The fresh, warm water of the river became the demon’s blood, a vessel along which it climbed, the current pushing round it. Somewhere ahead, it now knew, lay a heart, a source of power at once strange and familiar. Its master knew nothing of it, else he would not have permitted the demon to draw ever closer, for that power, once possessed, would snap the binding chains.

Something waited. In the buried courses that ran ceaselessly beneath the great city on the banks of the river. The demon was tasked with carrying the fleet of ships—an irritating presence plying the surface above—to the city. This would be sufficient proximity, the demon knew, to make the sudden lunge, to grasp that dread heart in its many hands. To feed, then rise, free once again and possessing the strength of ten gods. To rise, like an elder, from the raw, chaotic world of long ago. Dominant, unassailable, and burning with fury.

Through the river’s dark silts, clambering like a vast crab, sifting centuries of secrets—the bed of an ancient river held so much, a multitude of tales written in layer upon layer of detritus. Muddy nets snagged upon older wreckage, sunken ships, the sprawl of ballast stones, ragged rows of sealed urns still holding their mundane riches. Bones rotting everywhere, gathered up in sinkholes where the currents swirled, and deeper still, in silts thick and hardening and swallowed in darkness, bones flattened by pressures and transformed into crystalline lattices, arrayed in skeletons of stone.

Even in death, the demon understood, nothing was still. Foolish mortals, short-lived and keen with frenzy, clearly believed otherwise, as they scrambled swift as thought above the patient dance of earth and stone. Water, of course, was capable of spanning the vast range of pace among all things. It could charge, outrunning all else, and it could stand seemingly motionless. In this it displayed the sacred power of gods, yet it was, of itself, senseless.

The demon knew that such power could be harnessed. Gods had done so, making themselves lords of the seas. But it was the river that fed the seas. And springs from the layers of rock. The sea-gods were, in truth, subservient to those of the rivers and inland pools. The demon, the old spirit-god of the spring, intended to right the balance once more. With the power awaiting it beneath the city, even the gods of the sea would be made to kneel.

It savoured such thoughts, strange with clarity as they were—a clarity the demon had not possessed before. The taste of the river, perhaps, these bright currents, the rich seep from the shores. Intelligence burgeoning within it.

Such pleasure.

 

‘Nice stopper.’

She turned and stared, and Tehol smiled innocently.

‘If you are lying, Tehol Beddict…’

Brows lifted. ‘I would never do that, Shurq.’ Tehol rose from where he’d been sitting on the floor and began pacing in the small, cramped room. ‘Selush, you have a right to be proud. Why, the way you tucked in the skin around the gem, not a crease to be seen—’

‘Unless I frown,’ Shurq Elalle said.

‘Even then,’ he replied, ‘it would be a modest…pucker.’

‘Well,’ Shurq said, ‘you’d know.’

Selush hastened to pack her supplies back into the bag. ‘Oh, don’t I know what’s coming? A spat.’

‘Express your gratitude, Shurq,’ Tehol said.

Fingertips probing the gem in its silver setting in her forehead, Shurq Elalle hesitated, then sighed. ‘Thank you, Selush.’

‘Not the spat I was talking about,’ the wild-haired woman said. ‘Those Tisteans. They’re coming. Lether has been conquered, and I dread the changes to come. Grey skin, that will be the new fashion—mark my words. But I must maintain my pragmatism,’ she added, suddenly brightening. ‘I’m already mixing a host of foundations to achieve that ghastly effect.’ A pause, a glance over at Shurq Elalle. ‘Working on you was very helpful, Shurq. I thought I’d call the first line Dead Thief of the Night.’

‘Cute.’

‘Nice.’

‘But don’t think that means you’re taking a cut of my profits, Shurq.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘I have to be going now,’ Selush said, straightening with her bag slung over one shoulder. ‘I intend to be hiding in my basement for the next few days. And I would advise the same for you two.’

Tehol looked round. ‘I don’t have a basement, Selush.’

‘Well, it’s the thought that counts, I always say. Goodbye!’

A swish of curtain and she was gone.

Shurq Elalle asked, ‘How late is it?’

‘Almost dawn.’

‘Where’s your manservant?’

