Fall of Light

  Scabandari threw himself clear of his toppling, thrashing mount, his ears filling with its mortal screams. Rolling, he regained his feet, dragging free his sword even as the third wolf spun round to launch itself at him.

  His backhand swing caught the creature on its right shoulder, enough to push its momentum to one side – the jaws snapped empty air a hand’s breadth from his face, hot blood and warm spit spraying against his right cheek. Stepping further round, he plunged the sword’s point behind the Jheleck’s shoulder blade, pushing hard to reach the heart.

  Coughing, the Jheleck fell on to its side, the motion nearly pulling the sword from Scabandari’s grip. Regaining his hold – frantically unaware of where the last wolf was – he tugged the weapon free and staggered back.

  Growling, the last wolf crouched over the dead horse.

  The Tiste cursed under his breath. ‘Content with that, are you? Well, I’m not.’ He advanced.

  The wolf held its ground until the last moment, only to suddenly wheel and dart away, ten or twelve long strides, before spinning round again.

  Cursing a second time, Scabandari approached his dead mount. With one eye on the circling wolf, he retrieved what he could of his supplies, including the last two water-skins strapped to the saddle. Neither had burst with the animal’s fall – the one source of satisfaction in this whole travail thus far.

  Finally, with the skins over one shoulder, his bedroll, blanket and the remnants of dried foodstuffs in a pack slung over the other shoulder, he slowly backed away, sword held at the ready.

  When he had moved some distance from the kill-site, he saw the wolf close in to feed on the horse carcass.

  A true wolf would linger here for days, gorging itself on meat. But this Jheleck would desire vengeance for the slaying of its two kin. It would resume tracking him before too long. The next attack, the warrior guessed, would come at night.

  He trudged on, ever northward. The trail he had been following was more or less gone, but it had been unrelenting in its northerly push, and so he felt confident that he remained on Osserc’s heels.

  Close to dusk, he came upon Osserc’s dead horse, untouched by scavengers and only now bloating in the chill, dry winter air. Wayward winds from the east brought with them the biting acid of the Vitr – the shoreline had drawn closer here.

  He made a cursory examination of the carcass. Osserc had taken no meat from the beast, which seemed an odd oversight, but he had collected up the saddle and tack, which was downright bizarre. Shaking his head, he continued on.

  As the sun’s southerly light faded, he heard a howl in his wake.

  ‘Stupid pup. Even with your jaws on my throat, I’ll eviscerate you. It’s an exchange neither of us will win. By this, we proclaim our superior intelligence! Well, come along then, let us meet in the night, and between us raise yet another monument to foolishness.’ He paused in his steps, considering his words, and then nodded to himself. ‘Such delight resides in stating the obvious! As if mere words could tilt the world, sway it from its inevitable path. But then, what are we but the narrators of time’s senseless plunge ahead, with us pilgrims ever eager to raise banners wherever we make a stand. Yes, see me work the knife into this frozen earth …’ His words fell away as he saw, upon a rise ahead, two figures walking side by side, their backs to him.

  One had the look of an old man.

  The other was twice his companion’s height, serpent-tailed and leather-winged, a projecting, blunt snout making itself visible as the creature looked to left and to right in time with its slightly splayed strides.

  Scabandari slowed his steps.

  The wolf howled behind him, closer now. Close enough, as it turned out, for the two strangers to hear it, for they both halted and swung round.

  Sighing, he resumed his march. The strangers waited for him to catch up.

  The pale old man was the first to speak when Scabandari arrived. ‘You confound us,’ he said. ‘Where’s your saddle? I would have thought it majestically valuable, tooled by an artisan, or, perhaps, of leather supple enough to eat – rather than gamy horseflesh, one presumes.’

  ‘Wrong Tiste.’

  ‘Ah.’ The old man nodded. ‘Then … you pursue one before you?’

  ‘Not pursuit as such. More like … retrieval, as of a wayward child who has wandered off, unmindful of whatever modest responsibilities he might possess.’ He struggled to keep his eyes on the old man. The reptilian demon at the stranger’s side was repeatedly yawning, fangs clacking.

  ‘Well,’ the old man said, ‘children are like that. Now, as for the Soletaken on your trail …’

  ‘They wanted my horse. Two fell when I objected. The last one – the most witless of the three, I would imagine, but thus far the luckiest, now contemplates revenge.’

