weapon knocked one of his hands loose from the grip, and the iron blade nailed outward, and then, all at once, that cursed sword seemed to acquire a will of its own, the point thrusting into a lunge that dragged the Emperor forward with a scream.
And the blade sank into Karsa’s left thigh, through skin, muscle, narrowly missing the bone, then punching out the back side. The Toblakai pivoted round, even as with appalling fluidity he brought his sword in a downward cut that sliced entirely through Rhulad’s shoulder above the sword-arm.
As the arm, its hand still gripping the weapon now bound-trapped in Karsa’s leg-parted from Rhulad’s body, the Toblakai back-swung the flat of his blade into Rhulad’s face, sending him sprawling onto the sand.
And Samar Dev found that she held the knife, the blade bared, and as Karsa turned to face her, she was already slicing deep across her palm, hissing the ancient words of release-letting loose the imprisoned spirits, the desert godlings and all those who were bound to the old knife-
Spirits and ghosts of the slain poured forth, freed by the power in her blood, streaming down over the rows of benches, down onto the floor of the arena.
To the terrible sounds of Rhulad Sengar’s shrieking, those spirits rushed straight for Karsa, swept round, engulfed him-swirling chaos-a blinding moment as of fires unleashed-
– and Karsa Orlong, the Emperor’s sword and the arm still holding it, vanished.
Lying alone on the sands of the arena, Rhulad Sengar spilled crimson from the stump of his shoulder.
And no-one moved.
To dwell within an iron blade had proved, for the ghost of Ceda Kuru Qan, a most interesting experience. After an immeasurable time of exploration, sensing all the other entities trapped within, he had worked out a means of escaping whenever he wished. But curiosity had held him, a growing suspicion that all dwelt in this dark place for some hidden purpose. And they were waiting.
Anticipation, even eagerness. And, indeed, far more bloodlust than Kuru Qan could abide.
He had considered a campaign of domination, of defeating all the other spirits, and binding them to his will. But a leader, he well understood, could not be ignorant, and to compel the revelation of the secret was ever a chancy proposition.
Instead, he had waited, patient as was his nature whether living or dead.
Sudden shock, then, upon the gushing taste of blood in his mouth, and the frenzied ecstasy that taste unleashed within him. Sour recognition-most humbling-in discovering such bestial weakness within him-and when the summoning arrived in the language of the First Empire, Kuru Qan found himself rising like a demon to roar his domination over all others, then lunging forth from the iron blade, into the world once again, leading a dread host-
To the one standing. Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai.
And the sword impaling his leg.
Kuru Qan understood, then, what needed to be done. Understood the path that must be forged, and understood, alas, the sacrifice that must be made.
They closed round the Toblakai warrior. They reached for that cursed sword and grasped hold of its blade. They drew with ferocious necessity on the blood streaming down the Toblakai’s leg, causing him to stagger, and, with Kuru Qan in the forefront, the spirits tore open a gate.
A portal.
Chaos roared in on all sides, seeking to annihilate them, and the spirits began surrendering their ghostly lives, sacrificing themselves to the rapacious hunger assailing them. Yet, even as they did so, they pushed the Toblakai forward, forging the path, demanding the journey.
Other spirits awakened, from all around the warrior-the Toblakai’s own slain, and they were legion.
Death roared. The pressure of the chaos stabbed, ripped spirits to pieces-even with all their numbers, the power of their will, they were slowing, they could not get through-Kuru Qan screamed-to draw more of the Toblakai’s power would kill him. They had failed.
Failed-
In a cleared circle in an old Tarthenal burial ground, a decrepit shaman seated cross-legged in its centre stirred awake, eyes blinking open. He glanced up to see Ublala Pung standing just beyond the edge.
‘Now, lad,’ he said.
Weeping, the young Tarthenal rushed forward, a knife in his hands-one of Arbat’s own, the iron black with age, the glyphs on the blade so worn down as to be almost invisible.
Arbat nodded as Ublala Pung reached him and drove the weapon deep into the shaman’s chest. Not on the heart side-Old Hunch needed to take a while to die, to bleed out his power, to feed the multitude of ghosts now rising from the burial grounds.
‘Get away from here!’ Arbat shouted, even as he fell onto his side, blood frothing at his mouth. ‘Get out!’
Loosing a childlike bawl, Ublala Pung ran.
The ghosts gathered, pure-blooded and mixed-bloods, spanning centuries upon centuries and awake after so long.
And Old Hunch Arbat showed them their new god. And then showed them, with the power of his blood, the way through.
Kuru Qan felt himself lifted on a tide, shoved forward as if by an enormous wave, and all at once there were spirits, an army of them.
Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai.
Tarthenal-
Surging forward, the chaos thrust back, recoiling, then attacking once more.
Hundreds vanishing.
Thousands voicing wailing cries of agony.
Kuru Qan found himself close to the Toblakai warrior, directly in front of the flailing figure, and he reached back, as if to grab the Toblakai’s throat. Closed his hand, and pulled.
Water, a crashing surf, coral sand shifting wild underfoot. Blinding heat from a raging sun.
Staggering, onto the shore-and yes, this was as far as Kuru Qan could go.
Upon the shore.
He released the warrior, saw him stumble onto the island’s beach, dragging that sword-impaled leg-
Behind the old Ceda, the sea reached out, snatched Kuru Qan back with a rolling, tumbling inhalation.
Water everywhere, swirling, pulling him ever deeper, ever darker.
They were done.
We are done.
And the sea, my friends, does not dream of you.
On the arena floor, Emperor Rhulad Sengar lay dead. Bled out, his flesh where visible pale as river clay, and as cold. Sand dusted the sweaty coins and all the blood that had poured from him was turning black.
And the onlookers waited.
For the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths to rise again.
The sun rose higher, the sounds of fighting in the city drew closer.
And, had anyone been looking, they would have seen a speck above the horizon to the north. Growing ever larger.
One street away from the Eternal Domicile, Fiddler led his squad onto the rooftop of some gutted public building. Flecks of ash swirled in the hot morning air and all the city that they could see was veiled behind dust and smoke.
They’d lost Gesler and his squad, ever since the garrison ambush, but Fiddler was not overly concerned. All opposition was a shambles. He ran in a crouch to the edge facing the Eternal Domicile, looked across, and then down to the street below.
There was a gate, closed, but no guards in sight. Damned strange. Where is everyone?
He returned to where his soldiers waited, catching their breaths in the centre of the flat rooftop. ‘All right,’ he said, setting down his crossbow and opening his satchel, ‘there’s a gate that I can take out with a cusser from here. Then down we go and straight across and straight in, fast and mean. Kill everyone in sight, understood?’ He drew out his cusser quarrel and carefully loaded the crossbow. Then resumed his instructions. ‘Tarr takes up the rear