‘I don’t know. Somewhere, I would think.’

‘Really?’

Tehol clapped his hands. ‘Let’s head onto the roof. We can see if my silent bodyguard changes expression upon seeing your beauty.’

‘What has he been doing up there all this time?’

‘Probably standing directly above the doorway here, in case some unwelcome visitor arrived—which, fortunately, did not happen. Brys’s messenger girl hardly qualified.’

‘And what could he have done about some attacker from up there?’

‘I imagine he would have flung himself straight down in a flurry of swords, knives and clubs, beating the intruder senseless in an instant. Either that, or he’d shout then run back to the ladder, climb down and exact revenge over our corpses.’

‘Your corpse. Not mine.’

‘You’re right, of course. My mistake.’

‘I am not surprised you are confused now, Tehol,’ Shurq said, sweeping back her hair with both hands, the gesture admirably flinging out her chest. ‘Given the pleasure you discovered in my wares earlier.’

‘Your “wares” indeed. A good term to use, since it could mean virtually anything. Now, shall we head up to greet the dawn?’

‘If you insist. I can’t stay long. Ublala will be getting worried.’

‘Harlest will advise him how the dead have no sense of time, Shurq. No need to fret.’

‘He was muttering about dismembering Harlest just before I left them.’

They walked to the ladder, Shurq taking the lead.

‘I thought he was trapped in a sarcophagus,’ Tehol pointed out.

‘We could still hear him. Dramatic hissing and scratching on the underside of the lid. It was, even for me, somewhat irritating.’

‘Well, let’s hope Ublala did nothing untoward.’

They climbed.

The sky was paling to the east, but a chill remained in the air. The bodyguard stood facing them until he had their attention, then he pointed towards the river.

The Edur fleet crowded the span, hundreds of raider craft and transports, a dark sweep of sails. Among the lead ships, oars had appeared, sliding out from the flanks of the hulls. The landings would begin within the bell.

Tehol studied them for a moment, then he faced northwest. The white columns of the battle the day before were gone, although a stain of dark smoke from the keep lingered, lit high above the horizon by the sun’s first shafts. Above the west road was a streak of dust, drawing closer as the sun rose.

It was some time before either Tehol or Shurq spoke, then the latter turned away and said, ‘I have to go.’

‘Stay low,’ Tehol said.

She paused at the top of the ladder. ‘And you, Tehol Beddict, stay here. On this roof. With that guard standing close.’

‘Sound plan, Shurq Elalle.’

‘Given the chance, Gerun Eberict will come for you.’

‘And you.’

From the far west gate, a raucous flurry of bells announced the approach of the Edur army.

The thief disappeared down through the hatch.

Tehol stood facing west. His back grew warmer, and he knew that this day would be a hot one.

 

One of her hands rested on the king’s shoulder, but Brys could see that Nisall was near collapse. She had stood vigil over Ezgara Diskanar most of the night, as if love alone could guard the man against all dangers. Exhaustion had taken the king into sleep, and he now sat the throne like a corpse, slumped, head lolling. The crown had fallen off some time in the night and was lying beside the throne on the dais.

The Chancellor, Triban Gnol, had been present earlier but had left with the last change of guards. Ghost-like since the loss of the queen and the prince, and Turudal Brizad, he had grown suddenly ancient and withered, drifting down corridors speaking to no-one.

Finadd Moroch Nevath had disappeared, although Brys trusted that the swordsman would arrive when the time came. For all that he had suffered, he was a brave man and none of the rumours concerning his conduct at High Fort were, to Brys’s mind, worth the spit needed to utter them.

First Eunuch Nifadas, along with Brys Beddict, had assumed the responsibility for what remained of the soldiers in the palace. Each wing entranceway was now barricaded by at least thirty guards, with the exception of the King’s Path, where the Ceda in his madness had forbidden anyone to remain, barring himself. In the city beyond, Finadd Gerun Eberict and the city garrison were positioned throughout Letheras, their numbers insufficient to hold the gates or walls yet prepared to fight none the less—at least, Brys assumed that was the case, since he had not left the throne room in some time, and Gerun had not reappeared since the man assumed command of the garrison.

