Midnight Tides

‘We must… stop. There is nothing…’



‘No stopping now, Hull. Onward, to Letheras, like a rushing river. There will be rearguards to cut down. Gates to shatter. Streets and buildings to fight over. And then, the palace. And the king. His guard – they’ll not lay down their weapons. Even if the king commands it. They serve the kingdom, after all, not Ezgara Diskanar. Letheras, Hull Beddict, will be ugly. Not ugly the way of today, here, but in some ways worse, I would-’



‘Stop, slave. Stop talking, else I kill you.’



‘That threat does not bother me much, Hull Beddict.’



They reached the rise. Feather Witch and a half-dozen other slaves were among the Edur women, now. Uruth was lying prone, suffering convulsions of some sort. A third woman had died.



‘What’s wrong, Hull Beddict?’ Udinaas asked, releasing the man’s arm. ‘No chance to lead a charge against your foes? Those press-ganged Indebteds and the desperate fools who’d found dignity in a uniform. The hated enemy.’



Hull Beddict turned away. ‘I must find the emperor. I must explain…’



Udinaas let the man go. The rain of bones had ceased, finally, and now only dust commanded the sky. The ruined keep was burning, heaving black smoke that would be visible from the walls of Letheras.



The slave strode over to Feather Witch. ‘Will Uruth live?’



She looked up, her eyes strangely flat. ‘I think so.’



‘That was Kurald Emurlahn, wasn’t it?’



‘Yes.’



Udinaas turned away. He studied the basin, the masses of Edur wandering here and there among the burnt bodies of their kin, amongst the bright white bones and shining iron. A bloodless battlefield. Soletaken Jheck ranged the distant hillsides, hunting stragglers, but those who had not already fled were corpses or mere remnants of corpses. A few score wraiths drifted here and there.



He saw Rhulad, surrounded by warriors, marching back across the field. Towards Hannan Mosag’s position. The slave set off to intercept the emperor. Words were about to be exchanged, and Udinaas wanted to hear them.



Trull and his company stood at the edge of the dry river gully. The bodies of soldiers littered the other side all the way to the ridge of hills paralleling the course. Fifteen hundred paces to their left, the lead elements of Tomad and Binadas Sengar’s army were approaching. There were signs that they had seen battle. In the traditional manner, sword against sword.



‘They have captured the Artisan Battalion’s standard,’ Ahlrada Ahn said, pointing.



Trull looked back to the field east of the gully. ‘Who was here, then?’



‘Whitefinder and Riven, I think. They broke when they witnessed the fate of Merchants’ and the King’s, and the pillars began moving towards them.’



Feeling sick, Trull looked away – but there was no direction available to ease him. On all sides, the slowly settling ashes of madness.



‘The Tiste Edur,’ said Ahlrada Ahn, ‘have won themselves an empire.’



His words were heard by Sergeant Canarth, who strode up to them. ‘You deny half your blood, Ahlrada? Do you find this victory bitter? I see now why you stand at Trull Sengar’s side. I see now – we all see’ – he added with a gesture encompassing the warriors behind him – ‘why you so defend Trull, why you refuse to side with us.’ Canarth’s hard eyes fixed on Trull. ‘Oh yes, Trull Sengar, your friend here possesses the blood of the Betrayers. No doubt that is why the two of you are such close friends.’



Trull unslung the spear at his back. ‘I am tired of you, Canarth. Ready your weapon.’



The warrior’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned, reaching for his own spear. ‘I have seen you fight, Trull. I know your weaknesses.’



‘Clear a space,’ Trull said, and the others moved back, forming a ring.



Ahlrada Ahn hesitated. ‘Do not do this. Trull – Canarth, retract your accusations. They are unfounded. It is forbidden to provoke your commander-’



‘Enough,’ Canarth snapped. ‘I will kill you next, Betrayer.’



Trull assumed a standard stance, then settled his weight and waited.



Canarth shifted his grip back a hand’s width, then probed out, the iron tip at throat-level.



Ignoring it for the moment, Trull slid his hands further apart along the shaft of his spear. Then he made contact, wood against wood, and held it as he stepped in. Canarth disengaged by bringing the iron point down and under, perfectly executed, but Trull was already inside, forcing Canarth to pull his weapon back, even as the sergeant swung the butt-end upward to block an expected up-sweep – which did not come. Instead, Trull lifted his spear high and horizontal, and drove it forward to crack against Canarth’s forehead.