Reaper's Gale

It is for me to choose. Me! Mother Dark! Father Light! Guide me to the Throne of Shadow. Emurlahn reborn! It is this, I tell you both, this or the King in Chains, and behind him the Crippled God! Hear my offer!

‘Andii, Liosan, Edur, the Armies of the Tiste. No betrayal. The betrayals are done-bind us to our words as you have bound each other. Light, Dark and Shadow, the first elements of existence. Energy and void and the ceaseless motion of the ebb and flow between them. These three forces-the first, the greatest, the purest. Hear me. I would so pledge the Edur to this alliance! Send to me those who would speak for the Andii. The Liosan. Send them-bring your children together!

‘Mother Dark. Father Light. I await your word. I await…’

He could go no further.

Weeping, Hannan Mosag rested his head on the stones. As you say,’ he muttered. ‘I will not deny the omen. Very well, it is not for me to choose.

‘He shall be our Mortal Sword of Emurlahn-no, not the old title. The new one, to suit this age. Mortal Sword.’ Madness-why would he even agree? Letherii…

‘So be it.’

Dusk had arrived. Yet he felt a sliver of warmth against one cheek, and he lifted his head. The clouds had broken, there, to the east-a welling band of darkness.

And, to the west, another slash parting the overcast.

The lurid glow of the sun.

‘So be it,’ he whispered.

Bruthen Trana stepped back as the prostrate Warlock King flinched, Hannan Mosag’s legs drawing up like an insect in death.

A moment later, the warlock’s bloodshot eyes prised open. And seemed to see nothing for a moment. Then they flicked upward. ‘Warrior,’ he said thickly, then grimaced and spat a throatful of phlegm onto the grimy pavestones. ‘Bruthen Trana. K’ar Penath speaks boldly of your loyalty, your honour. You are Tiste Edur-as we all once were. Before-before Rhulad.’ He coughed, then pushed himself into a sitting position, raising his head with obvious effort to glower up at Bruthen Trana. ‘And so, I must send you away.’

‘Warlock King, I serve this empire-’

‘Errant take this damned empire! You serve the Tiste Edur!’

Bruthen Trana regarded the broken creature below, said nothing.

‘I know,’ Hannan Mosag said, ‘you would lead our warriors-through the palace above us. Room by room, cutting down every one of the Chancellor’s pernicious spies. Cutting Rhulad free of the snaring web spun about him-but that fool on his throne could not recognize freedom if it sprouted wings on his shoulders. He will see it as an attack, a rebellion. Listen to me! Leave the Chancellor to us!’

‘And Karos Invictad?’

‘All of them, Bruthen Trana. So I vow before you.’

‘Where do you wish me to go, Warlock King? After Fear Sengar?’

Hannan Mosag started, then shook his head. ‘No. But I

dare not speak the name of the one you must find. Here, in this realm, the Crippled God courses in my veins-where I travelled a few moments ago, I was free then. To understand. To… pray.’

‘How will I know where to look? How will I know when I find the one you seek?’

The Warlock King hesitated. He licked his lips, then said, ‘He is dead. But not dead. Distant, yet is summoned. His tomb lies empty, yet was never occupied. He is never spoken of, though his touch haunts us all again and again.’

Bruthen Trana raised a hand-not surprised to see that it trembled. ‘No more. Where shall I find the beginning of the path?’

‘Where the sun dies. I think.’

The warrior scowled. ‘West? But you are not sure?’

‘I am not. I dare not.’

‘Am I to travel alone?’

‘For you to decide, Bruthen Trana. But before all else, you must get something-an item-from the Letherii slave. Feather Witch-she hides beneath the Old Palace-’

‘I know those tunnels, Warlock King. What is this item?’

Hannan Mosag told him.

He studied the twisted warlock for a moment longer-the avid gleam in Hannan Mosag’s eyes bright as fever-then spun round and strode from the chamber.

Bearing lanterns, the squad of guards formed a pool of lurid yellow light that glimmered along the waters of Quillas Canal as they trudged, amidst clanking weapons and desultory muttering, across the bridge. Once on the other side, the squad turned right to follow the main avenue towards the Creeper district.

As soon as the glow trundled away, Tehol nudged Ublala and they hurried onto the bridge. Glancing back at the half-blood, Tehol scowled, then hissed, ‘Watch me, you fool! See? I’m skulking. No-hunch down, look about suspiciously, skitter this way and that. Duck down, Ublala!’

‘But then I can’t see.’

‘Quiet!’

‘Sorry. Can we get off this bridge?’

‘First, let me see you skulk. Go on, you need to practise.’

Grumbling, Ublala Pung hunched low, his beetled brow rippling as he looked first one way, then the other.

‘Nice,’ Tehol said. ‘Now, hurry up and skulk after me.’

‘All right, Tehol. It’s just that there’s the curfew, and I don’t want trouble.’