Spelled by Nifadas, the King’s Champion had rested on a bench near the throne room’s grand entrance, managing a half-dozen bells of surprisingly sound sleep. Servants had awakened him with breakfast, beginning the day to come with surreal normality. Chilled in sweat-damp clothes beneath his armour, Brys quickly ate, then rose and walked to where Nifadas sat at the bench opposite.

‘First Eunuch, it is time for you to rest.’

‘Champion, there is no need for that. I have done very little and am not in the least fatigued.’

Brys studied the man’s eyes. They were sharp and alert, quite unlike the usual sleepy regard with which Nifadas commonly presented. ‘Very well,’ he said.

The First Eunuch smiled up at him. ‘Our last day, Finadd.’

Brys frowned. ‘There is no reason to assume, Nifadas, that the Edur will see cause to take your life. As with the Chancellor, your knowledge will be needed.’

‘Knowledge, yes. A worthy assumption, Finadd.’

The First Eunuch added nothing more.

Brys glanced back at the throne, then strode towards it. He came close to Nisall. ‘First Concubine, he will sleep a while yet.’ He took her arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said as she began to resist, ‘just to that bench over there. No further.’

‘How, Brys? How could it all collapse? So fast? I don’t understand.’

He remembered back to the secret meetings, where Nisall and Unnutal Hebaz and Nifadas and the king planned their moves and countermoves in the all-devouring games of intrigue within the Royal Household. Her confidence then had seemed unassailable, the cleverness bright in her eyes. He remembered how the Letherii saw the Tiste Edur and their lands, a pearl ripe for the plucking. ‘I don’t know, Nisall.’

She let him guide her down from the dais. ‘It seems so…quiet. Has the day begun?’

‘The sun has risen, yes.’

‘He won’t leave the throne.’

‘I know.’

‘He is…frightened.’

‘Here, Nisall, lie down here. Use these cushions. Not ideal, I know—’

‘No, it’s fine. Thank you.’

Her eyes closed as soon as she settled. Brys stared down at her for a moment. She was already sleeping.

He swung round and walked down to the grand entrance, strode into the low-ceilinged corridor where he intended to make his stand. Just beyond, the Ceda was lying, curled up in sleep, on the centre tile.

And standing near Kuru Qan was Gerun Eberict. With sword in hand. Staring down at the Ceda.

Brys edged closer. ‘Finadd.’

Gerun looked up, expressionless.

‘The King’s Leave does not absolve you from all things, Gerun Eberict.’

The man bared his teeth. ‘He has lost his mind, Brys. It would be a mercy.’

‘Not for you to judge.’

Gerun cocked his head. ‘You would oppose me in this?’

‘Yes.’

After a moment, the Finadd stepped back, sliding his sword back into the scabbard at his hip. ‘Well timed, then. Ten heartbeats later…’

‘What are you doing here?’ Brys asked.

‘My soldiers are all in position. What else would you have me do?’

‘Command them.’

A whistling snort from him, then, ‘I have other tasks awaiting me this day.’

Brys was silent. Wondering if he should kill the man now.

It seemed Gerun guessed his thoughts, for his scarred sneer broadened. ‘Recall your responsibilities, Brys Beddict.’ He gestured and a dozen of his own estate guards strode into the chamber. ‘You are supposed to die defending the king, after all. In any case,’ he added as he slowly backed away, ‘you have just confirmed my suspicions, and for that I thank you.’

Blood or honour. ‘I know what you believe, Gerun Eberict. And so I warn you now, you will not be permitted the Leave in this.’

‘You speak for the king? Brys Beddict, that is rather presumptuous of you, don’t you think?’

‘The king expects you to command the garrison in defence of the city—not abandon your responsibilities in order to conduct your own crusade.’

‘Defence of the city? Don’t be an idiot, Brys. If the garrison seeks heroic final stands it is welcome to them. I intend to survive this damned conquest. The Tiste Edur do not frighten me in the least.’ He turned about then and, surrounded by his guards, left the chamber.

Blood or honour. I have no choice in this, Tehol. I’m sorry.

