It was clear, a moment later, that the Warlock King had not detected the manipulation, as the magic was surrendered, the poisoning conduit from the Crippled God closed once more. Hannan Mosag’s flesh would not suffer much more of that, fortunately.
Not that it would matter.
He watched as a score of Tiste Edur set off into the city, seeking, no doubt, the fleeing woman from their tribe. But nothing good would come of it, the Errant knew. Indeed, a most egregious error was in the offing, and he grieved for that.
Reaching with his senses, he gained a vision of an overgrown, broken-up yard surrounding a squat tower, and watched in wonder and awe as a lone figure wove a deadly dance in the midst of five enraged Toblakai gods. Extraordinary – a scene the Errant would never forget. But it could not last much longer, he knew.
Nothing good ever did, alas.
Blinking, he saw that the Tiste Edur emperor was now leading his kin across the bridge. On their way to the Eternal Domicile.
Turudal Brizad pushed himself into motion once more.
The Eternal Domicile, a conjoining of destinations, for yet another sequence of tragic events to come. Today, the empire is reborn. In violence and blood, as with all births. And what, when this day is done, shall we find lying in our lap? Eyes opening onto this world ?
The Errant began walking, staying ahead of the Tiste Edur, and feeling, deep within him, the lurching, stumbling measure of time, the countless heartbeats, merging one and all – no need, finally, for a nudge, a push or a pull. No need, it seemed, for anything. He would but witness, now. He hoped.
Seated cross-legged in the street, the lone High Mage of the Crimson Guard present in this fell city, Corlo Orothos, once of Unta in the days before the empire, cocked his head at the heavy, thumping feet of someone approaching from behind. He risked opening his eyes, then raised a hand in time to halt the newcomer.
‘Hello, half-blood,’ he said. ‘Have you come to worship your gods?’
The giant figure looked down at Corlo. ‘Is it too late?’ he asked.
‘No, they’re still alive. Only one man opposes them, and not for much longer. I’m doing all I can, but it’s no easy thing to confuse gods.’
The Tarthenal half-blood frowned. ‘Do you know why we pray to the Seregahl?’
An odd question. ‘To gain their favour?’
‘No,’ Ublala replied, ‘we pray for them to stay away. And now,’ he added, ‘they’re here. That’s bad.’
‘Well, what do you intend to do about it?’
Ublala squinted down at Corlo, said nothing.
After a moment, the High Mage nodded. ‘Go on, then.’
He watched the huge man lumber towards the gateway. Just inside, he paused beside a tree, reached up and broke free a branch as thick as one of Corlo’s thighs. Hefting it in both hands, the half-blood jogged into the yard.
It was tearing him apart, striving to burst free of his skeletal cage, the minuscule, now terribly abused muscles. In their journey across Letheras, they’d left thirty or more dead Soletaken in their wake. And six Tiste Edur who’d come up from the docks eager for a fight.
They’d taken wounds – no , the remnant that was Udinaas corrected, I’ve taken wounds. I should be dead. I’m cut to pieces. Bitten, torn, gouged. But that damned Wyval won’t surrender. It needs me still… for a few moments longer .
Through a red haze, the old Azath tower and its yard came into view, and a surge of eagerness from the Wyval flooded him.
The Master needed help. All was not yet lost.
In a blur of motion, Udinaas was past the strange man sitting cross-legged on the street – he caught the sudden jerk of surprise from the man as they swept by. A moment later, plunging through the gateway.
Into the yard.
In time to see a mortal Tarthenal half-blood rushing to close on a fight where a lone swordsman was surrounded by the Toblakai gods, moments from buckling under a hail of blows.
Then, past them all.
To the barrow of the Master. The churned, steaming earth. Diving forward with a piercing, reptilian scream – and into the hot darkness, down, clawing, scraping – tearing clear from the mortal’s flesh, the body the Wyval had used for so long, the body it had hidden within – clambering free at last, massive, scaled and sleek-hided, talons plunging into the soil-
The child Kettle squealed as the creature, winged and as big as an ox, rushed past her on all fours. A thumping splash, water spraying in a broad fan that rose, and rose, then slapped down on the now churning pool. Foam, a snaking red-purple tail slithering down then vanishing in the swirling maelstrom.
