Fall of Light (37 page)

A faint tremor slipped through Silann. ‘Have you … have you compiled details, then?’

‘As best I could,’ Sharenas replied. ‘It was difficult, as not everyone was willing to speak to me.’ She paused, and they turned down a side avenue, approaching the command tent of Esthala’s cohort; then she said, ‘But I was fortunate to find some who would.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Yes. Gripp Galas, for one. And, of course, young Orfantal.’

Silann’s steps slowed and he half turned to the woman walking beside him. ‘An old man, I’m told, prone to baseless accusations and pointless feuds.’

‘Galas? I think not.’

‘What then do you wish with my wife?’

‘Only what needs doing, Silann. A conversation, just like the one I’m having with you right now.’

When he halted, Sharenas turned back to face him. The hood still hid her features, but he saw the glitter of her eyes. ‘This is an unpleasant conversation, Sharenas,’ he said. ‘I don’t think my wife will welcome your presence, not tonight, in any case.’

‘No, I suspect you’re right in that, Silann. A moment—’ She reached for something under her cloak. ‘I have something for you.’

He caught a flash of blue iron, felt a sharp sting under his chin, and then it seemed that everything simply drained away.

Blinking, he found himself lying on the ground, with Sharenas bent over him.

It was all … strange. Disturbing. He felt a hilt pressed up against the underside of his chin, and something was pouring out from his mouth, sliding thick and hot down his cheeks.

No. I don’t like this. I’m leaving now.
He closed his eyes.

Sharenas pulled the dagger free. She collected Silann by the collar and dragged him between two equipment tents. Then she cleaned her blade on his cloak and sheathed it again.

It was only twenty or so paces to Esthala’s tent. Straightening, Sharenas resumed her journey. She reached the front and tapped at the ridge-pole, and then drew back the flap and stepped inside.

There was a brazier on the floor, emanating dry heat and a soft glow. Beyond that, Esthala was on a cot, settled back but still dressed. She looked over and frowned. Sharenas drew back her hood before the woman could speak, and saw a swift change of expression accompany recognition, but not one she could easily read.

‘Sharenas! I see you’ve not yet shed the leagues of travel behind you. But still,’ she sat up, ‘welcome back. There’s mulled wine near that brazier.’

‘Your husband will be late, I’m afraid,’ Sharenas said, drawing off her cloak. ‘I ran into him, on his way up to the keep.’

‘The keep? That idiot. I told him to send a rider if he did not find one of her acolytes. He gets nothing right.’

Sharenas collected the pewter jug and poured out two cups of the steaming wine. The sharp smell of almonds wafted up into her face. Leaving one cup where it was, she brought Esthala the other one.

The captain stood to receive it. ‘So, what brings you to me, then? And couldn’t it wait until the morning?’

Sharenas smiled. ‘You are legendary, Esthala, for working through the night. I myself recall, when we arrayed for battle on a clear morning, seeing you heavy with sleep. Quite the harridan, in fact.’

Snorting, Esthala drank.

From the camp outside, distant alarms rang out.

‘What now?’ Esthala asked, turning to set her cup down on the edge of the cot and reaching, at the same time, for her sword-belt.

‘Probably me,’ Sharenas replied, drawing her sword.

Esthala caught the faint rasp and whirled.

The sword’s blade sliced through the front half of her throat. Sharenas quickly stepped back to avoid most of the blood that sprayed out from the wound.

Esthala stumbled back, both hands grasping at her neck, and fell awkwardly across the cot, snapping one of its legs. As the cot sagged, the woman rolled off it to settle face-down on the tent floor. Her legs twitched for a few moments, and then fell still.

Sharenas quickly sheathed her weapon, cursing under her breath. She had been anticipating most of the night, for the work that needed doing. Instead, the Legion camp was now wide awake. And, in moments, one of Esthala’s lieutenants would come to the tent.

Still, there was time – at least for her to make her way to where the horses were kept.
My apologies, Urusander. This hasn’t quite worked out as I had planned. And now I must ride away, with a bounty on my head.

