No doubt it was but a fraction, the dislodging so minor few would even register it, and no doubt her recovery was as instantaneous-but she was already reeling back to a savage blow with the flat of Karsa’s blade, both wrists broken by the impact.

Yet, as she toppled, she twisted, one foot lashing upward towards the Toblakai’s crotch.

He caught her kick with one hand, blocking the blow, then boldly lifted her into the air.

She swung the other foot.

And the Toblakai, laughing, released his sword and snagged that leg as well.

And held her there.

Dangling.

Behind Taralack Veed, there was a soft sigh, and the Gral, blinking, turned round.

Icarium smiled. Then said in a low voice, ‘We have met, I think. He and I. Perhaps long ago. A duel that was interrupted.’

By Mappo. Has to be. Mappo, who saw a storm coming between these two. Oh, Trell…

Taralack licked dry lips. ‘Would you resume that duel, Icarium?’

The Jhag’s brows lifted fractionally. Then he shook his head, leaving that as his answer. Thank the spirits.

From Preda Tomad Sengar, a grunt.

‘These games,’ Samar Dev ventured, drawing his attention, ‘they are intended to entertain, yes? Each contest more challenging than the last.’

The Tiste Edur eyed her, expressionless, then he said, ‘Among the audience, there are those who are entertained.’

‘Yes.’

After a moment, he added, ‘Yes, this Tarthenal will come last. The decision was unanimous among our observers.’ Then he shrugged and said, ‘I came to see for myself. Although my judgement has no relevance.’

‘That Seguleh was very good,’ Samar Dev said.

‘Perhaps. But she has sparred with no others.’

‘They hold her in great respect.’

‘Even now? When will he set her down?’

She shook her head.

Tomad Sengar turned away. ‘The Tarthenal is superb.’

‘And yet your son is better.’

This halted him once more and he stared back at her with narrowed eyes. ‘Your Tarthenal is superb,’ he repeated. ‘But he will die anyway.’

The Tiste Edur walked away.

Finally responding to shouts and entreaties from the onlookers, Karsa Orlong set the woman down onto the ground.

Three Letherii healers rushed in to tend to her.

Collecting his sword, Karsa straightened, then looked round.

Oh, thought Samar Dev, oh no.

But Icarium was gone. As was his Gral keeper.

The Toblakai walked towards her.

‘I didn’t need to know,’ she said.

‘No, you knew already.’

Oh, gods!

Then he drew closer and stared down at her. ‘The Jhag fled. The Trell who was with him is gone. Probably dead. Now there is a desert warrior I could break with one hand. There would have been none to stop us, this Icarium and me. He knew that. So he fled.’

‘You damned fool, Karsa. Icarium is not the kind of warrior who spars. Do you understand me?’

‘We would not have sparred, Samar Dev.’

‘So why spend yourself against him? Is it not these Edur and their Letherii slaves you seek vengeance against?’

‘When I am finished with their Emperor, I will seek out Icarium. We will finish what we began.’

‘Beware gathering the men before the battering ram, Karsa Orlong.’

‘A foolish saying,’ he pronounced after a moment.

‘Oh, and why is that?’

‘Among the Teblor, men are the battering ram. Look upon me, Samar Dev. I have fought and won. See the sweat on my muscles? Come lie with me.’

‘No, I feel sick.’

‘I will make you feel better. I will split you in two.’

‘That sounds fun. Go away.’

‘Must I hunt down another whore?’

‘They all run when they see you now, Karsa Orlong. In the opposite direction, I mean.’

He snorted, then looked round. ‘Perhaps the Seguleh.’

‘Oh, really! You just broke her arms!’

‘She won’t need them. Besides, the healers are mending her.’

‘Gods below, I’m leaving.’

As she strode away, she heard his rumbling laugh. Oh, I

know you make sport of me.l know and yet I fall into your traps every time. You are too clever, barbarian. Where is that thick’

skulled savage? The one to match your pose? * * *

Dragging mangled legs, every lurch stabbing pain along the length of his bent, twisted spine, Hannan Mosag squinted ahead, and could just make out the scree of river-polished stones rising like a road between the cliffs of the gorge. He did not know if what he was seeing was real.

Yet it felt right.

Like home.

Kurald Emurlahn, the Realm of Shadow. Not a fragment, not a torn smear riven through with impurities. Home, as it once was, before all the betrayals ripped it asunder. Paradise awaits us. In our minds. Ghost images, all perfection assembled by will and will alone. Believe what you see, Hannan Mosag. This is home.

And yet it resisted. Seeking to reject him, his broken body, his chaos-stained mind.

Mother Dark. Father Light. Look upon your crippled children. Upon me. Upon Emurlahn. Heal us. Do you not see the world fashioned in my mind? All as it once was. I hold still to this purity, to all that I sought to create in the mortal realm, among the tribes I brought to heel-the peace I demanded, and won.

None could have guessed my deepest desire. The Throne of Shadow-it was for me. And by my rule, Kurald Emurlahn would grow strong once again. Whole. Rightfully in its place.

Yes, there was chaos-the raw unbound power coursing like impassable rivers, isolating every island of Shadow. But 1 would have used that chaos-to heal.

Chains. Chains to draw the fragments together, to bind them together.

The Fallen God was a tool, nothing more.

But Rhulad Sengar had destroyed all that. In the reach of a child’s hand. And now, everything was dying. Poisoned. Crumbling into dissolution.

He reached the base of the scree, smooth round pebbles clacking beneath his clawed fingers. Coarse sand under his nails, wet, biting. My world.

Rain falling in wisps of mist, the pungent smell of moss and rotting wood. And on the wind… the sea.

Surmounting the steep slope of stones, the boles of Blackwood trees stood arrayed like sentinels.

There were no invasive demons here. This world was the world of the Tiste Edur.

The shadow of a gliding owl slipped over the glistening slide, crossing his intended path, and Hannan Mosag froze.

No. It cannot be. There is no-one alive to claim that title.

He is dead.

He was not even Tiste Edur!

And yet, who stood alone before Rhulad Sengar? Yes, she has his severed finger. The owl-most ancient of omens-the owl, to mark the coming of the one.

Yet anger surged within him.

It is for me to choose. Me! Mother Dark! Father Light! Guide me to the Throne of Shadow. Emurlahn reborn! It is this, I tell you both, this or the King in Chains, and behind him the Crippled God! Hear my offer!

‘Andii, Liosan, Edur, the Armies of the Tiste. No betrayal. The betrayals are done-bind us to our words as you have bound each other. Light, Dark and Shadow, the first elements of existence. Energy and void and the ceaseless motion of the ebb and flow between them. These three forces-the first, the greatest, the purest. Hear me. I would so pledge the Edur to this alliance! Send to me those who would speak for the Andii. The Liosan. Send them-bring your children together!

‘Mother Dark. Father Light. I await your word. I await…’

He could go no further.

Weeping, Hannan Mosag rested his head on the stones. As you say,’ he muttered. ‘I will not deny the omen. Very well, it is not for me to choose.

‘He shall be our Mortal Sword of Emurlahn-no, not the old title. The new one, to suit this age. Mortal Sword.’ Madness-why would he even agree? Letherii…

‘So be it.’

Dusk had arrived. Yet he felt a sliver of warmth against one cheek, and he lifted his head. The clouds had broken, there, to the east-a welling band of darkness.