Reaper's Gale

Make someone a martyr and surrender all control, of what that someone was in life, of what that someone becomes in death. Do this, Karos Invictad, and you will have lost, even as you lick the man’s blood from your hands.



Yet, perhaps the Invigilator understood all of that. Enough to have already murdered Tehol Beddict, murdered him and dumped the body into the river, weighted down with stones. Unannounced, all in the darkness of night.



But no-the people wanted, needed, demanded that public, ritualized execution of Tehol Beddict.



And so she went round and round, in the swirling drain of her mind, the bottomless well that was her spirit’s defensive collapse sucking her down, ever down.



Away from the memories.



From Tanal Yathvanar.



And what he had done to her before.



And what he would do to her now.



* * *



The proud, boisterous warrior who had been Gadalanak returned to the compound barely recognizable as human. The kind of failure, Samar Dev was led to understand, that infuriated this terrible, terrifying Emperor. Accordingly, Gadalanak had been cut to pieces. Long after he was dead, Rhulad’s dread sword had swung down, chopping, slashing, stabbing and twisting. Most of the man’s blood had probably drained into the sand of the arena floor, since the corpse carried by the burial retinue of Indebted did not even drip.



Puddy and other warriors, still waiting their turn-the masked woman included-stood nearby, watching the bearers and their reed stretcher with its grisly heap of raw meat and jutting bone cross the compound on their way to what was known as the Urn Room, where Gadalanak’s remains would be interred. Another Indebted trailed the bearers, carrying the warrior’s weapon and shield, virtually clean of any blood, spattered or otherwise. Word had already come of the contest’s details. The Emperor had cut off Gadalanak’s weapon-arm with the first blow, midway between hand and elbow, sending the weapon flying off to one side. Shield-arm followed, severed at the shoulder. It was said the attending Tiste Edur-and the few Letherii dignitaries whose bloodlust overwhelmed panic at sudden financial straits-had then voiced an ecstatic roar, as if answering Gadalanak’s own screams.



Silent, sober of expression and pale as bleached sand, Puddy and the others watched this grim train, as did Samar 1)ev herself. Then she turned away. Into the side corridor, down its dusty, gloomy length.



Karsa Orlong was lying on the oversized cot that had been built for some previous champion-a full-blood Tarthenal, although still not as tall as the Teblor now sprawled down its length, bared feet jutting over the end with the toes pressed against the wall-a wall stamped with the grime of those toes and feet, since Karsa Orlong had taken to doing very little, ever since the announcement of the contests.



‘He’s dead,’ she said.



‘Who?’



‘Gadalanak. Within two or three heartbeats-I think it was a mistake, all of you deciding not to attend-you need to see the one you will fight. You need to know his style. There might be weaknesses-’



Karsa snorted. ‘Revealed in two heartbeats?’



‘The others, I suspect, will now change their minds. They will go, see for themselves-’



‘Fools.’



‘Because they won’t follow your lead in this?’



‘I wasn’t even aware they had, witch. What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?’



She stepped into the room. ‘Doing what?’



‘You are dragging your ghosts with you.’



‘More like they’re clinging to my heels, gibbering-something is building within you, Karsa Orlong-’



‘Climb onto me and we can relieve that, Samar Dev.’



‘Amazing,’ she breathed.



‘Yes.’



‘No, you idiot. I was just commenting on how you can still manage to shock me on occasion.’



‘You only pretend to innocence, woman. Take your clothes off.’



‘If I did, it would only be because you have worn me down. But I won’t, because I am tougher than you think. One look at the odious stains your feet have left on that wall is enough to quench any ardour I might-in sudden madness-experience.’



‘I did not ask you to make love to my feet.’



‘Shouldn’t you be exercising-no, not that kind. I mean, staying limber, stretching and the like.’



‘What do you want?’



‘Reassurance, I think.’



He turned to look at her, then slowly sat up, the cot groaning beneath him. ‘Samar Dev, what is it you fear the most?’



‘Well, you dying, I think. Infuriating as you are, you are a friend. To me, at least. That, and the fact that, uh, after you, they will call upon Icarium. As you can see, the two fears are closely bound together.’