Fall of Light

  ‘Then,’ she said, ‘are we both lost?’

  ‘Yes. Until it plays out. Only then will our spirits know peace.’

  ‘How long?’ she asked. ‘How long shall we have to wait, before our suffering ends?’

  Narad hefted his sword. ‘See – the storm awakens again. Not long, I should think, my queen. Not long at all.’ But even as he said it, he knew it for a lie. But he would hold to his false assurances, for her sake.

  Behind him as he stepped forward, she asked, ‘Yedan, who killed Draconus? Who chained him within a sword of his own making? I do not understand.’

  He paused, did not turn round. ‘Yes. There is that. It is odd,’ he admitted. ‘Who killed Draconus? The same man who frees him. Lord Anomander, First Son of Darkness.’

  ‘Another one,’ she hissed, ‘whom my brother would not paint. Tell me, my prince, how you know all this?’

  Shapes were massing behind the veil of the fiery wall. ‘I have an answer, but it makes no sense.’ He hesitated, and then glanced back at her. ‘You say the crown has been worn?’

  She nodded, already fading from his vision.

  ‘Who? When will I meet her?’

  But she was gone.

  Facing the shore again, his gaze flicked down to the carcass of the dragon he had just killed. Latal Menas. I feel your blood in my body, the heat of all you knew and all you felt. But against my guilt, you are less than a whisper. Still, how did you know what you knew?

  In your language, Eleint, Menas is one name for Shadow. The name you seemed eager to attach to this narrow strand, this Emurlahn of ours. Your voice comes from the half-seen, in the place neither here, nor there, and in the gloom – as if barely sketched by a ragged, dry brush – I saw a throne …

  Another blink, and before him was the forest, sullen in its winter white and black as the sky to the east began to pale. He was shivering, joints stiff with cold, his feet numbed inside their straw-packed leather boots. Upon hearing someone approach, he turned to find Glyph.

  ‘Yedan Narad, you have lingered beyond the Watch. Your visions leave you raw. Come, a fire is being lit.’

  He studied the Denier. ‘We are being used.’

  Glyph managed a half-shrug. ‘We have made vengeance a god.’

  ‘A simple answer, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Then who, Yedan Narad?’

  ‘Something in need of a refuge, I think. Against what is to come. And it would spend our lives, Glyph, to defend its secret.’

  For the first time, Glyph seemed uncertain. He glanced away, and then back again. ‘You promised us to Lord Anomander.’

  ‘No. He too is an unwitting player.’

  Glyph’s breath streamed in the cold air. In … out … in again. ‘I would rather have my god of vengeance.’

  Narad nodded. ‘Easily fed, never appeased. I see worshippers beyond counting, a faith too stubborn to die, too foolish for wisdom. But if I am to be its high priest, be warned. My thirst for vengeance seeks no other face but my own.’

  ‘Once the others are dead.’

  ‘Once they are dead, yes.’

  ‘Yedan Narad, I will find you on that day.’

  ‘And will you do what needs doing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ Narad replied. ‘I am relieved to hear that.’

  ‘Will you join us in breaking fast, Yedan Narad?’

  Gaze shifting to the campfire now lit just behind Glyph, Narad saw Lahanis, wrapped in her furs, moving close to take some of the warmth. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  * * *

  Sergeant Threadbare was halfway to Yannis monastery when her mount slipped on ice hidden beneath a thin smear of snow. The horse struck in a heavy splintering of leg bones and a shriek of pain. In her efforts to throw herself clear of the beast, Threadbare landed awkwardly against a slope studded with boulders, shattering her shoulder and snapping one clavicle.

  The damage seemed to have opened a passage deep into her body for the cold, and she sat against the slope with agony riding every harsh breath, watching the horse thrash and kick on the slick trail that was now stained with mud, shit and a few spatters of blood. The animal’s nostrils were flared, its ears flattened and its eyes bulging. She would have to take a blade to its throat, and be quick to ease her remorse with notions of mercy. But it was proving very difficult to move.

  Halfway. Whose cruel game is this? There was no chance of reaching the Shake in time, no chance of warning them against the incipient attack. Indeed, she was not even sure that she would have the strength to make it back to Manaleth.

