Fall of Light

  Ah, Ivis. I did not see you fall, forced to turn away at the last moment. The wonder of your charge finds glory in its failure – we can look to little else, we of the Andii, when seeking solace from this day. Draconus and Ivis had led their forces deep into the enemy facing them. Their company had killed easily twice its number, and even the frantic flanking attacks from Urusander’s mounted cavalry had done little to slow its advance.

  In the end, alas, they were too few, even when joined by Anomander’s own Houseblades.

  Ivis, did your lord abandon you at the end? I fear he did.

  Kellaras wiped the grime from his stinging eyes, no longer interested in seeing the official surrender, no longer wanting to witness his lord’s humiliation. The First Son deserves better than this. I shall look into the eyes of the highborn and await their flinch. But this is scant satisfaction.

  What seemed a lifetime ago, he and the Consort had ridden hard upon the road, with a terrible storm breaking over the Valley of Tarns. At the first pounding of thunder, Draconus had cursed, low and heartfelt.

  Neither lightning nor thunder. Magic. Unleashed. Kellaras had expected to come upon a scene of unnatural slaughter. Instead, they had arrived in time to see the last desperate defence of two priests. Light and Dark entwined like serpents, jaws locked upon the other above the valley’s floor. The final detonation that tore them apart sent both priests and even Hunn Raal to the ground.

  But it was Hunn Raal who first regained himself.

  Kellaras was not entirely certain who the surviving priest was. The man was covered in mud and streaming blood; his clothes were scorched and shredded. The path he made in his belly-crawl to his companion left a smear like the track of a slug. And the other priest … Cedorpul. None other. And now, that cheerful young man is dead. He must be. No one could survive that assault.

  Where he and Draconus had drawn up their horses, Lord Anomander stood ringed in a rough circle of aides, messengers and standard-bearers. Yet these Andii maintained a distance, as if Anomander stood alone upon an island.

  Draconus and Kellaras halted. The ground was muddy, their mounts uncertain of their footing. Overhead the sky still convulsed in a miasma of sickly clouds through which shadows flitted.

  Eyes fixed upon the valley below, Anomander shook his head. ‘I must go down to that priest—’

  ‘Leave him for the moment, friend,’ Draconus said, dismounting. ‘Your guards are correct. If Hunn Raal sees you draw within range, he will strike at you with what he has left. On another day, I could have swatted him down. Instead, I am weakened here. Incomplete, if you will.’

  Turning, Anomander studied the Consort, and then tilted his head. ‘Incomplete? No matter. Here you are.’

  ‘You have taken command. What would you have me do, friend?’

  ‘Do you censure me in her name, Consort?’

  ‘No. It is said you have named your sword Vengeance. How sure is your rectitude, Anomander? I would think, thus named, the blade will demand from you a purity of purpose. Of course,’ he added with a faint shrug, ‘you will need to surrender everything else.’

  ‘Will I? Draconus, have our vows gained veracity in this new, sorcerous age?’

  ‘I should think so, yes.’

  ‘Vengeance,’ Anomander said in a musing tone, his eyes narrowing upon the enemy forces opposite.

  ‘I have pondered,’ resumed Draconus, ‘the notion of a righteous blade. Not as would Lord Henarald and his Hust iron. I would value no opinion from my chosen weapon, merely a certain efficacy. Justice, should such a notion exist, must lie in the hand wielding the blade.’

  ‘And how would you name your new sword?’ Anomander asked.

  ‘There is something inherently chaotic in any weapon. Do you see this?’

  ‘If it lacks moral spine, then, yes, I see this well enough.’

  Kellaras listened to these two men, their nonsensical, seemingly irrelevant discussion so at odds with the moment, with the ever-growing pressure of two armies about to clash. He wondered, for the first time, if both men were utterly mad.

  ‘Then,’ Draconus asked, ‘will you this day draw your sword in its name? More to the point, can you? I spoke of what must be surrendered, lest your weapon fail you.’

  ‘Friend,’ said Anomander, ‘your presence here is divisive.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We will lose the highborn. We will, in turn, lose this battle.’

  ‘Will you send me away then, Anomander?’

  ‘I mean to fight for you, Draconus.’

  ‘Yes, I see that.’

  ‘But, if you will leave here … take your Houseblades.’

