‘This ain’t your fight,’ he said to the distant creature. ‘Fucking dragon.’
Then he turned and stared at Hedge.
Who, grinning, stared back.
‘No ghost?’
‘No ghost. Aye, Fid, I’m back.’
Fiddler scowled, then shook his head. ‘Hood help us all.’ Then he turned to Quick Ben. ‘And where in the Abyss have you been?’
Picking himself up from the buckled rooftop, Bottle stared across at those three soldiers. Didn’t know one of them except that he was a sapper. And a damned Bridgeburner.
Beside him, Koryk groaned, then spat. ‘Look at ‘em,’ he said.
Bottle nodded.
And, oddly enough, for all the soldiers in the squad, nothing more about it needed saying.
Bottle squinted at the fast-dwindling dragon. Allow us to introduce ourselves…
Trull Sengar gently lifted Seren’s arms and stepped back from her embrace. She almost sagged forward, not wanting the moment to end, and something cold formed a fist in her stomach. Wincing, she turned away.
‘Seren-’
She waved a hand, then met his eyes once more.
‘My brother. My parents.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I cannot pretend that they are not there. That they mean nothing to me.’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He crossed the dusty room, kicking through rubbish-the place had been stripped of virtually everything, no matter how worthless. They had lain together on their cloaks, watched by spiders in the corners near the ceiling and bats slung in a row beneath a window sill. He picked up the Imass spear from where it leaned against a wall and faced her, offering a faint smile. ‘I can protect myself. And alone, I can move quickly-’
‘Go, then,’ she said, and felt anguish at the sudden hardness in her voice.
His half-smile held a moment longer, then he nodded and walked into the corridor that led to the front door.
After a moment Seren Pedac followed. ‘Trull-’
He paused at the doorway. ‘I understand, Seren. It’s all right.’
No it’s not all right! ‘Please,’ she said, ‘come back.’
‘I will. I can do nothing else. You have all there is of me, all that’s left.’
‘Then I have all I need,’ she replied.
He reached out, one hand brushing her cheek.
And then was gone.
Emerging from the pathway crossing the yard, Trull Sengar, the butt of the spear ringing like the heel of a staff on the cobbles, walked out into the street.
And set off in the direction of the Eternal Domicile.
From the shadows of an alley opposite, the Errant watched him.
‘I feel much better.’
Brys Beddict smiled across at his brother. ‘You look it. So, Tehol, your manservant is an Elder God.’
‘I’ll take anybody I can find.’
‘Why are your eyes two different colours now?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think Bugg may be colour blind. Blue and green, green and blue, and as for brown, forget it.’
Said manservant who happened to be an Elder God walked into the room. ‘I found her.’
Tehol was on his feet. ‘Where? Is she alive?’
‘Yes, but we’ve work to do… again.’
‘We need to find that man, that Tanal-’
‘No need for that,’ Bugg replied, eyes settling on the corpse of Karos Invictad.
Brys did the same. A two-headed insect was slowly making its way towards the spilled entrails. ‘What in the Errant’s name is that?’
And Bugg hissed through his teeth. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he’s next.’
Outside, in the compound, in the street beyond, a mass of citizens were gathering. Their sound was like an advancing tide. There had been some thunderous explosions, and the unmistakable roar of sorcery, from the direction of the Eternal Domicile, but that had all been short-lived.
Tehol faced Bugg, ‘Listen to that mob. We going to be able to leave here alive? I’m really not in the mood for a Drowning. Especially my own.’
Brys grunted. ‘You’ve not been paying attention, brother. You’re a hero. They want to see you.’
‘I am? Why, I never imagined that they had it in them.’
‘They didn’t,’ Bugg replied, with a sour expression. ‘Ormly and Rucket have spent a fortune on criers.’ Brys smiled. ‘Humbled, Tehol?’
‘Never. Bugg, take me to Janath. Please.’ At that, Brys Beddict’s brows rose. Ah, it is that way, then. Well. Good.
A surviving officer of the city garrison formally surrendered to the Adjunct just inside the west gate, and now Tavore led her occupying army into Letheras.
Leaving Fist Blistig in charge of the main force, she assembled the five hundred or so surviving marines, along with Fist Keneb, and her own troop of mounted cavalry, and set out for the imperial palace. This ill-named ‘Eternal Domicile’.
Sinn, riding behind Lostara Yil, had cried out when the dragon had appeared over the city; then had laughed and clapped her hands when at least two cussers and then wave after wave of ferocious sorcery routed the creature.
Captain Faradan Sort’s advance squads were still active-that much had been made abundantly clear. And they were at the palace, or at least very close. And they were in a mood.
Most commanders would have raged at this-uncontrolled soldiers raising mayhem somewhere ahead, a handful of grubby marines who’d lived in the wilds for too long now battering at the palace door, frenzied with blood-lust and eager to deliver vengeance. Was this how she wanted to announce her conquest? Would the damned fools leave anything still breathing in that palace?
And what of this un-killable Emperor? Lostara Yil did not believe such a thing was even possible. A cusser in the bastard’s crotch there on that throne and he’ll be giving to the people for days and days. She wouldn’t put it past Fiddler, either. One step into the throne room, the thwock of that oversized crossbow, and then the sergeant diving back, trying to get clear as the entire room erupted. He’d probably happily kill himself for that pleasure.
Yet, while without doubt the Adjunct shared such visions, Tavore said nothing. Nor did she urge her troops to any haste-not that any of them were in shape for that, especially the marines. Instead, they advanced at a measured pace, and citizens began appearing from the side lanes, alleys and avenues, to watch them march past. Some even cried out a welcome, with voices breaking with relief.
The city was a mess. Riots and earthquakes and Moranth munitions. Lostara Yil began to realize that, if the arrival of the Bonehunters signified anything, it was the promise of a return to order, a new settling of civilization, of laws and, ironically, of peace.
But Adjunct, if we tarry here too long, that will turn. It always does. Nobody likes being under an occupier’s heel. Simple human nature, to take one’s own despair and give it a foreigner’s face, then let loose the hounds of blood.
See these citizens? These bright, gladdened faces? Any one of them, before long, could turn. The reapers of violence can hide behind the calmest eyes, the gentlest of smiles. ‘
The column’s pace was slowing, with ever more crowds before them. Chants were rising and falling here and there. Letherii words, the tone somewhere between hope and insistence.
‘Adjunct, what is it they’re all saying?’
A name,’ she replied. ‘Well, two names, I think. One they call the Saviour. The other…’
