Fall of Light (125 page)

‘I see no likelihood of forgetting,’ Haut interrupted.

Gathras cast a cool look upon him and then nodded. ‘As you say, captain. What does it mean, however, that you hold rank in an army that never was?’

‘Potential is to be valued in all things,’ Burrugast pointed out.

‘To my sorrow,’ added Senad. ‘Of lovers I have had plenty. ’Twas Haut’s domination of all suitors that earned him his rank. For behold, the army was mine, and while all were fine troopers, only the captain was – and remains – the captain.’

Grunting sourly, Gathras said, ‘I’d wondered and now you give answer. The wonder drains away like piss on a pile of stones and yet one more bright colour fades with the knowing. Someone point the way into oblivion. I lean upon the threshold, as eager as any despairing woman or man.’

‘Despairing of eagerness in anything,’ said Burrugast, ‘I will follow, with dragging steps.’

Haut glanced over a shoulder. ‘Let death earn the dragged steps, Burrugast. Look, a last tangle of despondent travellers. Toblakai, Thel Akai, Thelomen? They all look the same to me, to be honest.’

‘Subtle observation was ever your failing, Haut,’ said Senad. ‘Were it otherwise, you would have achieved much higher rank.’

‘Would that be warlord, Senad, or lovelord?’

‘Varandas, flailing you began this conversation and flailing you end it.’

Hood rose in time to greet Gethol, who now pushed into view between Senad and Burrugast.

‘I have come to say goodbye, Hood,’ Gethol announced. He paused, and then said, ‘An army such as this I have never seen, and hope never to again. Why would you imagine that these “soldiers” would fight against what they all seek in the first place? Death will impose peace and embrace all who come into its arms.’

‘Perhaps Gethol has something there,’ Gathras observed. ‘After all, five centuries staring into death’s leering face might well have earned an inkling or two.’

‘Denied all else, inklings were his only sustenance,’ Haut pointed out, frowning at Gethol who still stood facing Hood. ‘Dare I say it under the circumstances, but time is wasting.’

Varandas was the first to laugh. In moments the others followed. Alas, only the Jaghut found their humour alive and well. Above it all, Burrugast raised his voice. ‘Remember your promise, Hood! You will lead us to the very face of the hoary spectre, the Lord of Rock-Piles, the Red Shroud, Gatherer of Skulls, and whatever other absurd title we devise!’ He raised his arms, spread them wide. ‘And we shall demand then … an answer!’

A Thel Akai woman, blonde-haired, who had been among the last of the stragglers, now shouted, ‘An answer to what, you tusked oaf?’

Arms still raised, Burrugast spun round to face her. ‘Oh, that,’ he said. ‘Well, we have plenty of time to come up with one or two questions, don’t we?’

The Thel Akai woman now turned on the rest of her party. ‘Do you hear this? Not for Lasa Rook a host of pathetic entreaties! Now, dear husbands, can we finally go home?’

As if in reply, the youngest of the Thel Akai warriors stepped away from his fellows. ‘Heed your wife,’ he said to the others.

One of the husbands snarled. ‘We’ve been heeding her all the way here, Hanako Cuckolder! Now it is up to her to follow us or not! Into death’s realm I say! Husbands, are you with me?’

The other two Thel Akai both nodded, though fear was writ plain on their faces.

‘Tathenal, are you mad?’ Lasa Rook was near tears, her face reddening. ‘It was just a game!’

‘But this isn’t!’ Tathenal retorted.

Haut saw Hood say something to Gethol, who nodded and walked away, out from the press surrounding Hood and his frozen fire.

And in that moment, he knew the time had indeed arrived. Eyes filling with tears, he looked to Hood.
Goodbye, Korya Delathe. Until we meet again, as indeed we shall. Let this moment end. But no ending will find—

  *   *   *

‘Arathan!’

Drawing his cloak tighter against the chill outside Gothos’s tower, he turned to see Korya approaching with a Dog-Runner youth half a step behind her.

The night seemed impossibly dark, but a wind had risen, sweeping in from the sea to the west. The acrid bite of salt flats rode each gust. ‘Ah,’ said Arathan, ‘this must be the one with the blue eyes and freckles on his arms.’

Scowling, Korya said, ‘He is named Ifayle.’