  The trail had led her alongside a low range of hills, a serrated line upon her right as she rode east. Now, that same rough spine was at her back, and the level plain stretching out before her was whiter than the sky above it. Another storm was on its way.

  The horse’s gusting breaths stirred her awake – she had been dozing, falling into something formless but strangely warm. Blinking, she studied the beast. It was no longer fighting, simply lying on its side, chest heaving with each breath – but now the exhalations came in a spray of frothy blood.

  Ribs. Punctured lung.

  She pulled free her sword, worked her way down on to the level track. Using the weapon for support, its tip driven into the thick ice, she forced herself upright. With most of the snow melted or swept away, she could now see the full reach of the ice – and it made no sense. The track was actually slightly humped where the horse had slipped and fallen, and yet upon either side the snow was thin upon gravel-studded mud.

  It wasn’t easy to bring a four-legged animal down. The sweep of ice stretched longer and reached wider than a horse’s stance, even at a slow trot.

  ‘Do you delight in its suffering?’

  Threadbare swung round, lifting her blade, but both efforts left her gasping in pain.

  A woman stood before her, fair-skinned, golden-haired. She was thin, almost gaunt, as if trapped in a body eternally lost in adolescence. Dressed in linen and wearing boots that seemed woven from grass, she stood as if indifferent to the cold.

  As the stranger was unarmed, Threadbare turned back to her mount. She readied her sword as she looked for the throbbing jugular in the animal’s neck. But a hand settled on her uninjured shoulder, and the woman’s voice rode a warm breath that caressed her jaw. ‘It was a question in truth. But now I see, you would end its ordeal.’

  ‘I’m hurt,’ Threadbare said. ‘I won’t be able to make a deep cut. It needs to be right.’

  ‘Yes. I see that. Shall I help?’

  ‘I’m not giving you my blade.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ The woman’s hand slid away, and then she stepped round, placing herself between Threadbare and the dying beast. Lowering herself into a crouch, she rested a hand upon the horse’s neck. For a moment, it seemed as if the animal lost all colour, until even its sorrel coat looked grey, and then the illusion was gone. And, Threadbare now saw, the horse no longer drew breath, and its eyes were closed.

  ‘How did you do that?’

  The stranger straightened. ‘I learned much regarding mercy,’ she said, now smiling, ‘from a Warden friend. Did my act please you?’

  ‘Does it matter? It’s done. I was riding east.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need to deliver a message.’

  ‘But now your message will be too late. Besides, you are injured, and a storm is coming, which will add to your suffering.’

  Threadbare stepped back. ‘If you would end mine as you did the horse’s, then I’d rather you didn’t.’

  The woman tilted her head. ‘If the horse could speak, would it have said the same?’

  ‘It was dying.’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘Not if I can find shelter, here in these hills. Somewhere to wait out the worst of the storm.’

  ‘I am making use of a cave,’ the woman said. ‘It is not far. Will you join me?’

  ‘I don’t see much choice. Yes. But first, can you help
me remove my kit from the saddle?’

  Together, they collected Threadbare’s gear. The horse still steamed with heat, and once, when Threadbare inadvertently brushed the beast’s flank, she saw again, in a momentary flash, a hide made colourless. Snatching her hand back, she blinked. ‘Did you see—’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Nothing. Would you be so kind as to carry this?’

  The woman collected the bedroll.

  ‘Lead on,’ Threadbare said.

  Smiling again, the woman set out, up the steep hillside. Stepping carefully, hunched protectively around her injuries, Threadbare followed. ‘You’ve not told me your name,’ she said.

  ‘Nor have you told me yours.’

  ‘Sergeant Threadbare. You mentioned a friend. A Warden. I know – knew – many of them. Who was this friend of yours?’

  They skirted the summit and edged down into a defile. ‘Her name was Faror Hend.’

  Threadbare said nothing for a few strides, and then she sighed. ‘It may be that she is dead.’

  ‘No. She lives.’

  ‘You’ve seen her, then? Since the battle?’

  ‘She lives.’

