would be annihilated – Brys could sense its hunger, its outrage, its cold lust for vengeance – this was the power of the Letherii, the Cedance, the voice of destiny, a thing terrible beyond comprehension-
Trull saw the Warlock King steady himself, his hands gripping the sacks, and power began to flow from them, up his arms, as he began, slowly, to push back the Ceda’s attack.
Those arms twisted, grew into horrific, misshapen appendages. Hannan Mosag’s torso began to bend, the spine curving, writhing like a snake on hot stones, new muscles rising, knobs of bone pushing at the skin. He shrieked as the power burgeoned through him.
A grey wave rising, battering at the white fire, tearing its edges, pushing harder, filling half the long, colonnaded hallway, closing on the Ceda, who stood unmoving, head tilted up, the strange lenses flashing before his eyes. Standing, as if studying the storm clawing towards him.
Brys stared in horror as the foul sorcery of the Edur edged ever closer to the Ceda, towering over the small man. He saw a nearby column turn porous, then crumble to dust. A section of the ceiling it had been supporting collapsed downward, only to vanish in a cloudy haze and land in a thud of billowing dust.
Kuru Qan was looking up at the raging wall looming over him.
Brys saw him cock his head, the slightest of gestures.
A renewed burst of white fire, expanding outward from where he stood, surging up and outward, hammering into the grey wall.
Driving fissures through it, tearing enormous pieces away to whip like rent sails up towards the malformed ceiling.
Brys heard the Warlock King’s shriek, as the white flames roared towards him.
Trull felt himself dragged to his feet. He turned, stared into Fear’s face. His brother was shouting something-
– but the Warlock King was failing. Crumbling beneath the onslaught. Whatever energies he had drawn upon from what was hidden within the sacks were ebbing. Insufficient to counter the Ceda. The Warlock King was about to die – and with him –
‘Trull!’ Fear shook him. ‘Along the wall.’ He pointed. ‘There, edge forward. For a throw-’
‘From the shadows, Trull, behind that pillar! From the
It was pointless. Worse, he did not want to even try. What if he succeeded? What would be won?
‘Trull! Do this or we all die! Mother, Father – Mayen – her child! All the children of the Edur!’
Trull stared into Fear’s eyes, and did not recognize what he saw in them. His brother shook him again, then pushed him along the wall, into the bathing heat of the sorcery battering down at Hannan Mosag, then behind a friable column of what had once been solid marble.
Into cool shadow. Absurdly cool shadow. Trull stumbled forward at a final push from his brother. He was brought up against a warped, rippled wall – and could see, now, the Ceda. Less than seven paces distant. Head tilted upward, watching his assault on the Warlock King’s failing defences.
Tears blurred Trull’s eyes. He did not want to do this.
He raised his spear, balanced now in his right hand. Was still for a moment, breath held, then two quick strides, arm flashing forward, the weapon flying straight and true.
Piercing the Ceda in his side, just below his left ribs, its solid weight and the momentum from Trull’s arm driving the point deep.
The Ceda spun with the impact, left leg buckling, and fell – away from the painted tile-
– that suddenly shattered.
The white fire vanished, and darkness swept in from all sides.
Numbed, Brys stepped forward-
– and was stayed by the hand of Turudal Brizad. ‘No, Champion. He’s gone.’
Kettle sat in the mud, staring down at the man’s face. It looked to be a kind face, especially with the eyes closed in sleep. The scars were fading, all across his lean, tanned body. Her blood had done that. She had been dead, once, and now she had given life.
‘You’re a strange one,’ the wraith whispered from where it crouched by the water.
‘I am Kettle.’
A grunted laugh. ‘And what boils within you, I wonder?’
‘You,’ she said, ‘are more than just a ghost.’
‘Yes.’ Amused. ‘I am Wither. A good name, don’t you think? I was Tiste Andii, once, long, long ago. I was murdered, along with all of my kin. Well, those of us that survived the battle, that is.’
‘Why are you here, Wither?’
‘I await my lord, Kettle.’ The wraith suddenly rose – she had not known how tall it was before. ‘And now… he comes.’
An up-rush of muddy water, and a gaunt figure rose, white-skinned as a blood-drained corpse, long pale hair plastered across its lean face. Coughing, pulling itself clear, crawling onto the bank.
‘The swords,’ he gasped.
Kettle hurried over to him and pushed the weapons into his long-fingered hands. He used them, points down, to help himself to his feet. Tall, she saw, shrinking back, taller even than the wraith. And such cold, cold eyes, deep red. ‘You said you would help us,’ she said, cowering beneath his gaze.
‘Help?’
The wraith knelt before his lord. ‘Silchas Ruin, I was once Killanthir, Third High Mage of the Sixth Cohort-’
‘I remember you, Killanthir.’
‘I have chosen the new name of Wither, my lord.’
‘As you like.’
The wraith glanced up. ‘Where is the Wyval?’
‘I fear he will not survive, but he keeps her occupied. A noble beast.’
‘Please,’ Kettle whimpered, ‘they’re out. They want to kill me – you promised-’
‘My lord,’ Wither said, ‘I would help the Wyval. Together, we can perhaps succeed in driving her deep. Even in binding her once again. If you would give me leave…’
Silchas Ruin was silent for a moment, staring down at the kneeling wraith. Then he said, ‘As you like.’
Wither bowed his head, paused to glance over at Kettle, and said, ‘Leave the Letherii to me. He will not awaken for some time.’ Then the wraith flowed down into the swirling water.
Silchas Ruin drew a deep breath, and looked down at the swords in his hands for the first time. ‘Strange, these. Yet I sense the mortal chose well. Child, get behind me.’ He regarded her, then nodded. ‘It is time to fulfil my promise.’
Corlo had no idea what would come of this. An Avowed could indeed die, if sufficiently damaged. It was, he believed, a matter of will as much as anything else. And he had known Iron Bars for a long time, although not as long as he had known other of the Avowed. To his mind, however, there was no other who could compare with Iron Bars, when it came to sheer will.
The High Mage was exhausted, used up. No longer could he deftly manipulate the four remaining gods, although, luckily, one of those was in enough trouble all on its own, with a crazed Tarthenal seemingly doing the impossible – squeezing the very life out of it. Talk about stubborn.
He had been beaten on, again and again, yet he would not relax his deadly embrace. Iron Bars had fought brilliantly, distracting the remaining three repeatedly, sufficient to keep the Tarthenal alive, but the Avowed was very nearly done. Corlo had never before seen such fighting, had never before witnessed the fullest measure of this Avowed’s ability. It had been said, by Guardsmen who would know, that he was nearly a match to Skinner. And now Corlo believed it.
He was more than a little startled when two corpses walked past him towards the gateway, one of them