The Dog-Runner bowed, and then smiled. ‘Arathan, son of Draconus, I have heard much of you.’

‘He’s coming with us,’ Korya pronounced.

‘Yet another protector,’ Arathan replied, ‘making my presence even more irrelevant.’ He turned from them both. ‘I am going with Hood. Not even Gothos can stop me.’

‘Arathan—’

Waving dismissively behind him, he set out for the camp, the wind slapping at his back, and now he tasted salty rain on its swirling breath. Looking for the moon, he found it gone from the sky, and only a thin swath of stars was visible, above the east horizon, as clouds massed above him.

A miserable dawn was in the offing, though the paling of the east was still a bell or so away.

Emerging from the ragged edge of the abandoned city, he looked out upon the vast camp, its huddled hide tents and makeshift shelters, its scattering of cookfires dying now in the depths of the night. For once, it seemed the turning weather had driven everyone into their hovels, for he saw no one.

He continued on, seeking the singular, isolated pale star that was Hood’s strange fire. There would be Jaghut gathered round that, no matter how foul the weather. And yet, as he drew nearer, he saw no one but a lone standing figure, his back to Arathan.

Hood?

Hearing his approach, the figure turned.

There were streaks upon Gethol’s seamed, hollowed cheeks. Seeing Arathan, he said, ‘They are gone.’

What?
‘No, they can’t be!’

‘You were never meant for this, Arathan. Gothos has relinquished you to my care. I will guard you home,’ he said, and then with a nod behind Arathan, ‘and these two, as well.’

Turning, Arathan saw that Korya and Ifayle had followed. He advanced on her. ‘You knew!’

‘I felt them leave, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Leave? Leave where? They left … everything!’

She shrugged. ‘No point taking it with them, I suppose.’

Now Ifayle was weeping as well, but this did nothing to soften Arathan’s hard anger, his sense of betrayal.

‘They stepped outside time, Arathan,’ said Korya. ‘Omtose Phellack always favoured …’ She paused, searching for the right words.

Clearing his throat, Gethol said, ‘The lure of stasis, Korya Delath. Very perceptive of you. One day, perhaps, you will see what Jaghut can do with ice.’

Helpless, Arathan looked around, and then raised his hands. ‘So that’s it? Abandoned again? What of my own desires? Oh, never mind those, Arathan! Just go where you’re told!’

‘The path you take in Kurald Galain,’ said Gethol, ‘belongs entirely to you. But let me make this plain enough. Gothos is done with you. He returns his gift.’

‘But Father won’t be there, will he?’

‘You wish to find him?’

Arathan hesitated and then scowled. ‘Not particularly.’

‘It is near dawn,’ resumed Gethol. ‘I will gather provisions. It is my thought that we depart this day.’

‘I can’t even say goodbye to him?’ Arathan asked.

‘I believe you already have, Arathan. In any case, the Lord of Hate now revels in his renewed solitude. Would you dampen his joy?’

‘He never revels.’

‘A manner of speech,’ Gethol said, shrugging apologetically. He turned to the others. ‘And a Dog-Runner, it seems. What fun. Shall we all meet at dawn then? At the city’s old east gate? The twin stumps, that is. The ones flanking what used to be a road. Oh, never mind. Come to the city’s edge; I’ll find you.’

Arathan watched Gethol walk away. Avoiding Korya’s steady gaze, he turned to find the ashes of Hood’s hearth. The first thin blades of grass were growing from it, their bright green colour awaiting birth in the sun’s rise.

‘They’re dead, Arathan,’ Korya said behind him. ‘Or as good as. Whoever you wanted to find there, beyond those gates, well, she’ll still be there, no matter how long it takes you to finally join her.’

He shot her a glance, and then shook his head. ‘It’s not – you don’t understand. Never mind.’ He pulled his cloak tighter and glared at the sky. ‘So where in the Abyss has the spring gone, anyway?’

TWENTY-FOUR

T
HE VALLEY OF TARNS WAS BROAD IN ITS BASIN, A SPAN THREE
hundred paces across and twice as long. Its ends were marked by narrow gorges, carved out by fast waters long vanished. Upon the north ridge the land behind the crest formed a gentle slope studded here and there with saplings that had been planted a half-dozen years past. None had fared well and what remained of them would pose little obstacle to the enemy’s command of that side.