  ‘You are the one named T’riss, aren’t you? The Azathanai.’

  They traversed a twisted track flanked by sheer walls of raw limestone. After fifteen or so wending paces, the path suddenly opened out into a hollow, the level floor of which was crowded with shards of stone, many pieces of which seemed to bear mortar. A broad but low cave-mouth interrupted one of the high walls.

  Threadbare studied the scene with narrow eyes. ‘That was sealed,’ she said. ‘It’s a crypt, isn’t it?’

  T’riss faced the cave, one finger pressed to her lips. ‘A crypt? Why, yes, I suppose it was. Hence the corpse interred within.’

  ‘Dog-Runner?’

  She glanced across at Threadbare, fine brows lifting. ‘Dog-Runner. Robust, are they not? Broad and strong, thick-boned, a heavy, projecting face, with ever so mild eyes of blue or grey?’ She shook her head. ‘No, not a Dog-Runner.’

  Threadbare had begun shivering. ‘I need to get inside. I need to build a fire.’

  ‘There is one already built. A crack leading up takes the smoke, not that there is much smoke. The bones were very old, I think, to burn so readily.’

  ‘Azathanai,’ Threadbare said in a mutter, ‘you move awkwardly in this world of ours.’

  Inside the shelter of the cave, just beyond a sharp bend, Threadbare found the hearth that T’riss had made, and saw a thigh bone threaded with cracked white, black and the orange gleam of fierce heat, resting athwart the ring of stones. The thigh bone, Threadbare saw, was as thick as her upper arm, and nearly of a length to match that of her shoulder to her fingertips.

  ‘No,’ she said as T’riss came in behind her, ‘not a Dog-Runner.’

  Upon the track left behind, the carcass of the horse shimmered again, bleaching every hue, and a moment later the animal coughed, and then scrambled unsteadily upright, upon legs suddenly hale. The blood flecking its nostrils was already frozen, and no new blood rode the even breaths the beast now took as it stood, momentarily shivering, ears flicking and head turning as it searched for its rider.

  But the woman was gone, and the saddle had been removed, left lying on the trail. Even the bit had been drawn from the horse’s mouth.

  It could smell snow on the wind.

  Sudden thoughts of its warm stable, back in the safe confines of Manaleth Keep, urged the beast into motion. A steady canter, upon a path firm and certain, the purchase of every hoof unquestioned, would take it home before dusk.

  * * *

  With the wind howling, it was no wonder that it took some time before her pounding against the door elicited a response. A shutter opened, a face pressing into the gap to squint at her.

  ‘In the name of mercy,’ she shouted, ‘I seek sanctuary!’

  The eyes studied her – the ratty wolf furs she’d wrapped about herself, the rags making bulky mittens covering her hands, the ice-studded woollen cloth covering the lower half of her face. Then the gaze shifted past her, searching to either side.

  ‘I’m alone! Alone, and frozen near to death!’

  The face withdrew, and then she heard heavy latches being drawn. A moment later the door swung inward. Hunched against the wind, she slipped through.

  Within the gatehouse, one monk stood before a second, inner door, while another now pushed shut the outer door.

  Brushing clumsily at the shards of ice crusting her cloak, she said, ‘My hands have lost all feeling.’

  ‘Winter welcomes no one,’ the first monk said, setting the latches once more. ‘You are foolish to travel.’

  ‘My horse slipped, broke a leg.’

  ‘You are pale,’ said the second monk, even as he thumped on the inner door, which opened in answer. In the courtyard beyond stood a child swathed in woollen robes, holding a lantern, its light fighting feebly against the night.

  ‘Frostbitten, I’d wager,’ she replied, shuffling into the gap of the second doorway, where she paused to squint at the second monk.

  ‘Too even in tone for—’ began the man.

  The knife-point pushed through the rags wrapped about Lieutenant Esk’s hand, driving up beneath the monk’s chin. As the man toppled back into the arms of his fellow, Esk reached out with her other hand, and a second knife hammered into the side of the child’s head. Releasing her grip on that weapon, she leapt to close with the first monk, thrusting with the knife, filling his left eye socket with cold iron, burying it to the hilt.

