‘You cross the bridge before we have built it, Karsa Orlong,’ Urugal said. ‘It seems Bairoth Gild taught you how to think, before he himself failed and so died. You are indeed worthy of the name Warleader.’
‘Perfection is an illusion,’ Siballe said. ‘Thus, mortal and immortal alike are striving for what cannot be achieved. Our new master seeks to alter the paradigm, Karsa Orlong. A third force, to change for ever the eternal war between order and dissolution.’
‘A master demanding the worship of imperfection,’ the Teblor growled.
Siballe’s head creaked in a nod. ‘Yes.’
Karsa realized he was thirsty and walked over to his pack, retrieving a waterskin. He drank deep, then returned to his sword. He closed both hands about the grip and lifted it before him, studying its rippled length.
‘An extraordinary creation,’ Urugal said. ‘If Imass weapons could have a god…’
Karsa smiled at the T’lan Imass he had once knelt before, in a distant glade, in a time of youth-when the world he saw was both simple and… perfect. ‘You are not gods.’
‘We are,’ Urugal replied. ‘To be a god is to possess worshippers.’
‘To guide them,’ Siballe added.
‘You are wrong, both of you,’ Karsa said. ‘To be a god is to know the burden of believers. Did you protect? You did not. Did you offer comfort, solace? Were you possessed of compassion? Even pity? To the Teblor, T’lan Imass, you were slavemasters, eager and hungry, making harsh demands, and expecting cruel sacrifices-all to feed your own desires. You were the Teblor’s unseen chains.’ His eyes settled on Siballe. ‘And you, woman, Siballe the Unfound, you were the taker of children.’
‘Imperfect children, Karsa Orlong, who would otherwise have died. And they do not regret my gifts.’
‘No, I would imagine not. The regret remains with the mothers and fathers who surrendered them. No matter how brief a child’s life, the love of the parents is a power that should not be denied. And know this, Siballe, it is immune to imperfection.’ His voice was harsh to his own ears, grating out from a constricted throat. ‘Worship imperfection, you said. A metaphor you made real by demanding that those children be sacrificed. Yet you were-and remain-unmindful of the most crucial gift that comes from worship. You have no understanding of what it is. But even that is not your worst crime. No. You then gave us your own burdens.’ He shifted his gaze. ‘Tell me, Urugal, what have the Teblor done to deserve that?’
‘Your own people have forgotten-’
‘Tell me.’
Urugal shrugged. ‘You failed.’
Karsa stared at the battered god, unable to speak. The sword trembled in his hands. He had held it up for all this time, and now, finally, its weight threatened to drag his arms down. He fixed his eyes on the weapon, then slowly lowered the tip to rest on the stone floor.
‘We too failed, once, long ago,’ Siballe said. ‘Such things cannot be undone. Thus, you may surrender to it, and so suffer beneath its eternal torment. Or you can choose to free yourself of the burden. Karsa Orlong, our answer to you is simple: to fail is to reveal a flaw. Face that revelation, do not turn your back on it, do not make empty vows to never repeat your mistakes. It is done. Celebrate it! That is our answer, and indeed is the answer shown us by the Crippled God.’
The tension drained from Karsa’s shoulders. He drew a deep breath, released it slowly. ‘Very well. To you, and to the Crippled God, I now give my answer.’
Rippled stone made no silent passage through the air. Instead, it roared, like pine needles exploding into flame. Up, over Karsa’s head, wheeling in a sliding circle that then swept down and across.
The edge taking Siballe between left shoulder and neck. Bones snapping as the massive blade ploughed through, diagonally, across the chest, severing the spine, down and through the ribcage, sweeping clear just above her right hip.
She had lifted her own sword to intercept at some point, and it had shattered, flinging shards and slivers into the air-Karsa had not even felt the impact.
He whipped the huge blade in a curving arc in his follow-through, lifting it to poise, suddenly motionless, over his head.
The ruined form that was Siballe collapsed in clattering pieces onto the stone floor. The T’lan Imass had been cut in half.
The remaining six had raised their own weapons, but none moved to attack.
Karsa snarled. ‘Come ahead, then.’
‘Will you now destroy the rest of us?’ Urugal asked.
‘Her army of foundlings will follow me,’ the Teblor growled, sneering down at Siballe. Then he glared up once more. ‘You will leave my people-leave the glade. You are done with us, T’lan Imass. I have delivered you here. I have freed you. If you ever appear before me again, I will destroy you. Walk the dreams of the tribal elders, and I will come hunting you. And I shall not relent. I, Karsa Orlong, of the Uryd, of the Teblor Thelomen Toblakai, so avow.’ He took a step closer, and the six T’lan Imass flinched. ‘You used us. You used me. And, for my reward, what did you just offer?’
‘We sought-’
‘You offered a new set of chains. Now, leave this place. You have all you desired. Get out.’
The six T’lan Imass walked towards the cave mouth. A momentary occluding of the sunlight spilling into the front cavern, then they were gone.
Karsa lowered his sword. He looked down at Siballe.
‘Unexpected,’ she said.
The warrior grunted. ‘I’d heard you T’lan Imass were hard to kill.’
‘Impossible, Karsa Orlong. We… persist. Will you leave me here?’
‘There is to be no oblivion for you?’
‘Once, long ago, a sea surrounded these hills. Such a sea would free me to the oblivion you speak of. You return me to a fate-and a punishment-that I have spent millennia seeking to escape. I suppose that is apt enough.’
‘What of your new master, this Crippled God?’
‘He has abandoned me. It would appear that there are acceptable levels of imperfection-and unacceptable levels of imperfection. I have lost my usefulness.’
‘Another god that understands nothing of what it is to be a god,’ Karsa rumbled, walking over to his pack.
‘What will you do now, Karsa Orlong?’
‘I go in search of a horse.’
‘Ah, a Jhag horse. Yes, they can be found to the southwest of here, on the odhan. Rare. You may be searching for a long time.’
The Teblor shrugged. He loosened the strings that closed the mouth of the pack and walked over to the shambles that was Siballe. He lifted the part of her containing the head and right shoulder and arm.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Do you need the rest?’
‘No. What-’
Karsa pushed her head, shoulder and arm into his pack, then drew the strings once more. He would need a harness and a scabbard for the sword, but that would have to wait. He shrugged into the pack’s straps, then straightened and leaned the sword over his right shoulder.
A final glance around.
The hearth still raged with a sorcerous fire, though it had begun flickering more rapidly now, as if using up the last of its unseen fuel. He thought about kicking gravel over it to douse it, then shrugged and turned to the cave mouth.
As he came to the entrance, two figures suddenly rose before him, blocking the light.
Karsa’s sword whipped across his path, the flat of the blade thundering against both figures, sending them flying off the ledge.
‘Get out of my way,’ the warrior growled, stepping out into the sunlight.
He spared neither intruder another glance as he set off along the trail, where it angled southwest.
Trull Sengar groaned, then opened his eyes. He lifted his head, wincing at the countless sharp pains pressing into his back. That flint sword had thrown him down a scree of stone chips… although it had been hapless Onrack who had taken the brunt of the blow. Even so, his chest ached, and he feared his ribs were bruised, if not cracked.