—a Letherii talent. No doubt wagers were being made, and at least Moroch Nevath would have an audience.
The hooded looks, the rumours of his cowardice at High Fort, would cease this day. It wasn’t much, but it would suffice.
He recalled he had promised to do something for Turudal Brizad, but the man’s outrageous claims had not quite convinced Moroch. Tales of gods and such, coming from a painted consort at that, well, that would have to wait another day, another lifetime. Leave the foppish lover of the lost queen and that obnoxious chancellor to fight his own battles. Moroch wanted to cross blades with the Tiste Edur.
If they let him. A squalid death beneath a wave of sorcery was more likely.
A grunt from one of his soldiers.
Moroch nodded, seeing the first of the Edur approaching from the main avenue. ‘Hold that shield wall,’ he said in a growl, moving to stand five paces in front of it. ‘It’s a small company—let’s send their souls to the Errant’s piss-hole.’
In answer to his bold words, shouts from the soldiers, voices made ugly with blood-lust. Swords hammering shield-rims.
Moroch smiled. They’ve seen us. ‘Look at them, comrades—see how they hesitate.’
Bellowed challenges from the soldiers.
The Tiste Edur resumed their march. In their lead, a warrior draped in gold.
Whom Moroch had seen before. ‘Errant bless me,’ he whispered, then spun round. ‘The emperor! The one in gold!’ And turned back, taking four more strides until he was at the very edge of the bridge. Raising his sword. ‘Rhulad of the Edur!’ he shouted. ‘Come and face me, you damned freak! Come forward and die!’
Bugg pointed down the street. ‘See that man? That’s Turudal Brizad. That is who you are doing this favour for. If he’s not grateful, give him an earful. I have to get going, but I will be back shortly—’
The air filled suddenly with howling, coming from the north and west.
‘Oh, damn,’ Bugg said. ‘You’d better get going. And I’d better stay too,’ he added, heading off towards the Errant.
‘Corlo,’ Iron Bars snapped as they followed the manservant.
‘Oh, it’s befuddled, some, Avowed. Can’t hear a thing besides.’
Iron Bars nodded. ‘Weapons ready. We’re wasting no time on this. How many in there, Corlo?’
‘Six, their favourite number.’
‘Let’s go.’
Bugg had moved ahead and was fifteen paces from Turudal, who had turned to face him, when the Avowed and his squad thumped past, gaining speed.
As they closed on the Errant the god, brows lifting, pointed towards the entrance to the ruined temple.
The Crimson Guardsmen shifted course, reaching full sprint as they passed Turudal Brizad.
Bugg heard Iron Bars say to the god, ‘Pleased-to-meet-you-see-you-later,’ and then the Avowed and his soldiers were past. Straight for the dark entrance, then plunging inside.
Bestial screams, human shouts, the deafening thunder of sorcery—
‘He’s mine!’ Rhulad said in a snarl, lifting his sword and stalking towards the lone Letherii swordsman at this end of the bridge.
Hannan Mosag called, ‘Emperor! Leave these to my K’risnan—’
Rhulad spun round. ‘No!’ he shrieked. ‘We shall fight! We are warriors! These Letherii deserve to die honourably! We will hear nothing more from you!’ The emperor swung back. ‘This, this brave swordsman. I want him.’
Beside Trull, Fear muttered, ‘He wants to be killed by him. I recognize that Letherii. He was with the delegation.’
Trull nodded. The Finadd, a Letherii captain and bodyguard to Prince Quillas—he could not recall the man’s name.
It was clear that Rhulad had not recognized him.
Mottled sword held at the ready, the emperor approached.
Moroch Nevath smiled. Rhulad Sengar, who had died, only to return. If the rumours were true, he had died again in Trate. But this time, I will make him stay dead. I will cut him to pieces. He waited, watching the emperor’s approach.
Favouring the right side, the right foot edging ahead of the other, a detail telling Moroch that Rhulad had been trained to use a single-handed sword, rather than this two-handed monstrosity now wavering about before him like an oversized club.