  ‘How can I?’ Draconus demanded. ‘And how can you, who would stand in my place here, invite such a thing of me?’

  Anomander replied, ‘I state what is possible, with no blame in attendance.’

  ‘Your brother, I think, has little understanding of you,’ observed Draconus. ‘Nor, it seems, of me.’

  ‘My brother?’

  ‘It does not matter. We are here, and neither intends to yield. You would fight in my name. I, therefore, shall fight in yours.’

  They stood in silence then. Until, after a time, Draconus stirred. ‘I will join Ivis now.’

  ‘Fare you well, Draconus.’

  Climbing astride his horse, Draconus hesitated, and then said, ‘And you, Anomander.’ He rode off to join his Houseblades.

  The First Son fixed his attention once more on Urusander’s Legion. Soldiers had descended to help a staggering Hunn Raal make his way up the slope. ‘Kellaras.’

  Startled, Kellaras dismounted and joined Anomander. ‘Milord.’

  ‘What did my brother do?’

  ‘He spoke to Draconus.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He convinced him to flee.’

  ‘Flee?’

  ‘Draconus agreed. He understood the necessity, milord. But he would take his Houseblades into exile with him.’

  ‘Only to discover that they rode with me.’

  ‘Yes, milord.’

  ‘So, he would flee.’

  ‘In the name of love, milord, yes.’

  ‘To force upon him that choice, Kellaras, was unconscionable.’

  ‘Sir, we were desperate.’

  Anomander turned sharply to Kellaras. ‘You were party to this? You added your weight to my brother’s entreaty?’

  ‘Milord, I was witness. That, and nothing more. Your brother has little interest in my counsel.’

  ‘Yet … ah, I see. Silchas led me here, after all.’ He studied Kellaras for a moment longer, and then faced the valley once more. ‘Very well.’

  Very well? That and nothing more? ‘Milord? Shall I return to Lord Silchas Ruin? What message shall I convey to him?’

  Anomander now faced the left flank, watching as Draconus reined in close to Silchas. Once there, an argument began, but they were too distant, their voices too low, for anything to be heard. Despite that, Kellaras could see Ruin’s shock and then dismay. An instant later, Anomander’s brother was on his horse and riding fast – not towards Anomander, but angling behind the assembled ranks. He was, Kellaras realized, riding for the highborn.

  He’ll not get there in time. They have seen Draconus. They have seen what has happened.

  ‘No message,’ Anomander replied. ‘Join my Houseblades, captain. You will be needed to act in my brother’s stead.’

  ‘Yes, milord.’

  ‘Oh, and Kellaras.’

  ‘Milord?’

  ‘Place yourself and my Houseblades under the command of Lord Draconus.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘My friend is here in the name of love, captain. In the absence of anything else, is that not a worthy cause? No, let us take his side.’

  Kellaras glanced to the far right flank. ‘Milord, the highborn will not be so sentimental—’

  ‘Sentimental, am I? Is love so paltry a thing, to be plucked and dropped to the ground at the first breath of contempt? Man or
woman, disparaging love is a crime of the soul, for which the future will turn away its face.’

  ‘I doubt they fear such a fate, milord.’

  ‘They will learn to, captain. This I swear.’

  Sensing a new presence, Kellaras twisted round and saw, a few paces behind them, the Azathanai, Caladan Brood. The huge figure was motionless, his expression revealing nothing. Following his gaze, Anomander grunted and said, ‘I have begun to wonder where you were, Caladan.’

  The Azathanai made to speak, but then lifted his face to the sky. A moment later he scowled. ‘Lord Anomander,’ he said, as if exasperated, ‘there will be no more magic from the enemy on this day.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Anomander snapped. ‘Then should I walk down now, to that brave priest below—’

  ‘Send soldiers down to collect him.’

  ‘Their lives are of less worth?’

  ‘No. But you will be needed here, for the battle is about to begin.’

  ‘Do you vouch for their safety?’

  ‘In collecting the poor priest? Yes. In the battle to come, alas, no such thing is possible.’

  ‘No,’ Anomander replied. ‘I imagine not. Unless, of course, you choose to awaken what is within you, as you did at Dracons Keep.’

  ‘Milord, shall I slaughter your enemy then?’