Closer to hand, the south slope was steeper, rocky, untreed. But the crest line where the three Andii had halted their horses was broad and even. Slumped in his saddle, Rise Herat watched Silchas Ruin survey the impending field of battle. In bearing Lord Anomander’s brother epitomized all the virtues necessary in a commander. Straight and regal in comportment, severe in expression, he and his white horse could well have surmounted a pedestal, a mounted figure rendered in bronze or marble –
indeed, marble, white as snow, white as the skin of our enemy. A triumphal statue, ambivalent in what it celebrates. Even the side upon which it resides is ambiguous. But let us invite this enigmatic hesitation and leave it for posterity.
‘Sir, Lord Urusander will delight in this site.’

Silchas glanced at him, as if irritated by the interruption to his contemplation. ‘As do we, historian. See the faint track of the old stream upon that level floor? It divides the valley as would a heartline. Upon that gauge we will measure this battle’s tide.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Describe this well, sir. Was this not the legendary first camp of the Tiste? Down from the ash-filled sky, our first nest?’

‘Our exhausted refuge,’ Herat said, nodding.

‘And did we not feed from the flesh of dead dragons? Perhaps, historian, if there is any truth to such legends, those brittle burned bones remain beneath the earth and snow.’

To be soon joined by countless others. Already, I see the pyre we must make. Our refuge befouled, our nest unravelled.
‘I would think, commander, on the day of battle we will hear the weeping of ghosts upon the wind.’

Silchas Ruin studied him for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Send your arrow again, historian, when next you face Vatha Urusander. It is fitting, I think, that we both bear that wound.’

High Priestess Emral Lanear cleared her throat as she edged her mount between the two men. ‘You are too generous in meting out blame, commander, to so inflict the Andii, when the cause of this rests with the Liosan.’

‘Blame? High Priestess, forgive me for misunderstanding the historian. I thought we referred to grief, not blame. In that, surely, we must share?’

‘I doubt Hunn Raal would agree,’ Lanear replied, the lines of her face stark in the pale morning light.

‘Nor,’ added Rise Herat – against the suddenly bitter taste in his mouth – ‘Lord Draconus.’

Silchas frowned. ‘Draconus?’

All too aware of Lanear’s level gaze upon him, Herat shrugged and said, ‘Repository of the highborn’s ire, obstacle to a peaceful union of the Andii with the Liosan, his refusal to engage with anyone has, as much as anything else, incited this civil war.’

‘I would not think of it that way,’ said Silchas Ruin uncertainly.

‘A cruel assessment, historian,’ opined Lanear, ‘and yet, sadly accurate.’

‘Lord Draconus is an honourable man,’ said the white-skinned commander. ‘He well comprehends the precariousness of his position. In his stead, I wager I would do much the same as he, under these trying circumstances.’

‘Indeed?’ the High Priestess said in some surprise. Then she nodded. ‘Ah, I understand. His appearance on the field … here, would prove disastrous. For us. While Hunn Raal would delight in it. If not for the opportunity to slay the Consort, then for the very real possibility of seeing the Houseblades of the highborn abandon the field.’

Herat cleared his throat, and then said, ‘Well stated, High Priestess. But we can be certain that Lord Draconus understands this dilemma. That, as you say, his sense of honour will win out over his stung pride, and so he will make no appearance, but will remain with Mother Dark.’

‘If not pride to see him unleashed, then the desire for vengeance,’ Lanear added, to Herat’s mind unnecessarily. He could see the agitation and uncertainty in Ruin’s expression. He could see, plainly enough, the doubts he and Lanear had sowed.

‘Pride is the enemy,’ Herat announced. ‘Had Lord Draconus stepped aside – had he chosen to surrender his position as Consort to Mother Dark, well, how vastly different would be this day, and those to come.’

‘And now,’ said Lanear with a sigh, ‘it is too late.’

Silchas Ruin said nothing for a time. He remained upright on the saddle, his red eyes seeming to scan the valley floor below. His horse dipped its head, stamped occasionally at the frozen ground.
The statue contemplates, as all statues must. Their moment now trapped in eternity, their eternity not quite as long as they thought it would be. Stony eyes fixed well upon a crumbling future.
‘Perhaps it isn’t,’ he finally said.