‘The sudden charge was not unexpected, only the speed of that weapon as the blade whirled towards Moroch’s head. He barely managed to avoid getting his skull sliced in half, ducking and pitching to his right. A deafening clang, the shock ripping through him as the sword bit into his helmet, caught, then tore it from his head.
Moroch sprang back, staying as low as possible, then straightened once more. The top third of his own sword was slick with blood. He had met the charge with a stop-hit.
Opposite him, Rhulad staggered back, blood pulsing from his right thigh.
The lead leg was always vulnerable.
Let’s see you dance now, Emperor.
Moroch shook off the numbing effects of the blow to his head. Muscles and tendons in his neck and back were screaming silent pain, and he knew that he had taken damage. For the moment, however, neither arm had seized in answer to the trauma.
A shriek, as Rhulad attacked once more.
Two-handed thrust, broken timing—a moment’s hesitation, sufficient to avoid Moroch’s all-too-quick parry—then finishing in a full lunge.
The Finadd twisted his body in an effort to avoid the sword-point. Searing fire above his right hip as the mottled blade’s edge sawed deep. A wet, red rush, spraying out to the side. Now inside the weapon’s reach, Moroch drove his own sword in from a sharp angle, stabbing the tip into the emperor’s left armpit. The bite of gold coin, the grating resistance of ribs, then inward, gouging along the inside of Rhulad’s shoulder blade, striving for the spine.
The mottled sword seemed to leap with a will of its own reversing grip, hands lifting high, point down. A diagonal thrust, entering above Moroch’s right hip bone, down through his groin.
Rhulad pushed down from the grip end, the point chewing through the Finadd’s lower intestines, until the pommel clunked on the paving stones beneath them, then the emperor straightened, pushing the weapon back up through Moroch’s torso, alongside his heart, through his left lung, the point bursting free just behind his clavicle on that side.
Dying, Moroch threw the last of his strength against his own weapon, seeing Rhulad bow around its embedded point. Then a snap, as the emperor’s spine broke.
Crimson smile broadening, Moroch Nevath sagged to the slick stones, even as Rhulad pitched down.
Another figure loomed over him, then. One of Rhulad’s brothers.
Who spoke as if from a long distance away. ‘Tell me your name, Finadd.’
Moroch sought to answer, but he was drowning in blood. I am Moroch Nevath. And I have killed your damned emperor.
‘Are you the King’s Champion in truth? Your soldiers on the bridge seem to be yelling that—King’s Champion…is that who you are, Finadd?’
No.
You bastards have not met him yet.
With that pleasing thought, Moroch Nevath died.
So swift the healing, so terribly swift the return of life. Surrounded by the wolf howls reverberating through Letheras in a chorus of the damned, the emperor voiced a scream that tore the air.
The company of soldiers on the bridge were silenced, staring as Rhulad, sheathed in blood, staggered upright, tugging the sword from the Finadd’s body, then skidding with a lurch as he stepped to one side. Righting himself, his eyes filled with madness and terror.
‘Udinaas!’
Desperately alone. A soul writhing in agony.
‘Udinaas!’
Two hundred paces away on the main avenue, Uruth Sengar heard her son’s frantic cry. She spun, seeking the slave among those walking in her wake. At that moment, Mayen shrieked, pushed her way clear of the other women, and was suddenly running—into an alley. And gone.
Frozen, Uruth hesitated, then with a hiss returned her attention to the slaves cowering in front of her.
‘Udinaas! Where are you?’
Blank, terrified looks met her. Familiar faces one and all. But among them, nowhere could she find Udinaas.
The slave was gone.
Uruth plunged among them, fists flailing. ‘Find him! Find Udinaas!’
A sudden hate raged through her. For Udinaas. For all the Letherii.
Betrayed. My son is betrayed.
Oh, how they would pay.
She could hear sounds of fighting now throughout the city as the invaders poured into the streets and were met by desperate soldiers. Frightened, moving about from one place of cover to the next in the overgrown yard, the child Kettle began to cry. She was alone.