 

Bugg was not entirely surprised to find himself virtually alone on the wall. His ascent had not been challenged, since it seemed all the garrison guards had withdrawn to various choke-points in the city. Whether those soldiers would rise to stubborn defence remained to be seen, of course. In any case, their presence had kept the streets empty for the most part.

The manservant leaned on a merlon and watched the Edur army approach down the west road. An occasional glance to his left allowed him to monitor the closing of the fleet, and the vast, deadly demon beneath it—a presence spanning the width of the river and stretching back downstream almost half a league. A terrible, brutal creature straining at its sorcerous chains.

The west gate was open and unguarded. The lead elements of the Edur army had closed to within a thousand paces, advancing with caution. Ranging to either side of the column, in the ditches and across the fields, the first of the Soletaken wolves came into view.

Bugg sighed, looked over at the other occupant along the wall. ‘You will have to work fast, I think.’

The artist was a well-known and easily recognized figure in Letheras. A mass of hair that began on his head and swept down to join with the wild beard covering jaw and neck, his nub of a nose and small blue eyes the only visible features on his face. He was short and wiry, and painted with agitated capering—often perched on one leg—smearing paint on surfaces that always seemed too small for the image he was seeking to capture. This failing of perspective had long since been elevated into a technique, then a legitimate style, in so far as artistic styles could be legitimate. At Bugg’s comment he scowled and rose up on one leg, the foot of the other against the knee. ‘The scene, you fool! It is burned into my mind, here behind this eye, the left one. I forget nothing. Every detail. Historians will praise my work this day, you’ll see. Praise!’

‘Are you done, then?’

‘Very nearly, very very nearly, yes, nearly done. Every detail. I have done it again. That’s what they will say. Yes, I have done it again.’

‘May I see?’

Sudden suspicion.

Bugg added, ‘I am something of an historian myself.’

‘You are? Have I read you? Are you famous?’

‘Famous? Probably. But I doubt you’ve read me, since I’ve yet to write anything down.’

‘Ah, a lecturer!’

‘A scholar, swimming across the ocean of history.’

‘I like that. I could paint that.’

‘So, may I see your painting?’

A grand gesture with a multicoloured hand. ‘Come along, then, old friend. See my genius for yourself.’

The board perched on its easel was wider than it was high, in the manner of a landscape painting or, indeed, a record of some momentous vista of history. At least two arm-lengths wide. Bugg walked round for a look at the image captured on the surface.

And saw two colours, divided in a rough diagonal. Scratchy red to the right, muddy brown to the left. ‘Extraordinary,’ Bugg said. ‘And what is it you have rendered here?’

‘What is it? Are you blind?’ The painter pointed with a brush. ‘The column! Those approaching Edur, the vast army! The standard, of course. The standard!’

Bugg squinted across the distance to the tiny patch of red that was the vanguard’s lead standard. ‘Ah, of course. Now I see.’

‘And my brilliance blinds you, yes?’

‘Oh yes, all comprehension has been stolen from my eyes indeed.’

The artist deftly switched legs and perched pensively, frowning out at the Edur column. ‘Of course, they’re closer now. I wish I’d brought another board, so I could elaborate yet further on the detail.’

‘Well, you could always use this wall.’

Bushy brows arched. ‘That’s…clever. You are a scholar indeed.’

‘I must be going, now.’

‘Yes, yes, stop distracting me. I need to focus, you know. Focus.’

Bugg quietly made his way down the stone stairs. ‘A fine lesson,’ he muttered under his breath as he reached street level. Details…so many things to do this day.

He walked deserted streets, avoiding the major intersections where barricades had been raised and soldiers moved about in nervous expectation. The occasional furtive figure darted into and out of view as he went on.

A short time later the manservant rounded a corner, paused, then approached the ruined temple. Standing near it was Turudal Brizad, who looked over as Bugg reached his side.

‘Any suggestions?’ the god known as the Errant asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The mortal I requested for this task has not appeared.’

‘Oh. That’s not good, since the Jheck are at the gates even as we speak.’

‘And the first Edur from the ships have disembarked, yes.’

‘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.

The five killers were almost free. Their barrow was breaking apart, thick fissures welling in the dark, wet earth submerged rocks grinding and snapping together. The muted sounds of five voices joined in a chant as heavy as drums…rising, coming ever closer to the surface.