  ‘Not any more,’ the old man said, ‘as this faint breeze wanders south, and the Jheleck catches scent of Skillen Droe. You are safe enough, and since it seems that we walk the same path, you are welcome to accompany us.’

  ‘If it is not an imposition,’ Scabandari said.

  ‘Oh no,’ the old man said with a wan smile. ‘I would welcome proper conversation.’

  ‘Ah. Then your pet does not speak?’

  The giant creature now swung its elongated head to the old man and seemed to stare down at him for a long moment, before suddenly snapping open its wings and, with a beating of the cold air, lifting from the ground.

  ‘Skillen,’ said the old man, ‘concurs with your assessment. The surviving wolf is indeed appallingly stupid. He will chase it off. Failing that, he will rip it to pieces.’

  ‘Oh, I plead some mercy in that regard,’ Scabandari replied, even as the reptile rose higher into the air above them. ‘The herds are gone, after all. All hunters must hunt, all eaters of meat must eat meat.’

  ‘Generous of you,’ the old man said, with an expression filled with approval. ‘Skillen hears you and will consider your plea. It is sufficient, you will be relieved to know, to offset that insult about his being my pet.’

  ‘My apologies for misapprehending, sir.’

  ‘I am K’rul. My companion and I are Azathanai. And you, Tiste?’

  He bowed. ‘Scabandari, once of Urusander’s Legion, but now I suppose I must be considered a deserter.’

  ‘Yes, that explains your abandonment of Light’s blessing. It seems, Scabandari, that you march to the Grey Shore.’

  He was unsure of the meaning of that. ‘I seek to retrieve Urusander’s son, Osserc.’

  K’rul shrugged. ‘That may be as it may be, Scabandari, but your soul finds its own path.’

  ‘I know nothing of this Grey Shore.’

  ‘Nor should you, since it is yet to arrive.’

  Scabandari frowned, and then smiled. ‘I think I shall enjoy our conversations, K’rul.’

  ‘Then we shall be as two men dying of thirst finding the same wellspring bubbling up from the rock. Too long have I battled my companion’s infernal obduracy.’

  ‘He speaks, then?’

  ‘Somewhat.’

  Scabandari tilted his head in silent query.

  ‘With the empathy of a serpent and the largesse of a calculating bird of prey, Skillen Droe strains the value of converse.’

  Scabandari nodded. ‘I have heard that Azathanai prefer solitude, by and large, but I shall not enquire as to the exigency that has brought two together, for such an arduous journey.’

  K’rul’s smile faded. ‘No,’ he said, ‘best not. Ah, here returns my winged companion, with only a modest tuft of black hide in his talons.’

  Scabandari nodded again. ‘I thought I heard a distant yelp.’

  ‘That Jheleck brave will dine well on his story.’

  ‘He was a she,’ the Tiste replied. ‘But, as you say, K’rul. Tell me if you will, what lies ahead?’

  ‘Well, if this Osserc survived the walk, we shall no doubt find him. Beyond that, it is hard to know for certain. Excepting one thing.’

  ‘And that is
?’

  ‘We will have a conversation or two with a dragon, and if you can imagine my frustration with Skillen Droe, it is nothing compared to what I anticipate. Now, we are three again,’ he added as Skillen Droe landed nearby with a heavy thump. ‘And the place we all seek is not far now.’

  * * *

  ‘My apologies, Ardata,’ said Kanyn Thrall. The agony from his shattered leg rose in waves, and the puncture wounds in his chest ached with every strained breath he managed. ‘I failed you.’

  She stood looking down on him. ‘Are you chilled? You shiver and tremble. Has fever come upon you?’

  ‘I believe so,’ he replied. ‘Your ministrations may have failed as well. I hear voices. Women arguing and moaning in pleasure – this seems a strange union to me.’

  ‘They abuse Osserc,’ Ardata replied distractedly.

  He frowned up at her, even as he drew the furs tighter about himself. ‘Who?’

  ‘The dragons have assumed Tiste forms. They are Soletaken, it seems, and possess, I now suspect, ancient blood of the First Tiste. It explains their singular obsession with thrones, and power.’

