Reaper's Gale

‘Sir.’

‘Take four squads through and establish flanking positions. Send one squad straight across to the nearest barracks to see if they are indeed abandoned. If so, that will be our staging area. From there, I will lead the main body to the gate, seize and secure it. Captain, you and four squads will strike into the city, as far as you can go, causing trouble all the way-take extra munitions for that.’

‘Our destination?’

‘The palace.’

‘Aye, sir. Fiddler, collect Gesler and Hellian and Urb-you’re the first four-and take your squads through. At a damned run if you please.’

In the grey light of early dawn, four figures emerged from a smear of blurred light twenty paces from the dead Azath Tower behind the Old Palace. As the portal swirled shut behind them, they stood, looking round.

Hedge gave Quick Ben a light push to one side, somewhere between comradely affection and irritation. ‘Told you, it’s reunion time, wizard.’

‘Where in Hood’s name are we?’ Quick Ben demanded.

‘We’re in Letheras,’ Seren Pedac said. ‘Behind the Old Palace-but something’s wrong.’

Trull Sengar wrapped his arms about himself, his face drawn with the pain of freshly healed wounds, his eyes filled with a deeper distress.

Hedge felt some of his anticipation dim like a dying oil lamp as he studied the Tiste Edur. The poor bastard. A brother murdered in front of his eyes. Then, the awkward goodbye with Onrack-joy and sadness there in plenty, seeing his old friend and the woman at his side-a woman Onrack had loved for so long. So long? Damned near incomprehensible, that’s how long.

But now-Trull Sengar.’

The Tiste Edur slowly looked over.

Hedge shot Quick Ben a glance, then he said, ‘We’ve a mind to escort you and Seren. To her house.’

‘This city is assailed,’ Trull Sengar said. ‘My youngest brother-the Emperor-’

‘That can all wait,’ Hedge cut in. He paused, trying to figure out how to say what he meant, then said, ‘Your friend Onrack stole a woman’s heart, and it was all there.

In her eyes, I mean. The answer, that is. And if you’d look, just look, Trull Sengar, into the eyes of Seren Pedac, well-’

‘For Hood’s sake,’ Quick Ben sighed. ‘He means you and Seren need to get alone before anything else, and we’re going to make sure that happens. All right?’

The surprise on Seren Pedac’s face was almost comical.

But Trull Sengar then nodded.

Hedge regarded Quick Ben once again. ‘You recovered enough in case we walk into trouble?’

‘Something your sharpers can’t handle? Yes, probably. Maybe. Get a sharper in each hand, Hedge.’

‘Good enough… since you’re a damned idiot,’ Hedge replied. ‘Seren Pedac-you should know, I’m well envious of this Tiste Edur here, but anyway. Is your house far?’

‘No, it is not, Hedge of the Bridgeburners.’

‘Then let’s get out of this spooky place.’

Silts swirled up round his feet, spun higher, engulfing his shins, then whirled away like smoke on the current. Strange pockets of luminosity drifted past, morphing as if subjected to unseen pressures in this dark, unforgiving world.

Bruthen Trana, who had been sent to find a saviour, walked an endless plain, the silts thick and gritty. He stumbled against buried detritus, tripped on submerged roots. He crossed current-swept rises of hardened clay from which jutted polished bones of long-dead leviathans. He skirted the wreckage of sunken ships, the ribs of the hulls splayed out and cargo scattered about. And as he walked, he thought about his life and the vast array of choices he had made, others he had refused to make.

No wife, no single face to lift into his mind’s eye. He had been a warrior for what seemed all his life. Fighting alongside blood kin and comrades closer than any blood kin. He had seen them die or drift away. He had, he realized now, watched his entire people pulled apart. With the conquest, with the cold-blooded, anonymous nightmare that was Lether. As for the Letherii themselves, no, he did not hate them. More like pity and yes, compassion, for they were as trapped in the nightmare as anyone else. The rapacious desperation, the gnawing threat of falling, of drowning beneath the ever-rising, ever-onrushing torrent that was a culture that could never look back, could not even slow its headlong plunge into some gleaming future that-if it came at all-would ever only exist for but a privileged few.

This eternal seabed offered its own commentary, and it was one that threatened to drag him down into the silts, enervated beyond all hope of continuing, of even moving. Cold, crushing, this place was like history’s own weight-history not of a people or a civilization, but of the entire world.

Why was he still walking? What saviour could liberate him from all of this? He should have remained in Letheras. Free to launch an assault on Karos Invictad and his Patriotists, free to a

And here, now, looming before him, pillars of stone. The surfaces, he saw, cavorted with carvings, unrecognizable sigils so intricate they spun and shifted before his eyes.

As he drew closer, silts gusted ahead, and Bruthen Trana saw a figure climbing into view. Armour green with verdigris and furred with slime. A closed helm covering its face. In one gauntleted hand was a Letherii sword.

And a voice spoke in the Tiste Edur’s head: ‘You have walked enough, Ghost.’

Bruthen Trana halted. ‘I am not a ghost in truth-’

‘You are, stranger. Your soul has been severed from now cold, now rotting flesh. You are no more than what stands here, before me. A ghost.’

Somehow, the realization did not surprise him. Ha

‘Then,’ he said, ‘what is left for me?’

‘One thing, Ghost. You are here to summon him. To send him back.’

‘But was not his soul severed as well?’

‘His flesh and bones are here, Ghost. And in this place, there is power. For here you will find the forgotten gods, the last hold’ ing of their names. Know this, Ghost, were we to seek to defy you, to refuse your summoning, we could. Even with what you carry.’

‘Will you then refuse me?’ Bruthen Trana asked, and if the answer was yes, then he would laugh. To have come all this way. To have sacrificed his life…

‘No. We understand the need. Better, perhaps, than you.’

The armoured warrior lifted his free hand. All but the fore

most of the metal-clad fingers folded. ‘Go there,’ it said, pointing towards a pillar. ‘The side with but one name. Draw forth that which you possess of his flesh and bone. Speak the name so written on the stone.’

Bruthen Trana walked slowly to the standing stone, went round to the side with the lone carving. And read thereon the name inscribed: ‘ “Brys Beddict, Saviour of the Empty Hold.” I summon you.’

The face of the stone, cleaned here, seeming almost fresh, all at once began to ripple, then bulge in places, the random shapes and movement coalescing to create a humanoid shape, pushing out from the stone. An arm came free, then shoulder, then head, face-eyes closed, features twisted as if in pain-upper torso. A leg. The second arm-Bruthen saw that two fingers were missing on that hand.

He frowned. Two?

As the currents streamed, Brys Beddict was driven out from the pillar. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, was almost swallowed in billowing silts.

The armoured warrior arrived, carrying a scabbarded sword, which he pushed point-first into the seabed beside the Letherii.