‘Oh,’ she moaned, ‘where is everybody? Where are my friends?’

Kettle staggered over to the barrow containing her only ally. He was there, so very close. She reached down—

—and was dragged in, a heaving passage of hot soil, then through, stumbling, slipping on a muddy bank. Before her sprawled a fetid swamp beneath a grey sky.

And, almost within arm’s reach, a figure was climbing from the dark water. White-skinned, long hair smeared with mud. ‘Kettle!’ The voice a strained gasp. ‘Behind you—reach—’

She turned round.

Two swords, points thrust into the mud.

‘Kettle—take them—give them—’

A wet gasp, and she spun back, to see the bared arms of another figure, clawing up to wrap about her friend—a woman’s arms, lean, ribboned in muscle. He was dragged back—she saw him drive an elbow into the fiercely twisting, black-streaked face that rose suddenly from the slime. Connecting hard in a splatter of blood. But the clutching hands would not let go.

And they both sank back into the swirling foam.

Whimpering, Kettle crawled over to the swords. She tugged them from the mud, then clambered back to the water’s edge.

Limbs appeared amidst the thrashing waves.

Shivering, Kettle waited.

 

So easy, now, a slave once more, as the Wyval suffused his body, stealing the will of every muscle, every organ, the charging blood in his veins. Udinaas could barely see through his own eyes, as street after street blurred past. Sudden moments of brutal clarity, as he came upon three Soletaken wolves—which turned as one with snarls and bared fangs—and was among them, his hands now talons, the thumb-long claws tearing into wolf-flesh, curling round ribs and ripping them loose. A massive, gnarled fist, slamming into the side of a lunging, snapping head, breaking bone—the wolf’s head suddenly lolling, the eyes blank in death.

Then, motion once more.

His master needed him. Needed him now. No time to lose.

A slave. Absolved of all responsibility, nothing more than a tool.

And this, Udinaas knew, was the poison of surrender.

Close, now, and closing.

There is nothing new in being used. Look upon these sprawled corpses, after all. Poor Letherii soldiers lying dead for no reason. Defending the corpse of a kingdom, citizens once more every one of them. The kingdom that does not move, the kingdom in service to the god of dust—you will find the temples in crooked alleys, in the cracks between cobbles.

You will find, my friends, no sweeter world than this, where honour and faith and freedom are notions levelled one and all, layers as thin as hate, envy and betrayal. Every notion vulnerable to any sordid breeze, stirred up, stirred together. A world without demands to challenge the confused haze of holy apathy.

The god of dust rises dominant—

Ahead, a dozen wolves, charging straight for him.

There would, it seemed, be a delay.

Udinaas bared his teeth.

 

‘How are you managing it?’ Bugg asked.

The Errant glanced over. ‘The wolves?’

‘They’re everywhere but here, and they should have arrived long ago.’

The god shrugged. ‘I keep nudging them away. It’s not as difficult as I feared, although their leader is too clever by far—much harder to deceive. Besides, the beasts keep running into other…opposition.’

‘What kind of opposition?’

‘Other.’

The shouts from within the temple ceased then. Silence, no movement from the dark doorway. A half-dozen heartbeats, then, a muttering of voices and swearing.

The mage, Corlo, appeared, backing out and dragging a limp body in his wake, a body leaving twin trails of blood from its heels.

Concerned, Bugg stepped forward. ‘Is she alive?’

Corlo, himself a mass of cuts and bruises, cast the manservant a slightly wild look. ‘No, dammit.’

‘I am sorry for that,’ the Errant murmured.

More Guardsmen were emerging from the doorway. All were wounded, one of them badly, his left arm torn loose at the shoulder and dangling from a few pink-white tendons. His eyes were glazed with shock.

Corlo glared at Turudal Brizad. ‘Can you do any healing? Before the rest of us bleed out—’

Iron Bars stepped from the ruined temple, sheathing his sword. He was covered in blood but none of it was his. His expression was alarmingly dark. ‘We were expecting wolves, damn you,’ he said in a low growl as he stared at the Errant, who had closed to lay hands upon the most grievously injured soldier, raising new flesh to bind the arm once more to the shoulder as the soldier’s face twisted with pain.

