Reaper's Gale

A chorus of voices filled his skull, growing ever louder. The swords…



There was a soft scuffing sound in the hallway beyond, then the door squealed open;



Orthen poured in, flowing like grey foam in the grainy darkness. A moment later, the White Crow stepped into view. The song of the two swords filled the chamber.



Red, lambent eyes fixed on Ventrala.



The Tiste Andii then sheathed his weapons, muting the keening music. ‘Tell me of this one who so presumes to offend me.’



Ventrala blinked, then shook his head. ‘You think the Crippled God is interested in challenging you, Silchas Ruin? No, this… offence… it is Hannan Mosag’s, and his alone. I understand that now, you see. It’s why my power is gone. Fled. The Crippled God is not ready for the likes of you.’



The white-skinned apparition was motionless, silent, for a time. Then he said, ‘If this Hannan Mosag knows my name, he knows too that I have reason to be affronted. By him. By all the Tiste Edur who have inherited the rewards of Scabandari’s betrayal. Yet he provokes me.’



‘Perhaps,’ Ventrala said, ‘Hannan Mosag presumed the Crippled God’s delight in discord was without restraint.’



Silchas Ruin cocked his head. ‘What is your name, K’risnan?’



Ventrala told him.



‘I will let you live,’ the Tiste Andii said, ‘so that you may deliver to Hannan Mosag my words. The Azath cursed me with visions, its own memories, and so I was witness to many events on this world and on others. Tell Hannan Mosag this: a god in pain is not the same as a god obsessed with evil. Your Warlock King’s obsessions are his own. It would seem, alas, that he is… confused. For that, I am merciful this night… and this night alone. Hereafter, should he resume his interference, he will know the extent of my displeasure.’



‘I shall convey your words with precision, Silchas Ruin.’



‘You should choose a better god to worship, Ventrala. Tortured spirits like company, even a god’s.’ He paused, then said, ‘Then again, perhaps it is the likes of you who have in turn shaped the Crippled God. Perhaps, without his broken, malformed worshippers, he would have healed long ago.’



Soft rasping laughter from the wraith.



Silchas Ruin walked back through the doorway. ‘I am conscripting some horses,’ he said without turning round.



Moments later, the wraith slithered after him.



The orthen, which had been clambering about in seemingly aimless motion, now began to withdraw from the chamber.



Ventrala was alone once more. To the stairs, find the Atri-Preda-an escort, for the journey back to Letheras. And I will speak to Hannan Mosag. And I will tell him about death in the pass. I will tell him of a Soletaken Tiste Andii with two knife wounds in his back, wounds that will not heal. Yet… he forbears.



Silchas Ruin knows more of the Crippled God than any of us, barring perhaps Rhulad. But he does not hate. No, he feels pity.



Pity, even for me.



Seren Pedac heard the horses first, hoofs thumping at the walk up the forested trail. The night sky above the fort was strangely black, opaque, as if from smoke-yet there was no glow from flames. They had heard the concussion, the destruction of at least one stone wall, and Kettle had yelped with laughter, a chilling, grotesque sound. Then, distant screams and, all too quickly thereafter, naught but silence.



Silchas Ruin appeared, leading a dozen mounts, accompanied by sullen moaning from the scabbarded swords.



‘And how many of my kin did you slay this time?’ Fear Sengar asked.



‘Only those foolish enough to oppose me. This pursuit,’ he said, ‘it does not belong to your brother. It is the Warlock King’s. I believe we cannot doubt that he seeks what we seek. And now, Fear Sengar, the time has come to set our knives on the ground, the two of us. Perhaps Hannan Mosag’s desires are a match to yours, but I assure you, such desires cannot be reconciled with mine.’



Seren Pedac felt a heaviness settle in the pit of her stomach. This had been a long time in coming, the one issue avoided-again and again, ever excused to the demands of simple expediency. Fear Sengar could not win this battle-they all knew it. Did he intend to stand in Silchas Ruin’s way? One more Tiste Edur to cut down? ‘There is no compelling reason to broach this subject right now,’ she said. ‘Let’s just get on these horses and ride.’



‘No,’ Fear Sengar said, eyes fixed on the Tiste Andii’s. ‘Let it be now. Silchas Ruin, in my heart I accept the truth of Scabandari’s betrayal. You trusted him, and you suffered unimaginably in consequence. Yet how can we make reparation? We are not Soletaken. We are not ascendants. We are simply Tiste Edur, and so we fall like saplings before you and your swords. Tell me, how do we ease your thirst for vengeance?’