  ‘Your thoughts are elsewhere, Ardata. I weary you—’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Kanyn Thrall. Self-pity is most unattractive. Yes, my mind is on other things. Specifically, should I endeavour to kill two dragons? Osserc’s soul will seal the gate, and then I must leave here, journeying south. I fear those bitches will simply pluck him free the moment I depart. The only reason they might not is fear of yet more Draconic rivals in this realm. Do you see my dilemma?’

  He studied her, jaws clenching as another wave of agony rippled through him. ‘My failing compounds it, then, and that, Ardata, is simple fact, not self-pity.’

  She crouched down beside him and set a cool hand upon his forehead. ‘You are afire, Thel Akai. Against this I can do nothing.’

  ‘Then leave me here and be on your way, Ardata.’

  ‘My wife has returned from the Vitr,’ she said. ‘Her memory is lost. I must find her. I must return her to me.’

  He nodded.

  After another moment, Ardata straightened. ‘It is a curious mercy,’ she said, ‘that I must now drag Osserc from the clutches of two insatiable women.’

  ‘Given what awaits him, yes, most curious.’

  ‘Fare well, Kanyn Thrall.’

  ‘And you, Ardata.’

  Even after she left the dusty chamber, he felt her presence. His fever had hatched a thousand spider eggs beneath his skin, and the creatures now swarmed. Let us not call this love, then. But still, woman, it seems your touch is eternal. Ah, bless me.

  * * *

  They heard the shrieking before they came within sight of the ruined temple. Scabandari glanced at K’rul. ‘Is this expected? Are we about to come upon some dread sacrifice to a long-dead god?’

  Ahead, wild firelight flared and flickered, limning in light the ragged lines of the temple. Above this, something vast and ominous hovered in the air, dull and throbbing crimson.

  In answer to Scabandari’s questions, K’rul sighed. ‘She hesitates. Not because her victim shrieks his terror at the fate awaiting him, but because she senses me and Skillen Droe.’

  In that moment two huge winged shapes lifted into the air, rising up to flank the suspended wound.

  Skillen Droe clacked his jaws and opened his own wings, but K’rul turned to his companion, one hand lifting. ‘A moment, assassin, if you please. Yes, they scented you, and know you for who you are.’

  If the demonic reptile made reply, Scabandari could not hear it, but he saw K’rul shrug.

  They continued on, approaching the temple grounds. Scabandari stared up at the dragons. Skillen Droe was not as large as they, and yet he sensed their fear and alarm. K’rul had named the creature assassin, after all. Yes, I can see that. In the southlands of the Forkassail there dwells a wasp that preys on spiders the size of my hand. Size means less than the venom of the sting, and I think now that Skillen Droe is a most venomous foe. ‘K’rul, you spoke of conversation with dragons, not battle.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Yet you bring this … companion.’

  ‘Yes. I need those dragons to listen to me.’

  ‘They are more likely to flee!’

  K’rul gestured again at Skillen Droe, as if dismissing a silent complaint. ‘No, that is not likely, Scabandari. Dragons have little comprehension of retreat. They tend to stand and fight, even when death is inevitable. A sound measure of their arrogance.’

  ‘More sound the measure of their stupidity!’

  ‘Yes, that too.’

  Something in that shrieking voice gnawed at Scabandari, and when it abruptly stopped he involuntarily quickened his pace. Reaching the first of the toppled columns, he saw before him a large bonfire. Beside it was a tall woman, her hair fiery red, her skin the hue of alabaster. At her feet was a huddled, weeping form.

  Scabandari flinched as Skillen Droe sailed past him to land heavily close to the woman.

  Breathing hard, K’rul came up behind Scabandari. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘unfortunate.’

  ‘That man at her feet,’ said Scabandari, ‘is the man I came to find.’

  ‘I surmised as much. Alas, my friend, his soul is destined to seal the gate of Starvald Demelain.’

  Baring his teeth, Scabandari drew his sword. ‘I think not.’

  ‘You cannot stand against this,’ K’rul said. ‘If the gate is not sealed, more Eleint shall come, not by the score, but by the thousands. This realm shall be destroyed in their senseless fury, for those dragons will war one upon the other. And should the Storm of the Mother manifest—’

  ‘Enough dire prophecy,’ Scabandari snapped. ‘That is the only son of Lord Urusander. His father needs him, if only to be reminded of the world to come. But more than that, Kurald Galain needs him.’ He moved forward, directly towards the red-haired woman, who had at last turned to face the newcomers. Something avid in her gaze made him stop in his tracks.