Not all the nobles are hiding in their keeps, doing nothing. I will defend my blood first, Urusander. Surely you’ll understand that. Civil war is a messy business, isn’t it? Just ask Gripp Galas.

The rage within her remained bright and hot. It yielded a fierce, demanding thirst. She had wanted to stalk the night, moving through the camp, from one command tent to the next.
For you, Vatha Urusander. And for Kurald Galain.

And another. But he rides far from here now, seeking the woman he would marry. I am relieved, Kagamandra, that you do not see me on this night, nor the trail of blood I have left behind me. And now, alas, I must flee, my work unfinished. And that, my friend, galls.

With her dagger, she cut through the back wall of the tent, and then slipped out into the night.

  *   *   *

Humiliation bred a kind of hunger. Dreams of vengeance and acts of malice. Corporal Parlyn of the Ninth Company in the Silvers stood near the tavern door, leaning against the frame, and eyed Bortan and Skrael as they stood over the headless corpse of Captain Serap, their expressions difficult to read in the wavering light.

Neither man was displeased, she was certain, at Serap’s sudden demise. And if not for the beating they’d taken at her hands, incapacitating both of them for most of this night, they would have been among the first suspects in the murder.

The four brothers who had been sitting near the captain, however, were consistent in their retelling of events, and their tale matched that of the barkeep and his pale, shivering son. A travel-stained officer of the Legion had sat with Serap, engaging in quiet conversation that was brought to an abrupt end with the slash of a sword. Serap’s head was still lying on the table, stuck there, cheek and hair, by the thick pool of blood beneath it.

Serap’s lips were parted, caught in an instant of surprise. Her eyes, half-lidded, stared out with the chilling disinterest of the dead. Earlier that evening, Corporal Parlyn had stood opposite her, facing a sharp dressing down in front of her squad. The wake of that had curdled Parlyn’s insides, stung bitter and dark with vague hatred. But even that was not enough to leave her satisfied at the captain’s death.

Hunn Raal had come and gone. A few words ventured by the corporal, relating the story told by the witnesses, and then he was off, but not before countermanding his initial order to scour the town. It was, perhaps, the reason for her squad’s present disgruntlement. Bortan and Skrael had both drawn closer to the four brothers, who stood in a nervous clump behind their table. The stench of blood was heavy in the air, and, like wolves, her two soldiers were ready to bare fangs.

Humiliation. The denizens of the tavern had witnessed it, delivered by Serap herself, and Bortan and Skrael were hungry to pass it on.

Parlyn was tired. They’d been given the task of removing what was left of Serap, but it seemed that her energy – what little remained – was trickling away, drip by drip. Even her soldiers stood as if uncertain where to start.

But a vicious fight with the locals would answer their need quickly enough.
Sighing, she stirred into motion, stepping into the room. ‘Skrael, find us a sack, for the head. Bortan, take Feled there and go hunt us down a stretcher.’ She paused, glancing across to the last three soldiers in the squad. ‘The rest of you, take station outside, eyes on the street.’

That last command was not well received. It was cold out there. Parlyn scowled until the three soldiers shuffled towards the door. She glanced back to see the barkeep appear from the kitchen with a burlap sack, which he pushed into Skrael’s hands.

Bortan, with a final glare back at the brothers, joined Feled at the door. They exited.

One of the brothers stepped forward, eyes on Parlyn, who raised her brows. The man hesitated, and then said, ‘She did good by us, sir. We’d like to be the ones to carry that stretcher … to wherever it needs going.’

Parlyn frowned. She glanced across at Skrael, who stood near the table, staring down at the severed head. There was no question that he’d heard. The corporal moved close to the farmer and said in a low voice, ‘I appreciate the sentiment, but by the time Bortan gets back, I expect you four to be gone. Our blood’s up, you see. Someone’s murdered a Legion officer. It’s our business now.’

The man looked back at his brothers, and then faced her again. ‘To show our respect, you see.’

