A moment later the other one cried out and stepped back.
‘Show them!’ screamed the Warlock King.
At that, even the emperor turned, startled.
The warrior on the left drew a deep, ragged breath, then stepped forward until he could grip the edges of the sack. With strangely gentle motions, he tugged the leather down.
A Letherii, bound tight. Blistered, suppurating skin, fingers worn to stubs, lumps and growths everywhere on his naked body. He had lost most of his hair, although some long strands remained. Blinking in the light, he tried lifting his head, but the malformed tendons and ligaments in his neck forced the motion to one side. The lower jaw settled and a thread of drool slipped down from the gaping mouth.
Then Brys recognized him.
Prince Quillas-
A cry from the king, a terrible, animal wail.
The other sack was pulled down. The queen, her flesh as ruined as that of her son. From her, however, came a wet cackle as if to answer her husband’s cry, then a tumbling of nonsensical words, a rush of madness grating out past her swollen, broken lips. Yet, in her eyes, fierce awareness.
Hannan Mosag laughed. ‘I used them. Against the Ceda. I used them . Letherii blood, Letherii flesh. Look upon the three of us. See, dear king, see the glory of what is to come.’
The emperor shrieked, ‘Take them away! Fear! Trull! Take them away !’
The two warriors closed on the huddled figures, drawing the sacks up to what passed for shoulders, then dragging the queen and her son back towards the corridor.
Trembling, the emperor faced the king once more. He opened his mouth to say something, winced, then shut it again. Then he slowly straightened, and spoke in a rasping voice. ‘We are Rhulad Sengar, emperor of the Tiste Edur. And now, of Lether. Yield the throne, Diskanar. Yield… to us.’
From Brys’s left the First Eunuch strode forward, a wine jug and two goblets in his hands. He ascended the dais, offered Ezgara one of the goblets. Then he poured out the wine.
Bemused, the Champion took a step to his right and half turned to regard his king.
Who calmly drank down the wine in three quick swallows. At some time earlier the crown had been placed on his brow once again. Nisall was standing just behind the throne, her eyes narrowed on the First Eunuch, who had finished his own wine and was stepping back down from the dais, making his way to stand near the Chancellor at the far wall.
Ezgara Diskanar fixed dull eyes on Brys. ‘Stand aside, Champion. Do not die this day.’
‘I cannot do as you ask, my king,’ Brys said. ‘As you well know.’
A weary nod, then Ezgara looked away. ‘Very well.’
Nifadas spoke. ‘Champion. Show these savages the measure of a Letherii swordsman. The final act of our kingdom on this dark day.’
Brys frowned, then faced Rhulad Sengar. ‘You must fight me, Emperor. Or call upon more of your warriors to cut us down.’ A glance at the kneeling Hannan Mosag. ‘I believe your sorcery is done for now.’
Rhulad sneered. ‘Sorcery? We would not so discard this opportunity, Champion. No, we will fight, the two of us.’ He stepped back and raised the mottled sword. ‘Come. We have lessons for one another.’
Brys did not reply. He waited.
The emperor attacked. Surprisingly fast, a half-whirl of the blade high, then a broken-timed diagonal downward slash intended to meet the Champion’s sword and drive it down to the tiles.
Brys matched the momentary hesitation and leaned back, drawing his sword round as he side-stepped to his right. Blade now resting on the top of Rhulad’s own as it flashed downward, the Champion darted the tip up to the emperor’s left forearm and sliced through a tendon near the elbow.
He leapt back, thrusting low as he was pulling away, to push the tip of his sword between the tendon and kneecap of Rhulad’s left leg.
Snip.
The emperor stumbled forward, almost to the edge of the dais, then, astonishingly, righted himself to lunge in a two-handed thrust.
The mottled blade seemed to dance of its own accord, evading two distinct parries from Brys, and the Champion only managed to avoid the thrust by pushing the heavy blade aside with his left hand.
The two lower fingers spun away from that hand, even as Brys backpedalled until he was in the centre of the space once more, this time with Rhulad between himself and the king on his throne.
Ezgara was smiling.
As Rhulad wheeled to face him once more, his weapon dipping low, Brys attacked.
Leading foot lifting high, stamping down on the emperor’s wavering sword-blade – not a perfect contact, but sufficient to bat it momentarily away – as he drove his point into Rhulad’s right kneecap. Slicing downward from the upper edge. Biting deep into the bone near the bottom edge. Twisting withdrawal, pulling the patella out through the cut A shriek, as Rhulad’s leg shot out to the side.