‘Emperor?’
‘We shall not risk you, Udinaas. Should we fall, however, you will be sent to us immediately.’
The slave bowed and stepped back.
Rhulad swung to where stood his father and three brothers. ‘We shall enter Letheras now. We shall claim our empire. Ready your weapons, blood of ours.’
They began moving forward.
Trull’s gaze held on Hannan Mosag for a moment longer, wondering what the Warlock King was hiding, then he followed his brothers.
Hull Beddict was among the second company to enter Letheras, and twenty paces in from the gate he stepped to one side and halted, watching as the wary Edur marched on. None paid him any attention. From the nearby buildings, pallid faces looked down from windows and through slightly parted shutters. From out over the docks gulls wheeled and cried out in a cacophony of panic. Somewhere ahead, down the main avenue, the fighting began at the first barricade. There was a thump of sorcery, then screams.
A meaningless waste of life. He hoped not all the garrison soldiers would be so foolishly brave. There was no longer any reason for fighting. Lether was conquered. All that was left was to depose the ineffectual king and his treacherous advisers. The one truly just act of this war, as far as Hull Beddict was concerned.
His grieving for his brother Brys was done. Although Brys was not yet dead, his death was none the less as certain an outcome as could exist. The King’s Champion would die defending the king. It was tragic, and unnecessary, but it would be the last tradition acted out by the Letherii, and nothing Hull or anyone else could do or say would prevent it.
All the ashes had settled in Hull’s mind. The slaughter behind them, the murder waiting ahead of them. He had betrayed, to see an end to the corrupt insanity of his people. That the victory demanded the death of Brys offered the final layer of ash to shroud Hull’s soul. There would be no absolution.
Even so, one responsibility remained with Hull. As the third company of Tiste Edur entered through the gates, he turned and made his way down a side alley.
He needed to speak to Tehol. To explain things. To tell his brother that he knew of the deceptions, the schemes. Tehol was, he hoped, the one man in Letheras who would not hate Hull for what he had done. He needed to speak to him.
He needed something like forgiveness.
For not being there to save their parents all those years ago.
For not being there to save Brys now.
Forgiveness, a simple thing.
Udinaas stood among the other slaves of the Sengar household, awaiting their turn to enter Letheras. Word had already come that there was fighting ahead, somewhere. Uruth stood nearby, and with her was Mayen, wrapped in a heavy cloak, her face looking ravaged, eyes like a thing hunted. Uruth remained close, as if fearing an escape attempt from the younger woman. Not out of compassion for Mayen, however. The child was all that mattered now.
Poor Mayen.
He knew how she felt. Something like a fever gripped him, an urgency in his blood. Sweat trickled down his body beneath his tunic. His skin felt on fire. He held himself still, on the edge, he feared, of losing control.
The sensation had come on suddenly, like an inner wave of panic, a faceless terror. Worsening-
Head spinning, it was a moment before he realized what was happening. Then horror flooded through Udinaas.
The Wyval.
It was coming to life within him.
B’nagga in the lead, the Jheck entered the city. Soletaken, loping with heads sunk low, one and all seeking the scent of their god. And finding it within the fear-sour currents drifting through Letheras, an impatience, a sentience consumed with rage.
Gleeful howls, rising to fill the city, reverberating down the streets, from over nine thousand wolves. Striking terror amongst cowering citizens. Nine thousand wolves, white-furred, racing on a score of convergent routes towards the old temple, an inward rush of bestial madness.
B’nagga joined his voice to the chilling howls, his heart filled with savage joy. The Pack awaited them. Demons, wraiths, Tiste Edur and damned emperors were as nothing now. Momentary allies of convenience. What would rise here in Letheras was the ascension of the Jheck. An empire of Soletaken, with a god-emperor upon the throne. Rhulad torn to pieces, every Edur sundered into bloody, sweet-tasting meat, rich marrow from split bones, skulls broken open, brains devoured.
This day would end in such slaughter that none who survived would forget.
This day, B’nagga told himself with a silent laugh, belonged to the Jheck.
Seventy-three of his company’s finest soldiers formed a shield wall behind Moroch Nevath. They held the principal bridge crossing Main Canal, a suitable site for this pathetic drama. Best of all, the Third Tiers were arrayed behind them, on which citizens had now appeared. Spectators – a Letherii talent. No doubt wagers were being made, and at least Moroch Nevath would have an audience.
The hooded looks, the rumours of his cowardice at High Fort, would cease this day. It wasn’t much, but it would suffice.
He recalled he had promised to do something for Turudal Brizad, but the man’s outrageous claims had not quite convinced Moroch. Tales of gods and such, coming from a painted consort at that, well, that would have to wait another day, another lifetime. Leave the foppish lover of the lost queen and that obnoxious chancellor to fight his own battles. Moroch wanted to cross blades with the Tiste Edur.
If they let him. A squalid death beneath a wave of sorcery was more likely.
A grunt from one of his soldiers.
Moroch nodded, seeing the first of the Edur approaching from the main avenue. ‘Hold that shield wall,’ he said in a growl, moving to stand five paces in front of it. ‘It’s a small company – let’s send their souls to the Errant’s piss-hole.’
In answer to his bold words, shouts from the soldiers, voices made ugly with blood-lust. Swords hammering shield-rims.
Moroch smiled.
Bellowed challenges from the soldiers.
The Tiste Edur resumed their march. In their lead, a warrior draped in gold.
Whom Moroch had seen before. ‘Errant bless me,’ he whispered, then spun round. ‘The emperor! The one in gold!’ And turned back, taking four more strides until he was at the very edge of the bridge. Raising his sword. ‘Rhulad of the Edur!’ he shouted. ‘Come and face me, you damned freak! Come forward and die!’
Bugg pointed down the street. ‘See that man? That’s Turudal Brizad. That is who you are doing this favour for. If he’s not grateful, give him an earful. I have to get going, but I will be back shortly-’
The air filled suddenly with howling, coming from the north and west.
‘Oh, damn,’ Bugg said. ‘You’d better get going. And I’d better stay too,’ he added, heading off towards the Errant.
‘Corlo,’ Iron Bars snapped as they followed the manservant.
‘Oh, it’s befuddled, some, Avowed. Can’t hear a thing besides.’
Iron Bars nodded. ‘Weapons ready. We’re wasting no time on this. How many in there, Corlo?’
‘Six, their favourite number.’
‘Let’s go.’
Bugg had moved ahead and was fifteen paces from Turudal, who had turned to face him, when the Avowed and his squad thumped past, gaining speed.
As they closed on the Errant the god, brows lifting, pointed towards the entrance to the ruined temple.
The Crimson Guardsmen shifted course, reaching full sprint as they passed Turudal Brizad.
Bugg heard Iron Bars say to the god, ‘Pleased-to-meet-you-see-you-later,’ and then the Avowed and his soldiers were past. Straight for the dark entrance, then plunging inside.
Bestial screams, human shouts, the deafening thunder of sorcery-
