Midnight Tides

He felt as if he was standing on pegs of ice, the jagged points driven up through his knees. He did not think he was able to walk. In fact, he was moments from falling over, down into the foaming water. So easy, pulled out by the undertow, the cold flooding his lungs, washing black through his mind. Until, in perfect accord with the acceptance of surrender, it was over.



Claws stabbed into his shoulders and lifted him thrashing from the waves. Talons punching through the rain cloak, biting into flesh. Too stunned to scream, he felt himself whipped through the air, legs scissoring in a spray of water.



Flung down onto a bed of wet stones fifteen paces up from the tideline.



Whatever had dragged him was gone, although fire burned in his chest and back where the talons had been. Floundering in a strange helplessness, Udinaas eventually pulled himself round so that he lay on his back, staring up at the colourless clouds, the rain on his face.



Locqui Wyval. Didn’t want me dead, I suppose.



He lifted an arm and felt the fabric of the rain cloak. No punctures. Good. He’d have trouble explaining had it been otherwise.



Feeling was returning to his lower legs. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees. Wet, shivering. There could be no answer for Rhulad, it was as simple as that. The Warlock King would have to kill him. Assuming that works .



Kill him, or surrender. And what could make Hannan Mosag surrender? To a barely blooded whelp? No, chop off his hands, sever his head and crush it flat. Burn the rest into dusty ashes. Destroy the monstrosity, for Rhulad Sengar was truly a monster.



Footsteps on the stones behind him. Udinaas sat back on his haunches, blinking rain from his eyes. He looked up as Hulad stepped into view.



‘Udinaas, what are you doing here?’



‘Did she cast the tiles, Hulad? Did she?’



‘She tried.’



‘Tried?’



‘It failed, Udinaas. The Holds were closed; she was blind to them. She was frightened. I’ve never seen her so frightened.’



‘What else has happened?’



‘I don’t know. The Edur are still in the citadel.’



‘They can’t all be there.’



‘No, only the nobility. The others are in their homes. They have banished their slaves for now. Most of them had nowhere to go. They’re just huddled in the forest. Soaked through. There seems no end in sight.’ He reached down and helped Udinaas to stand. ‘Let’s go to the longhouse. Get dry and warm.’



He let Hulad guide him back to the Sengar longhouse. ‘Did you see the ships, Hulad?’ he asked as they walked. ‘Did you see them?’



‘Yes. They’re lowering boats, but no welcome seems forthcoming.’



‘I wonder what they’ll think of that?’



Hulad did not reply.



They entered. Sudden warmth, the crackle of flames the only sound. Hulad helped him remove the rain cloak. As he did so, he gasped and pulled at Udinaas’s shirt.



‘Where did you get those?’



Udinaas frowned down at the almost-black bruises where the Wyval’s talons had been. ‘I don’t know.’



‘They remind me of Feather Witch’s wounds, from that demon. Just the same. Udinaas, what is happening to you?’



‘Nothing. I’m going to sleep.’



Hulad said nothing more as Udinaas walked down the length of the main chamber towards his sleeping pallet.



Fighting the outflow, the three scows edged closer to the bank on the south side of the river. Each craft held about a dozen Letherii, most of them bodyguards in full armour, the visors closed on their helms.



Four steps behind Buruk the Pale, Seren followed the merchant down to the strand. It seemed they would be the sole welcoming committee, at least to begin with. ‘What do you intend to tell them?’ she asked.



Buruk glanced back at her, rain dripping from the rim of his hood. ‘I was hoping you would say something.’



She did not believe him, but appreciated the effort. ‘I’m not even certain of the protocol. Nifadas is leading the delegation, but the prince is here as well. Who do I acknowledge first?’



Buruk shrugged. ‘The one most likely to be offended if you bow to other one first.’



‘Assuming,’ she replied, ‘I do not intend a calculated insult.’



‘Well, there is that. Mind you, Acquitor, you are supposed to be neutral.’



‘Perhaps I should direct my bow to a space directly between them.’



‘Whereupon they will both conclude that you have lost your mind.’



‘Which is at least even-handed.’



‘Ah, humour. That is much better, Acquitor. Despair gives way to anticipation.’