  ‘Can you?’

  Caladan Brood nodded.

  ‘And kill thousands. You would take that burden?’

  Baring his teeth, Caladan Brood said, ‘It would not be mine, would it?’

  Kellaras sat frozen in place, unable to pull away from the conversation. On the far right flank, the mass of Houseblade companies had begun tearing apart, and among the highborn nobles there was chaos – into which Silchas Ruin now rode.

  In answer to Caladan Brood’s question, Anomander said, ‘No, I suppose not.’

  The Azathanai glanced again at the heavy clouds overhead. ‘But I would advise you decide on the instant, First Son.’

  ‘A single word from me can win this battle, and with it, the entire war.’

  ‘It can,’ Caladan replied.

  ‘Returning Draconus to his love’s side. Ending this incursion of Liosan into our realm. Saving even the precious possessions of the highborn.’

  ‘Just so.’

  A half-dozen soldiers set out, hurrying down to where the priests were now lying side by side, one dead and the other perhaps only moments from joining him.

  ‘Am I a coward,’ Anomander asked, ‘to abjure from giving you leave to slaughter my enemy? If I refuse you, Azathanai …’

  ‘You will lose this battle, milord, and many of your Tiste Andii will die. In place of that, sir, I offer you naught but Liosan dead. But as I said, time is short. Wait too long, and I will be matched.’

  ‘By Hunn Raal?’

  ‘No. He is still too clumsy with the power of Elemental Light. Another comes, and she is not far.’

  Anomander seemed nonplussed.

  Suddenly stiffening, Kellaras said, ‘Forgive me, sirs. Azathanai, do you speak of one of your own?’

  Caladan Brood sighed, and then nodded. ‘She whom you have named T’riss. Content only with balance, I’m afraid. A sentiment plaguing many of my kin.’

  ‘But not you,’ said Anomander.

  The Azathanai shrugged. ‘You wanted peace, First Son.’

  ‘My answer to all that I fear. My response to all that threatens me. Caladan Brood, you would see me become a tyrant in the name of purity, in the name of a peace that is maintained at any cost.’

  ‘Yes, milord.’

  ‘Azathanai, I must refuse you.’

  ‘I understand—’

  ‘Do you? I name that presumption, sir. This war belongs to the Tiste. Absolve none of us. Nor, indeed, is such absolution yours to give.’ He cast Kellaras a glare. ‘Ride on, captain, this instant!’

  ‘Milord.’ Kellaras gathered up his reins. Moments later he was riding for the left flank, and his mind was a storm of chaos. You decry sentiment, Anomander? You damned fool, by what other name have you just surrendered certain victory?

  Ahead, he saw Lord Draconus, and at his side, Ivis. Both men were now positioned in front of their Houseblades, and it was clear that they would lead the charge.

  Not a coward’s thought, not there, with those two fools. Abyss below. Sentiment!

  Win her back, will you, Draconus? With this dusk and its suffocating madness? I fear not, sir, oh, Mother save us, I fear not.

  * * *

  And now, an eternity later, the battle was done, and still the night held back, a drawn breath suspended in the firmament. Kellaras remained standing in the midst of the battlefield. Figures moved here and there, lending what aid they could to those fallen who still lived. Here, at last, it mattered not the uniform worn, as every piteous cry proclaimed no colours, and even the skin, cloven white or black, was made one in the mud.

  Someone approached from his left, and Kellaras slowly turned, to see Silchas Ruin. He felt his own spine stiffening as he straightened, concealing the fury he felt behind his soldier’s mask, his survivor’s insensate mien. ‘Milord,’ he said.

  ‘He struck the standard?’

  Kellaras nodded. ‘And now makes formal surrender.’

  Silchas Ruin was wounded, blood thick upon his left shoulder. ‘It was the highborn, Kellaras. Our betrayers. Mother Dark’s own children of the blood. Did you see the Hust, captain? Did you see how they held? I’d not thought it possible. Convicts. Murderers. Truly that iron is its own sorcery.’ He stood, now watching his brother in the distance. ‘He struck the standard,’ he said again.

  ‘Milord, you are wounded—’

  ‘This? Infayen Menand. She attacked while I was engaged with two others, sought to come upon me from behind, but I caught the motion.’

  ‘Her fate?’

