As the world began its gory end. An emperor, a palace, a city, the heart of an empire.
But this Rhulad would not die. Not with finality. No, each time he would rise again, and two forces would lock together in battle that might never end. Unless… could Icarium be killed? Could he die? He was not immortal, after all-although it could be argued that his rage was, the rage of the victim, generation after generation, a rage against injustice and inequity, and such a thing was without end.
No, if Taralack Veed pushed his thoughts far enough, he ever came to the same place. Rhulad would kill Icarium. A hundred clashes, a thousand-at some point, on a continent of ashes, the burgeoning chaos would strike through, into the heart of Icarium’s rage. And Lifestealer would fall.
There was logic to this. The victim might awaken to fury, but the victim was doomed to be just that: a victim. This was the true cycle, the one to which every culture, every civilization, was witness, century upon century. A natural force, the core of the struggle to exist is the desire to not just survive, but thrive. And to thrive is to feed on victims, ever more victims.
‘It is the language itself,’ Senior Assessor said, kneeling over a basin of still water to study his reflection as he applied gaudy paint. ‘Life pushes forward, when it succeeds. Life halts or falls to the wayside, when it fails. Progression, Taralack Veed, implies a journey, but not necessarily one through a fixed interval of time. That is, the growth and ageing of an individual person, although that too is quickly sewn into the cloth. No, the true journey is one of procreation, one’s seed moving from host to host in a succession of generations, each of which must be successful to some degree, lest the seed… halt, fall to the wayside. Of course, it is not in a single man’s mind to think in terms of generation upon generation, although the need to sow his seed is ever paramount. Other concerns, all of which support that which is paramount, generally occupy the mind on a moment to moment basis. The acquisition of food, the security of one’s shelter, the support of one’s family, relatives and allies, the striving to fashion a predictable world, peopled with predictable people-the quest, if you will, for comfort.’
Taralack Veed looked away, back to the window, where stood Finadd Varat Taun, watching something in the compound below. ‘Monk,’ Taralack said in a growl, ‘among my tribe, each of the things you describe was but part of a war, 11 feud that could never end. Each was desperate and vicious. No love, no loyalty could be wholly trusted, because the ground churned beneath our feet. Nothing is certain. Nothing.’
‘One thing is,’ Varat Taun said, facing them. ‘The warrior named Gadalanak is dead. And now so too is the one named Puddy, the quick one who loved to boast.’
Taralack Veed nodded. ‘You come to believe as I now do, Finadd. Yes, you and I, we have seen Icarium in his anger. But this Emperor, this Rhulad…’
The monk made a strange grunting noise, then pivoted on the stool-away from them both-and hugged himself.
Varat Taun frowned and took a step forward. ‘Senior Assessor? Priest? Is something wrong?’
A vigorous shake of the head, then: ‘No, please. Let us change the subject. Blessed God, I almost failed-the mirth, you see, it very nearly burst from me. Ah, it is all I cun do to restrain myself.’
Your faith in your god is unshaken.’
Yes, Taralack Veed. Oh yes. Is it not said Rhulad is mad? Driven insane by countless deaths and rebirths? Well, my friends, I tell you, Lifestealer, my most beloved god-the one god-well, he too is mad. And remember this, please, it is Icarium who has come here. Not Rhulad-my god has made this journey. To delight in his own madness.’
‘Rhulad is-’
‘No, Varat Taun, Rhulad is not. A god. The god. He is a cursed creature, as mortal as you or me. The power lies in the sword he wields. The distinction, my friends, is essential. Now, enough, lest my vow is sundered. You are both too grave, too poisoned by fear and dread. My heart is near to bursting.’
Taralack Veed stared at the monk’s back, saw the trembling that would not still. No, Senior Assessor, it is you who is mad. To worship Icarium? Does a Gral worship the viper? The scorpion?
Spirits of the rock and sand, I cannot wait much longer. Let us be done with this.
‘The end,’ Senior Assessor said, ‘is never what you imagine. Be comforted by that, my friends.’
Varat Taun asked the monk, ‘When do you intend to witness your first contest?’
‘If any-and I am not yet decided-if any, then the Toblakai, of course,’ Senior Assessor murmured, finally in control of his amusement-so much so that he twisted round to look up at the Finadd with calm, knowing eyes. ‘The Toblakai.’
Rhulad Sengar, Emperor of a Thousand Deaths, stood above the corpse of his third victim. Splashed in blood not his own, sword trembling in his hand, he stared down at the still face with its lifeless eyes as the crowd dutifully roared its pleasure, gave voice to his bitter triumph.
That onrushing wall of noise parted around him, left him untouched. It was, he well knew, a lie. Everything was a lie. The challenge, which had proved anything but. The triumph, which was in truth a failure. The words uttered by his Chancellor, by his bent and twisted Ceda-and every face turned his way was as this one below. A mask, a thing of death, an expression of hidden laughter, hidden mockery. For if it was not death that mocked him, then what?
When last did he see something genuine in a subject’s face? When you did not think of them as subjects. When they were not. When they were friends, brothers, fathers and mothers. I have my throne, 1 have my sword, I have an empire. But I have… no’one.
He so wanted to die. A true death. To fall and not find his spirit flesh cast up on the strand of that dread god’s island.
But it will be different this time. I can feel it. Something… will be different.
Ignoring the crowd and its roar now creeping towards hysteria, Rhulad walked from the arena, through the shimmering ripples rising from the sun-baked sand. His own sweat had thinned the blood splashed upon him, sweat seeping out from between tarnished coins, glistening from the ringed ridges of pocked scars. Sweat and blood merged into these streams of sour victory that could but temporarily stain the surfaces of the coins.
Chancellor Triban Gnol could not understand that, Rhulad knew. How gold and silver outlived the conceits of mortal lives. Nor could Invigilator Karos Invictad.
In many ways Rhulad found himself admiring this Great Traitor, Tehol Beddict. Beddict, yes, the brother of the one honourable Letherii warrior 1 was privileged to meet. One, only one. Brys Beddict, who defeated me truly-and in that too he was like no other. Karos Invictad had wanted to drag Tehol Beddict out here into the arena, to stand before the Emperor, to be shamed and made to hear the frenzied hunger of the crowd. Karos Invictad had thought that such a thing would humiliate Tehol Beddict. But if Tehol is like Brys, he would but stand, he’would but smile, and that smile would be his challenge. To me. His invitation to execute him, cut him down as I never did to Brys. And yes, I would see that knowing, there in his eyes. Rhulad had forbidden that. Leave Tehol to the Drownings. To that circus of savagery transformed into a game of wagers.
In the meantime, the empire’s foundations wobbled, spat dust in grinding protest; the once-firm cornerstones shook as if revealed to be nothing more than clay, still wet from the river. Men who had been wealthy had taken their own lives. Warehouses had been besieged by an ever-growing mob-this thousand-headed beast of need rising in every city and town of the empire. Blood had spilled over a handful of docks, a crust of stale bread, and in the poorest slums mothers smothered their babies rather than see them bloat then wither with starvation.