‘I understand. If her ghost lingers, she’ll know how you feel. Go home, now.’

‘Well, I hope you catch that murderer, that’s all.’

‘We will.’

The four made their way out of the tavern. Parlyn watched them leave and then turned to see Skrael glaring at her.

‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘it’d be easier, wouldn’t it?’

‘Sir?’

‘If they were the shits you wanted them to be.’

‘Not just me, sir. You called us out this night, to do some hunting.’

‘I did. Turns out, we were hunting the wrong enemy. I’ll accept that, with humility. You might try the same. Now, is that a coin there in the blood?’

He looked down at the table. ‘It is.’

‘Slip it into her mouth and close up that jaw, if you can. Silver eases the ghost.’

Skrael nodded. ‘So they say.’

He collected up the coin and studied it for a moment. ‘Barkeep says this one was Sharenas’s. Paying for the drink, I suppose.’

Parlyn had heard the same. It seemed an odd thing to do. She wondered about the conversation between those two officers, and how it could have led to what had happened here. She wondered, too, how Hunn Raal had known.

The sound the head made when Skrael pulled it free triggered in Parlyn an old memory from her childhood.
Out behind the house where the wagon ruts ran down into that dip in the road. Mud that could pull your boot right off if you weren’t careful.

We used to think it was bottomless, that mud, enough to suck you right down, swallow you whole.

Yes, that’s the sound.

Left behind on the tabletop, blood and strands of hair. An empty tankard.

Well, I guess we’re not all going up on report after all. There’s a bright side to everything. And when Raal catches up to Sharenas, why, we’ll see her swing.

Skrael moved past her, the sack clutched in both hands. He grimaced. ‘Heavier than I expected, sir. Where to?’

‘Put it down by the door. We’ll wait for Bortan and Feled with the stretcher.’

She heard him cross the room, but did not turn. He’d pocketed the silver coin, she had seen. But the night was nearly done, and she was past caring.

EIGHT

T
HE TWO HORSEMEN RODE OUT THROUGH THE THINNING FOREST.
The day was cold, the sky clear but dull, as if hidden behind a veil of soot. They were slumped in their saddles, the horses walking, and, as ever, the two men were engaged in conversation.

‘A most high court, a most select education, and see what it brings us, Dathenar.’

Dathenar rolled his broad shoulders beneath the heavy cloak. ‘Every bridge is but an interlude, Prazek,’ he said. ‘The arc and the span held more worth than we imagined on that dread night of our faltering. We should have stood fast at our station, scowling in each direction. Back to back, and so facing all manner of dire threat.’

‘Dire threat indeed,’ Prazek said, nodding. ‘The treacherous wind, gusting so foul and portentous.’

‘The unleavened night, bitter as black bread.’

‘Fend us, too, Dathenar, from wretched imagination all our own, and the venal thoughts of irate commanders, prone to dancing on our bones. And if we still be clothed around our precious sticks, muscle and gristle bound to honourable purpose, well, that is faint distinction.’

‘You speak ill of Silchas Ruin?’

Prazek worked with his tongue at something stuck between his teeth, somewhere near the back, and then said, ‘I’ve seen white crows with softer regard, and indeed am known to fashion a pleasant disposition from their glittering beads.’

Dathenar reached up and rubbed at his bearded jaw. ‘You liken us to carrion, and our lord’s brother to the winged arbiter of every battlefield. But bleached of hue, you say? In war, I wager, every field is aflutter with black and white. Foe and friend, all those hostile comments and unpleasant looks, and laughter the kind to make you shiver. In all, a misanthropic place, ill suited to civil debate.’

‘I’ve heard tell,’ Prazek said, ‘of a time when we were gentle. Fresh upon the land, behind us some sordid path spewing us out from some forbidden tale of misadventure. But see these majestic trees, we said! Such clear streams! A river like bold sinew to bind the world. Why, here were pits studded with ore, bitumen for the fires, soft hills to welcome sheep and goats.’