Midnight Tides

The sorceries roared to life once again, and Brys saw the Warlock King stagger.



The Ceda, Kuru Qan, the small, ancient man, stood unscathed, and the magic raging from him in wave after wave seemed to Brys to be that of a god.



The Warlock King would not survive this. And, once he fell, this ancient, primal sorcery would sweep out, taking the emperor and his kin, devouring them one and all. Outward, into the city. An entire people, the Tiste Edur, 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 – all of us …



‘Trull!’ Fear shook him. ‘Along the wall.’ He pointed. ‘There, edge forward. For a throw-’



A throw ? He stared at the spear in his hands, the Blackwood glistening with beads of red sweat.



‘From the shadows, Trull, behind that pillar! From the shadows , Trull!’



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. But they will kill us all. Every one of us, leaving not a single Tiste Edur alive. I know this. In my heart I know this. They will take our lands, our riches. They will sow salt on our burial grounds. They will sweep us into history’s forgotten worlds. I… I know 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.’



The Ceda. Kuru Qan. My friend…



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.