Turudal Brizad shrugged. ‘There was little time to elaborate on what you were about to fight, Avowed. In case you have forgotten.’

‘Damned cats,’ he said.

‘Lizard cats, you mean,’ one of the Guardsmen said, spitting blood onto the street. ‘Sometimes I think nature is insane.’

‘You got that right, Halfpeck,’ Corlo said, reaching down to close the eyelids of the dead woman lying at his feet.

Iron Bars suddenly moved, a blur, past the Errant, both hands lifting—

—as a huge white wolf, claws skittering, pitched round from an alley mouth and, head ducking, lunged towards Turudal Brizad, who had only just begun to turn round.

The Avowed caught it in mid-leap, left hand closing on its right leg just beneath the shoulder, right hand clutching its neck beneath the beast’s jaws. He heaved the wolf high, pivoted and smashed it head first onto the street. Crushing snout, skull and shoulders. Limbs kicking spasmodically, the Soletaken flopped onto its back, yellow vomit spurting, urine arcing as it died. A moment later, all movement from the limbs ceased, although the urine continued to stream, the arc dwindling, then collapsing.

Iron Bars stepped back.

Halfpeck suddenly laughed. ‘It pissed on you!’

‘Be quiet,’ Iron Bars said, looking down at his wet legs. ‘Hood take me, that stinks.’

‘We should get back to the ship,’ Corlo said. ‘There’s wolves all over the place and I don’t think I can keep them away much longer.’

Turudal Brizad; ‘But I can. Especially now.’

Bugg asked, ‘What’s changed, apart from the Pack getting chopped to pieces?’

The Errant pointed down at the dead Soletaken. ‘That was B’nagga, the leader of the Jheck.’ He shot Bugg a look, astonished and half disbelieving. ‘You chose well,’ he said.

‘This squad managed to escape Assail,’ Bugg said, shrugging.

The god’s eyes widened. He turned to Iron Bars. ‘I will ensure you a clear path to your ship—’

‘Oh, damn,’ Bugg cut in, slowly turning. ‘They’re getting out.’

‘More trouble?’ Iron Bars asked, looking round, his hand drifting close to the sword at his hip.

‘Not here,’ Bugg said. ‘But not far.’ He faced the Avowed, gauging.

Iron Bars frowned, then said, ‘Corlo, take the squad back to the ship. All right, old man, lead the way.’

‘You don’t have to do this—’

‘Yes I do. With that wolf pissing on me I feel the need to lose my temper. It’s another fight, isn’t it?’

Bugg nodded. ‘Might make the Pack seem like kittens, Iron Bars.’

‘Might? Will it or won’t it?’

‘All right, we might well lose this one.’

‘Fine,’ the Avowed snapped. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

The manservant sighed. ‘Follow me, then. It’s a dead Azath House we’re heading to.’

‘Dead? Hood take me, a garden fête.’

A garden fête? Dear me, I like this man. ‘And we’re inviting ourselves, Avowed. Still with me?’

Iron Bars looked across at Corlo, who had stopped to listen, his face bloodless as he repeatedly shook his head in denial. The Avowed grunted. ‘Once you’ve dropped ’em off, come and find us, Corlo. And try and make your arrival timely.’

‘Avowed—’

‘Go.’

Bugg glanced at the Errant. ‘You coming?’

‘In spirit,’ he replied. ‘There is another matter I must attend to, I am afraid. Oh,’ he added as Bugg and Iron Bars turned to go, ‘dear manservant, I thank you. And you as well, Avowed. Tell me, Iron Bars, how many of the Avowed remain among the Crimson Guard?’

‘No idea. A few hundred, I’d imagine.’

‘Scattered here and there…’

The grey-haired soldier smiled. ‘For the moment.’

Bugg said, ‘We shall have to run, I think.’

‘Can you keep up?’ Iron Bars asked.

‘As swift as a charging wave, that’s me,’ Bugg said.

 

Brys stood alone in the corridor. The howling was, thankfully, over. It was the only sound that had managed to penetrate the walls. There was no way to know if the garrison was fighting in the city beyond the Eternal Domicile. It seemed such a pointless thing…

His breath caught upon hearing a strange sound. Brys lowered his gaze, fixed it upon the Ceda, who was lying curled tight in the chamber beyond, with his back to Brys and the throne room behind him.

