Reaper's Gale

Errant take me-he’s had enough of running-the White Crow-



She saw a dozen Tiste Edur appear near the barracks. Heavy throwing spears darted across the compound, converging on the ghastly warrior.



He parried them all aside, one after the other, and with each clash of shaft against blade the swords sang, until it seemed a chorus of deathly voices filled the air.



Hayenar, seeing a score of her Letherii soldiers arrive, Itaggered towards them. ‘Withdraw!’ she shouted, waving like a madwoman. ‘Retreat, you damned fools!’



It seemed they had but awaited the command, as the unit broke into a rout, heading en masse for the down-trail gate.



One of the Tiste Edur closed on the Atri-Preda. ‘What are you doingV he demanded. ‘The K’risnan is coming-he’ll slap this gnat down-’



‘When he does,’ she snarled, pulling back, ‘we’ll be happy to regroup!’



The Edur unsheathed his cutlass. ‘Call them into battle, Atri-Preda-or I’ll cut you down right here!’



She hesitated.



To their right, the other Tiste Edur had rushed forward and now engaged the White Crow.



The swords howled, a sound so filled with glee that Hayenar’s blood turned to ice. She shook her head, watching, as did the warrior confronting her, as the White Crow curved his way through the Merude in a maelstrom of severed limbs, decapitations and disembowelling slashes that sent bodies reeling away.



‘-your Letherii! Charge him, damn you!’ She stared across at the Edur warrior. ‘Where’s your ‘ K’risnan?’ she demanded. ‘Where is he?’



Ventrala clawed his way into the corner of the room furthest from the conflagration outside. Endless, meaningless words were spilling from his drool-threaded mouth. His power had fled. Abandoning him here, in this cursed room. Not fair. He had done all that was asked of him. He had surrendered his flesh and blood, his heart and his very bones, all to Hannan Mosag.



There had been a promise, a promise of salvation, of vast rewards for his loyalty-once the hated youngest son of Tomad Sengar was torn down from the throne. They were to track Fear Sengar, the traitor, the betrayer, and when the net was finally closed around him it would not be Rhulad smiling in satisfaction. No, Rhulad, the fool, knew nothing about any of this. The gambit belonged to Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King, who had had his throne stolen from him. And it was Hannan who, with Fear Sengar in his hands- and the slave, Udinaas-would work out] his vengeance.



The Emperor needed to be stripped, every familiar face twisted into a mask of betrayal, stripped, yes, until he was completely alone. Isolated in his own madness.



Only then-



Ventrala froze, curled tight into a foetal ball, at soft laughter spilling towards him… from inside his room!



‘Poor K’risnan,’ it then murmured. ‘You had no idea this pale king of the orthen would turn on you, this strider of battlefields. His road is a river of blood, you pathetic fool, and… oh! look! his patience, his forbearance-it’s all gone!’



A wraith, here with him, whispering madness. ‘Begone,’ he hissed, ‘lest you share my fate! I did not summon you-’



‘No, you didn’t. My chains to the Tiste Edur have been severed. By the one out there. Yes, you see, I am his, not yours. The White Crow’s-hah, the Letherii surprised me there-but it was the mice, K’risnan… seems a lifetime ago now. In the forest north of Hannan Mosag’s village. And an apparition-alas, no-one understands, no-one takes note. But that is not my fault, is it?’



‘Go away-’



‘I cannot. Will not, rather. Can you hear? Outside? It’s all quiet now. Most of the Letherii got away, unfortunately. Tumbling like drunk goats down the stairs, with their captain among them-she was no fool. As for your Merude, well, they’re all dead. Now, listen! Boots in the hallway-he’s on his way!’



The terror drained away from Ventrala. There was no point, was there? At least, finally, he would be delivered from this racked, twisted cage of a body. As if recalling the dignity it had once possessed, that body now lurched into motion, lifting itself into a sitting position, back pushed into the corner-it seemed to have acquired its own will, disconnected from Ventrala, from the mind and spirit that held to that name, that pathetic identity. Hannan Mosag had once said that the power of the Fallen One fed on all that was flawed and imperfect in one’s soul, which in turn manifested in flesh and bone-what was then necessary was to teach oneself to exult in that power, even as it twisted and destroyed the soul’s vessel.



Ventrala, with the sudden clarity that came with approaching death, now realized that it was all a lie. Pain was not to be embraced. Chaos was anathema to a mortal body. It ruined the flesh because it did not belong there. There was no exaltation in self-destruction.