  Silchas shrugged. ‘She was a Menand.’ He was silent for a moment, and then he asked, ‘Captain, the Hust Legion – was their retreat by Redone’s command?’

  ‘I do not know, milord. Only that nearly a thousand of them lie dead, having not retreated a single step.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘If indeed it was Commander Toras Redone who ordered the flag, she did the right thing.’

  Silchas Ruin’s stained face twitched in a cold half-grin as he studied Kellaras. ‘Ah, captain, the world’s torment knows ease with your opinion voiced.’

  ‘I would think not, sir. Indeed,’ he added, his voice hardening, ‘on this day, we are the makers of this world’s torment. The only ease granted now is named death.’

  ‘And surrender,’ Silchas Ruin said, his moment of contempt past. His eyes narrowed on the distant scene. ‘Ah, now Hunn Raal comes to the fore. Spent, and yet even at this distance I see the smear of his smile.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kellaras – though not bothering to follow Ruin’s hard gaze. ‘It seems there is to be a marriage.’

  Silchas Ruin nodded, and then spat red into the mud at his feet. ‘Sound the bells, Wise Kharkanas. Retrieve your refugees to line the streets. Roll out the crimson bandages to make suitable bunting and streamers. Lay out the weapons to make the aisle for our king and queen. Something notched and stained underfoot – was not iron our first glory, captain? The very birth of the Tiste, if the legends are to be believed.’ He waved a hand more red than white. ‘As suits the moment.’

  ‘Milord, I saw a dragon. Overhead. In the storm-clouds.’

  ‘I did not.’

  Kellaras frowned, only to realize that he had nothing more to say.

  ‘Captain.’

  ‘Milord?’

  ‘My brother still stands alone. Are you not of his Houseblades? Take your surviving company and join him.’

  And what of you, his brother? ‘Yes sir.’ Kellaras turned to gather his Houseblades. As they drew up around him, he saw Silchas Ruin wander off, westward, as if he would now walk to Kharkanas. Kellaras then glanced to the southeast, in time to see the last of the Hust Legion reach the crest. The sound of its iron, faint yet
clear, rode the icy tears of the wind.

  * * *

  They reached the road, the valley behind them. Prazek drew off his gore-spattered gauntlets and dropped them to the ground. ‘Well,’ he said around a cut lip already scabbed black, ‘that was a sorry day.’

  Dathenar slowly hunched over, still struggling to regain his breath from a mace-blow that had driven him from his feet. ‘“Sorry”, is it? No, friend, set sorrow aside. Disband this beleaguered company of regrets. I see no blessing in their sordid attendance.’

  ‘They line the road like refugees,’ Prazek said, spitting.

  ‘And would seek the shelter of rationalization, as befits their desperate need. But these are modest roofs, and the crowds jostle beneath each one, as would a family of fools breeding out of their house, too many bodies and not enough rooms. Shall we build additions? Extend this paltry roof? Bah, let’s just breed some more.’

  ‘And to this you say?’

  Dathenar shrugged. ‘Why, I say, fuck you in your fuckery. But we are right, friend. Regrets breed regrets, a spawn unceasing in humping zeal. At the last, we are less than animals. For all our claim to nature’s graces, we are absent dignity.’

  Prazek considered his friend’s words for a moment. Then he glanced around, at the figures shuffling past. ‘See this current,’ he said in a low mutter, ‘and here I am, snagged, tugged and frayed.’ Abruptly he sat down on the cold, wet ground.

  After a moment, Dathenar did the same.

  ‘I have often wondered,’ mused Prazek, ‘at the mind of certain of our fellows, those for whom the hunt incites a flush of zeal, the eyes bright as a child’s. I have seen the arrow strike true. Some noble creature in a glade, head lifted in alarm, only to crumple to the iron bite. By your confession, friend, I see now what is slain. Dignity is the natural stance of beasts. Their innate essence, which, perhaps, the hunters in their moral paucity envy, and so grow vicious. To slay out of spite, ah, Dathenar, the years are stripped away.’

  Dathenar sighed. ‘Behold the child revealed, flushed and bright, posing beside the kill. If we war against nature, why, we war against dignity itself. Our sordid dominion makes ascension a lie. The truth is, we descend, with all the dignity of a disease.’