  She offered him little more than a flicker of attention before unveiling a glare at K’rul. ‘You! Ah, now I see. This sorcery is your doing. Idiot. How does it defy me?’

  ‘You are Azathanai,’ K’rul replied. ‘My blood is not for you.’

  ‘You have interrupted me,’ she said then, with a momentary glance directed at Skillen Droe. ‘And you! I told you I never wanted to see you again!’

  The look the reptilian assassin sent back at K’rul seemed somehow plaintive.

  K’rul shook his head and then spoke again to the woman. ‘Ardata, tell the dragons to return. Skillen Droe is not here to shed blood. We have bargains to make, with you all.’

  ‘Bargains?’ Ardata’s smile was not particularly pleasant. ‘Oh, those two will enjoy that.’

  Scabandari pointed the tip of his sword at Ardata. ‘Osserc is under my protection,’ he said. ‘Find another sacrifice.’

  The woman scowled, and then shrugged before stepping back. ‘It seems our options have expanded. Come ahead then and wipe his nose, but should I decide that indeed Osserc remains the best choice, I will kill you to get to him, if necessary.’ She gestured down at the huddled form. ‘Is he worth that?’

  Osserc looked up suddenly, eyes wide and red. They fixed upon Scabandari and he shrieked, ‘Take him instead!’

  The dragons no longer hovered, though Scabandari could not recall seeing them depart, but now two Tiste women emerged from the gloom.

  ‘Look, Curdle, another warrior! One for each of us!’

  K’rul cleared his throat. The sound was modest and yet it drew everyone’s attention. ‘We face a quandary to be sure,’ he said. ‘Ardata, neither Osserc nor Scabandari here is suitable for sealing Starvald Demelain.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that the surviving Tiste of this world all carry the blood of the Eleint. It is the chaos at the core of their souls. If you send Osserc’s soul into the gate, he will seal nothing. Indeed, he will act as a clarion call to your kin. The
same for Scabandari.’

  Ardata whirled on the two Tiste women. ‘And did you know this?’ she demanded.

  The one named Curdle shrugged. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Possibly not,’ the other added.

  ‘Then you bargained falsely!’

  Curdle’s brows lifted and she turned to her companion. ‘Did we, Telorast? I can’t recall.’

  ‘You asked for the pup and … what else? Oh yes, that thing about Kilmandaros. That was all of it, I’m sure, Curdle. So, no, we did not bargain falsely.’

  ‘Just as I thought,’ Curdle replied. She turned to Ardata. ‘The decision to use Osserc was yours, Ardata. It had nothing to do with us. But I might have hinted, being naturally generous, at the risk of aspected gates.’

  ‘She failed in taking the hint,’ Telorast observed, with a look of stern reproach at Ardata. ‘The Azathanai think themselves so clever.’

  ‘Eleint,’ said K’rul, ‘Skillen Droe is here seeking redemption. He has offered, in just this moment, to seal the gate with his soul.’

  Scabandari caught faint motion from the entrance to the temple, and he turned to see a huge figure hobbling into the firelight. He backed up to stand before Osserc, who still kneeled, and risked a glance down. ‘Milord? I think it is time to return home, do you not agree?’

  Wiping at his face, Osserc nodded. ‘I have been … Scabandari, I have been sorely abused.’

  ‘Indeed, milord.’ A moment later, Scabandari’s attention was drawn back to the two Tiste women, both of whom now strode closer.

  ‘Most generous,’ Curdle said in a faintly awed whisper. ‘The Slaughterer of Dragons seeks redemption. Did not honour die long ago? It seems not. Well then, on behalf of my kin, living and slain, I accept your offer, Skillen Droe. Seal Starvald Demelain.’

  ‘There is a catch,’ K’rul said.

  Both women snapped their attention to him. ‘Ah, hear this, Curdle?’ crooned Telorast. ‘It could never be so easy, could it?’

  ‘I have need of you two,’ said K’rul. ‘In fact, I have need of all the Eleint who have come into this realm.’

  ‘What manner of need?’ Curdle demanded.

  ‘Guardianship.’