They went on, through streets filled with rubble, and on all sides the cries of the wounded, figures staggering in shock, dust and smoke lifting into the sunlight.
Then Hedge held up a hand. ‘Listen.’
Quick Ben did as he was bid.
And, from somewhere ahead-closer to the Eternal Domicile-the echo of ‘Sharpers!’
Aye, Quick, aye. Come on, let’s go find ‘em!’
‘Wait-hold it, sapper-what are-’
‘It’s the Fourteenth, you thick-skulled halfwit!’
They began hurrying.
‘Next time I see Cotillion,’ Quick Ben hissed, ‘I’m going to strangle him with his own rope.’
Six leagues to the north, a bone-white dragon with eyes of lurid red sailed through the morning sky. Wings creaking, muscles bunching, the wind hissing against scales and along bared fangs that were the length of shorts words.
Returning, after all this time, to the city of Letheras.
Hannan Mosag had been warned. The Crippled God had been warned. And yet neither had heeded Silchas Ruin. No, instead, they had conspired with Sukul Ankhadu and Sheltatha Lore, and possibly with Menandore herself. To get in his way, to oppose him and what he had needed to do.
More than this, the Letherii Empire had been hunting them for an inordinate amount of time, and out of forbearance Silchas Ruin had ignored the affront. For the sake of the Acquitor and the others.
Now, he was no longer ignoring anything.
An empire, a city, a people, a Tiste Edur Ceda and a mad Emperor.
The brother of Anomander and Andarist, for ever deemed the coldest of the three, the cruellest, Silchas Ruin flew, a white leviathan with murder in its heart.
White as bone, with eyes red as death.
Rhulad Sengar stumbled away, dragging his sword. Sweat streamed from him, his hair hanging ragged and dripping. He had struck again and again, not once piercing the defensive net of his challenger’s stone sword. Six paces between them now, chewed-up sand soaked and clumped with nothing but spatters from the glistening oil that made the coins gleam.
Silent as all the other witnesses, Samar Dev watched on, wondering how all this would end, wondering how it could end. As long as Karsa refused to counter-attack…
And then the Toblakai raised his sword and walked forward.
Straight for the Emperor.
As easy as that, then.
Who rose with a sudden smile and lifted his weapon into a guard position.
The flint sword lashed out, an awkward cut, yet swung with such strength that Rhulad’s block with his own 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.