Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,228

'Emperor, Trate is yours.'

A sudden spasm, then Rhulad seemed to see the others for the first time. 'Hannan Mosag, settle the garrison. The rest of the army shall camp outside the city. Send word to your K'risnan with the fleet: they are to make for Old Katter.'

The Warlock King stepped close and said in a low voice, 'It is true, then. You cannot die.'

Rhulad flinched. 'I die, Hannan Mosag. It is all I know, dying. Leave me now. Udinaas.'

'Emperor.'

'I need – find – I am ...'

'Your tent awaits you and Mayen,' the slave said.

'Yes.'

Midik Buhn spoke, 'Emperor, I shall lead your escort.'

His expression confused, Rhulad looked down at his body, the smeared, crusted coins, the spattered furs. 'Yes, brother Midik. An escort.'

'And we shall find the one who ... did this, sire ... to you.'

Rhulad's eyes flashed. 'He cannot be defeated. We are helpless before him. He lies...'

Midik was frowning. He glanced at Udinaas.

'Emperor,' the slave said, 'he meant the one who killed you and your kin. Here in this street.'

Clawing at his face, Rhulad turned away. 'Of course. He wore ... crimson.'

Udinaas said to Midik, 'I will give you a detailed description.'

A sharp nod. 'Yes. The city will be searched.'

But he's gone, you fool. No, I don't know how I know. Still, the man's gone. With Seren Pedac. 'Of course.'

'Udinaas!' A desperate gasp.

'I am here, Emperor.'

'Take me out of this place!'

It was known, now, and soon the Ceda would learn of it. But would he understand? How could he? It was impossible, insane.

He can do nothing. Will he realize this?

The warrior in gold trailed the slave, step by step, through the fallen city, Mayen and Feather Witch in their wake. Midik Buhn and a dozen warriors flanked them all, weapons at the ready. The passage was uncontested.

Withal sat on a bench in his smithy. Plain walls, stone and plaster, the forge cold and filled with ash. Paved floor, the small workshop three-walled, the open side facing onto a fenced compound where stood a cut-stone-rimmed well, a quenching trough, firewood and a heap of tailings and slag. A hut on the opposite side housed his cot and nothing else.

The extent of his world. Mocking reminder of his profession, the purpose behind living.

The Crippled God's voice whispered in his mind, Withal. My gift. I am not without sympathy, no matter what you might think. I understood. Nachts are poor company for a man. Go, Withal, down to the beach. Take possession of my gift.

He slowly rose, bemused. A boat? A raft? A damned log I could ride out with the tide? He made his way outside.

And heard the Nachts, chattering excitedly down on the strand.

Withal walked to the verge, and stood, looking down.

A woman was staggering from the water. Tall, black-skinned, naked, long red hair.

And the Meckros turned round, strode away.

'You bastard—'

The Crippled God replied in mock consternation, Is this not what you want? Is she too tall for you? Her eyes too strange? Withal, I do not understand...

'How could you have done this? Take possession, you said. It's all you know, isn't it? Possession. Things to be used. People. Lives.'

She needs your help, Withal. She is lost, alarmed, by the Nachts. Slow to recall her flesh.

'Later. Leave me alone, now. Leave us both alone.'

A soft laugh, then a cough. As you wish. Disappointing, this lack of gratitude.

'Go to the Abyss.'

No reply.

Withal entered the hut, stood facing the cot for a time, until he was certain that the Crippled God was not lurking somewhere in his skull. Then he lowered himself to his knees and bowed his head.

He hated religion. Detested gods. But the nest was empty. The nest needed tearing apart. Rebuilding.

The Meckros had a host of gods for the choosing. But one was older than all the others, and that one belonged to the sea.

Withal began to pray.

In Mael's name.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

None had seen the like. Chorum's Mill was a Marvel of invention. Wheels upon wheels, Granite and interlocking gears, axles and Spokes and rims of iron, a machine that climbed From that fast river three full levels and ground The finest flour Lether had ever seen – Some say it was the rain, the deluge that filled The water's course through the mill's stony toes. Some say it was the sheer complexity that was The cause of it all, the conceit of a mortal man's Vision. Some say it was the Errant's nudge, fickle And wayward that voiced the sudden roar that dawn, The explosions of stone and the