Kuru Qan’s head shifted slightly, then rose a fraction from the floor.

And, from the Ceda, there came low laughter.

 

The path was unmistakable. Keening with glee, the demon drew itself to the cave’s entrance, contracting its massive, corpulent presence, the bloated flesh of its body, away from the river’s broad span. Inward, gathering, hovering before the tunnel beneath the city, where old swamp water still flowed, putrid and sweet, a flavour like sweet nectar to the demon.

Ready now, at last, for the lunge, the breaking away from the grip of its master. Who was so regrettably preoccupied at the moment.

Now.

Surging forward, filling the cave, then into the narrow, twisting tunnel.

To the heart. The wondrous, blessed heart of power.

Joy and hunger burning like twin fires within it. Close, so close now.

Squirming down, the path narrowing, squeezing with the vast pressure of overlying stone and earth. A little further.

Reaching out, the space suddenly opening, blissfully wide and high, spreading out to all sides, the water welcoming in its warmth.

A storm of long-still silts sweeping up, blinding, shadows of dead things cavorting before its countless eyes.

The heart, the enormous cavern beneath the lake, the city’s very soul—the power—

 

And Brys heard Kuru Qan speak.

‘Now, friend Bugg.’

 

Thirty paces from the overgrown yard of the Azath tower, Bugg skidded to a halt. He cocked his head, then smiled.

Ahead, Iron Bars slowed, then turned round. ‘What?’

‘Find the girl,’ the manservant said. ‘I’ll join you when I can.’

‘Bugg?’

‘In a moment, Avowed. I must do something first.’

The Crimson Guardsman hesitated, then nodded and swung back.

Bugg closed his eyes. Jaghut witch, hear me. Recall my favour at the quarry? The time has come for…reciprocity.

She replied in his mind, distant, yet swiftly closing. ‘I hear you, little man. I know what you seek. Ah, you are a clever one indeed…’

Oh, I cannot take all the credit, this time.

 

The demon expanded to fill the cavern. The heart was all about, the power seeping in to enliven its flesh. The chains of binding melted away.

Now, it need only reach out and grasp hold.

The strength of a thousand gods awaited it.

Reaching.

Countless grasping, clutching hands.

Finding…nothing.

Then, a mortal’s voice—

 

From the Ceda, two more words, uttered low and clear, ‘Got you.’

A lie! Illusion! Deceit! The demon raged, spun in a conflagration of brown silt, seeking the way out—only to find the tunnel mouth sealed. A smooth surface, fiercely cold, the cold burning—the demon recoiled.

Then, the lake overhead. Upward—fast, faster—

 

Ursto Hoobutt and his sometime lover, Pinosel, were both drunk as they awaited the fall of Letheras. They had been singing, celebrating the end of their debts, sprawled on the mouldy walkway surrounding Settle Lake amidst nervous rats and head-jutting pigeons.

When the wine ran out, they began bickering.

It had begun innocently enough, as Pinosel loosed a loud sigh and said, ‘And now you can marry me.’

It was a moment before her words registered, upon which, bleary-eyed, he looked over in disbelief. ‘Marry you? What’s wrong wi’ ’ow it is now, Cherrytart?’

‘What’s wrong? It’s respectable I want, you fat, flea-bit oaf. I earned it. Respectable. You marry me, Ursto Hoobutt, now that the Edurians done conquered us. Marry me!’

‘All right, I will.’

‘When?’ she demanded, sensing the out he was angling towards.

‘When…when…’ Hah! He had his answer—

And, at that instant, the fetid green water of Settle Lake, sprawled out before them like a turgid plain of seaweed fertilizer, paled into murky white. And clouds began rising from its now frozen surface.

An icy breeze swept over Ursto Hoobutt and Pinosel.

There was a sudden deep thump from somewhere beneath the frozen lake’s ice, although not a single crack showed.

Ursto Hoobutt stared, disbelieving. Opened his mouth, then closed it.

Then his shoulders sagged. ‘Today, love. I’ll marry ya today…’