  Letting go of that weapon as well, Esk hurried to the outer door and pulled up the latches. She leaned against the portal until it swung free.

  Crouched amidst swirling snow just beyond waited her soldiers. At her gesture, they hurried in to crowd the gatehouse.

  ‘Take that boy’s body – drag it in here. Scuff up that snow, and see the lantern brought inside – no, no need to light it again. Across the courtyard is the main house. You, Pryll, stay here with Corporal Paralandas. When the first squads arrive, send them to the east building – that’s the barracks – in case they manage to break out. Sergeant Telra, take your three to the barracks. Bar the doors and be liberal with the oil, especially round the windows. Set it all alight as soon as you’re ready. Rathadas, you and Billat are with me – to the main house. All right, then, let’s go about our work – I’m freezing my tits off out here.’

  No alarm was raised as Esk and her soldiers set out across the compound. Somewhere on the track west of the monastery, her commander would be leading the remaining troops. Should the warrior monks sequestered in the barracks awaken in time to force their way past the barricaded doors, Esk’s few squads would have a fight on their hands, but so long as they could hold the main gate until Bahann’s advance squads arrived, all would be well.

  The best outcome, of course, would be Hallyd Bahann arriving to the chorus of screams from the burning barracks.

  In the meantime, she had Higher Grace Sheccanto to hunt down. The woman was rumoured to be ill, bedridden. With Rathadas and Billat behind her, Esk opened the main building’s door and edged inside. Heat gusted round her, scented with the evening meal. Wicks had been turned down in the few lanterns left lit, and the three soldiers padded quietly into the main hall.

  Near the hearth was a pair of high-backed, padded chairs, and a figure was seated in one of them, his head tilted to one side, his eyes closed. Muffled beneath furs that someone had settled over him, only his head and his right hand were visible, the wrinkled skin grey-hued and slack in sleep.

  Esk approached him, drawing her sword.

  She drove the blade deep into the man’s neck, stepping up in the same instant to close her hand over his mouth. She watched his eyes open as the blade slid its way through his neck, and as the point erupted from the other side it made a sluice for a welter of blood. As he died, the man met the lieutenant’s gaze, but without comprehension. His last breath eased out from his
nostrils, painting Esk’s left hand in red. Now, the eyes looked at nothing.

  Pulling her sword free, she stepped back, looked round, and then whispered, ‘A high room, somewhere the heat rises. Central, away from any outer walls. Billat, take the lead on the stairs.’ But as she moved away, Rathadas reached out to stay her. He had drawn close to examine the dead man in the chair, and now with his other hand he held up the arm that had been hidden beneath the furs.

  ‘Lieutenant!’ he hissed.

  Even as he spoke, she saw the signet ring, and then the faded swirl of tattoos spiralling up the thin, pallid wrist.

  ‘You just murdered Skelenal!’

  Esk scowled. ‘What’s he doing here? Well, saves us a march down to Yedan monastery, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Royal blood—’

  ‘Be quiet, damn you. Do you actually think Hallyd Bahann was going to let them live?’

  Rathadas stepped back.

  Esk eyed both men, gauging the shock on their faces. ‘What the fuck did you expect to happen, you fools? This is a civil war. How crowded do you want the steps to the throne? We’re here, clearing the path. Skelenal’s dead. Now it’s time to see his wife join him.’

  By her measure, the barracks should have been fired by now, but thus far the storm’s wild gale was sweeping away all other sounds from outside. Despite this, someone in the main building would see the lurid glow of the flames before too long.

  ‘We have to move. Billat, you’re point on the stairs. Rathadas, cover my back. Let’s get going.’

  They were reluctant, as if dragging free of treacle, but Esk bit back on her frustration, her growing fury. Soldiers followed orders. This was unquestioned, beyond challenging. The Legion obeyed, making for a simpler, sweeter world. There was no need to fret about the royal blood staining her left hand, or its grislier counterpart still dripping from her sword. Skelenal was no king. He had elected to become a priest, to join an order worshipping a now dead god. In her mind, he’d simply made a bad cast of the bones, making his eventual murder if not inevitable, then likely.