Quick Ben turned and glanced back at Fiddler, a warning of some sort, and then the wizard walked over to the fallen Letherii.
Trembling, confused, Fiddler followed Quick Ben. Stood beside him, looking down at the man.
‘He’ll live,’ he said.
Behind them, Hedge rasped, ‘No he won’t.’
That voice did not even sound human. Fiddler turned in alarm, and saw Hedge staring up at Quick Ben, as if silent communication was passing between the two men.
Then Hedge asked, ‘Can you do it, Quick? Some place with… with eternal torment. Can you do that, wizard? I asked if you can do that!’
Quick Ben faced Fiddler, a question in his eyes.
Oh no, Quick, this one isn’t for me to say-
‘Fiddler, help me decide. Please.’
Gods, even Quick Ben’s grieving. Who was this warrior? ‘You’re High Mage, Quick Ben. Do what needs doing.’
The wizard turned back to Hedge. ‘Hood owes me, Hedge.’
‘What kind of answer is that?’
But Quick Ben turned, gestured, and a dark blur rose round the Letherii, closed entirely about the man’s body, then shrank, as if down into the sand, until nothing remained. There was a faint scream as whatever awaited the Letherii had reached out to take hold of him.
Then the wizard snapped out a hand and pulled Fiddler close, and his face was pale with rage. ‘Don’t you pity him, Fid. You understand me? Don’t you pity him!’
Fiddler shook his head. ‘I–I won’t, Quick. Not for a moment. Let him scream, for all eternity. Let him scream.’ A grim nod, then Quick Ben pushed him back. Hedge wept over the Tiste Edur, wept like a man for whom all light in the world has been lost, and would never return.
And Fiddler did not know what to do.
Watching from an unseen place, the Errant stepped back, pulled away as if he would hurl himself from a cliff.
He was what he was.
A tipper of balances.
And now, this day-may the Abyss devour him whole-a maker of widows.
Ascending the beach’s gentle slope, Karsa Orlong halted. He reached down to the sword impaling his leg, and closed a hand about the blade itself, just above the hilt. Unmindful of how the notched edges sliced into his flesh, he dragged the weapon free.
Blood bloomed from the puncture wounds, but only for a moment. The leg was growing numb, but he would have use of it for a while yet.
Still holding the cursed sword by its blade, he pushed himself forward, limped onto the sward. And saw, a short distance to his right, a small hut from which smoke gusted out.
The Toblakai warrior headed over.
Coming opposite it, he dropped the iron sword, took another step closer, bent down and pushed one hand under the edge of the hut. With an upward heave, he lifted the entire structure clear, sent it toppling onto its back like an upended turtle.
Smoke billowed, caught the breeze, and was swept away.
Before him, seated cross-legged, was an ancient, bent and broken creature.
A man. A god.
Who looked up with narrowed eyes filled with pain.
Then those eyes shifted, to behind Karsa, and the warrior turned.
The spirit of the Emperor had arrived, he saw. Young-younger than Karsa had imagined Rhulad Sengar to be-and, with his clear, unmarred flesh, a man not unhandsome. Lying on the ground as if in gentle sleep.
Then his eyes snapped open and he shrieked.
A short-lived try.
Rhulad pushed himself onto his side, up onto his hands and knees-and saw, lying close by, his sword.
‘Take it!’ the Crippled God cried. ‘My dear young champion, Rhulad Sengar of the Tiste Edur. Take up your sword!’
‘Do not,’ Karsa said. ‘Your spirit is here-it is all you have, all you are. When I kill it, oblivion will take you.’
‘Look at his leg! He is almost as crippled as I am! Take the sword, Rhulad, and cut him down!’
But Rhulad still hesitated, there on his hands and knees, his breaths coming in rapid gasps.
The Crippled God wheezed, coughed, then said in a low, crooning voice, ‘You can return, Rhulad. To your world. You can make it right. This time, you can make everything right. Listen to me, Rhulad. Trull is alive! Your brother, he is alive, and he walks to the Eternal Domicile! He walks to find you! Kill this Toblakai and you can return to him, you can say all that needs to be said!
‘Rhulad Sengar, you can ask his forgiveness.’
At that the Tiste Edur’s head lifted. Eyes suddenly alight, making him look… so young.
And Karsa Orlong felt, in his heart, a moment of regret.
Rhulad Sengar reached for the sword.
And the flint sword swung down, decapitating him.
The head rolled, settled atop the sword. The body pitched sideways, legs kicking spasmodically, then growing still as blood poured from the open neck. In a moment, that blood slowed.
Behind Karsa, the Crippled God hacked laughter, then said, ‘I have waited a long time for you, Karsa Orlong. I have worked so hard… to bring you to this sword. For it is yours, Toblakai. No other can wield it as you can. No other can withstand its curse, can remain sane, can remain its master. This weapon, my Chosen One, is for you.’
Karsa Orlong faced the Crippled God. ‘No-one chooses me. I do not give anyone that right. I am Karsa Orlong of the Teblor. All choices belong to me.’
‘Then choose, my friend. Fling away that pathetic thing of stone you carry. Choose the weapon made for you above all others.’
Karsa bared his teeth.
The Crippled God’s eyes widened briefly, then he leaned forward, over his brazier of smouldering coals. ‘With the sword, Karsa Orlong, you will be immortal.’ He waved a gnarled hand and a gate blistered open a few paces away. ‘There. Go back to your homeland, Karsa. Proclaim your-self Emperor of the Teblor. Guide your people for ever more. Oh, they are sorely beset. Only you can save them, Karsa Orlong. And with the sword, none can stand before you. You will save them, you will lead them to domination-a campaign of slaughtered “children” such as the world has never seen before. Give answer, Toblakai! Give answer to all the wrongs you and your people have suffered! Let the children witness!’
Karsa Orlong stared down at the Crippled God.
And his sneer broadened, a moment, before he turned away.
‘Do not leave it here! It is for you! Karsa Orlong, it is for you!’
Someone was coming up from the sand. A wide, heavily muscled man, and three black-skinned bhokorala.
Karsa limped to meet them.
Withal felt his heart pounding in his chest. He’d not expected… well, he’d not known what to expect, only what was expected of him.
‘You are not welcome,’ said the giant with the tattooed face and the wounded leg.
‘I’m not surprised. But here I am anyway.’ Withal’s eyes flicked to the sword lying in the grass. The Tiste Edur’s head was resting on it like a gift. The weaponsmith frowned. ‘Poor lad, he never understood-’
‘I do,’ growled the giant.
Withal looked up at the warrior. Then over to where crouched the Crippled God, before returning once more to his regard of the giant. ‘You said no?’
‘As much.’
