‘It is the hunger, Trull. Please.’
After a moment, he pulled away, looked round until he saw a company of warriors grouped behind Theradas and Midik Buhn. Trull walked over to them.
Theradas scowled. ‘What do you want, Trull Sengar?’
‘The emperor’s mother has orders for you and your warriors, Theradas.’
His expression lost its ferocity, was replaced with uncertainty. ‘What are they?’
‘Mayen is lost, somewhere in the city. She must be found. As for Udinaas… if you see him…’
‘If we see him he will die terribly, Trull Sengar.’
He betrayed Rhulad. When I warned him … Trull glanced over at Rhulad. A return from this madness? Not likely. It was too late. ‘As you like, Theradas. Just find Mayen.’
He watched them head off, then turned and met Uruth’s eyes. She nodded.
The soldiers on the bridge knew what was coming. He saw them duck lower behind their shields. Pointless. Pathetic, yet there was courage here, among these Letherii. Udinaas, I did not… did not think you would -
A seething, spitting grey wave rose suddenly at the foot of the bridge, churning higher.
The shield wall flinched back, contracted.
The wave plunged forward.
From the banks of the canal to either side citizens shrieked and scattered-
– as the sorcery rushed over the bridge, striking the soldiers in a spray of blood and strips of flesh. A heartbeat, then past, spreading out to wash over the fleeing citizens. Devouring them in writhing hunger.
Trull saw it strike nearby buildings, smashing down doors and bursting through shuttered windows. Screams.
‘Enough!’ Rhulad roared, stepping towards Hannan Mosag, who lowered his arms, which looked twisted and gnarled.
The sorcery vanished, leaving only heaps of bones, polished shields and armour on the bridge. From the sundered buildings, silence. Hannan Mosag sagged, and Trull saw how misshapen he had become beneath his furs.
The emperor suddenly giggled. ‘So eager, Hannan Mosag! Your secret god is so eager !’
Secret god? Trull looked over at Fear, and found his brother staring back.
‘Brothers,’ the emperor cried, waving his sword, ‘we march to the Eternal Domicile! To the throne! None can deny us! And should they dare, their flesh shall be rendered from their bones! They will know pain. They will suffer! Brothers, this shall be a day of suffering’ – he seemed to find sweetness in tasting the word – ‘for all who would oppose us! Now, walk with your Sire!’
He is… transformed. Lost to us. And all for the treachery of a slave…
An overgrown yard, just visible through the old, battered stones of the gateway. From the skeletal, twisted branches of leaning trees, something like steam billowed upward. There was no-one about. Iron Bars slowed his steps and looked back up the street. That manservant had yet to appear from beyond the corner of the building he had jogged round moments earlier.
‘Fine, then,’ the Avowed muttered, drawing his sword, ‘we’ll just have to see for ourselves…’ He approached the gateway, strode onto the winding stone path. The squat, square tower was opposite, stained and leaning and dead. From his left, the sounds of stones grinding together, the snap of wood, and thumps that trembled the ground beneath his feet. Over there, then .
Iron Bars walked into the yard.
Round a mud-smeared barrow, over a fallen tree, to come to a halt ten paces from what had once been an extensive, elongated mound now torn apart and steaming, mud sliding down as five huge figures dragged themselves free. Flesh darkened by peat, skin mapped by the tracks of countless roots, dangling hair the colour of copper. Tugging weapons free – massive two-handed swords of black, polished wood.
The five were chanting.
Iron Bars grunted. ‘Tartheno Toblakai. Hood-damned Fenn. Well, this won’t be fun.’
One of the warriors heard him and fixed black, murky eyes on the Avowed. The chant ceased, and it spoke. ‘A child, my brothers.’
‘The one who spoke through the earth?’ another asked.
‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’
‘It would not help us, that child. We have promised a terrible death.’
‘Then let us-’
The Toblakai’s words were cut short as Iron Bars rushed forward.
A roar, a keening sweep of a wooden sword flung into the path of the Avowed’s own weapon, which slid under, point gliding back round and over the warrior’s enormous wrist, following in its swishing wake, to intercept the instinctive back-swing. Slashing through hard, thick skin, the edge scoring against muscle tough as wood.