‘Stiffen up, lads and lasses,’ growled Brevity. ‘They’re suspicious, is my guess. Not sure. But count on this: they’re coming.’
Someone moved past them then, burly, heavy in armour. Sergeant Cellows, the last of the prince’s own soldiers.
He made his way to position himself on Yedan Derryg’s left, drawing round and setting his shield, readying the heavy-bladed sword in his other hand. For some reason, his arrival, so solemn, so solitary, chilled Sharl to the core. She looked to her left and saw Yan Tovis. Standing, watching, a queen covered in blood – and how much of it belonged to her own subjects? But no, the question no longer mattered. Nor the fact that she had led them to this end.
‘We all end somewhere,’ she whispered.
Brevity heard and glanced over, spat blood, and then said, ‘That’s the truth of it, all right. The only truth there is.’
Sharl nodded, and somehow raised once more the sword in her hand. ‘I am ready, Captain.’
‘We all are, soldier.’
Behind them Sharl heard a low murmuring, the words we all end somewhere rippling out, taking hold, and soldiers slowly straightened, drawing up their weapons.
When the words followed the curve of waiting soldiers and at last reached Yan Tovis, Sharl saw her flinch as if struck, and she turned to look upon her people, saw them straightening, readying, saw the look on their battle-aged faces.
Their queen stepped back, then, into the gap. One stride, and then another, and all at once all eyes were upon her. Lightfall streamed down behind her. It could have been a thing of beauty and wonder. It could have been something other than a manifestation of terror and grief. But it was as if it ceased to exist for Yan Tovis as she scanned the faces, as she fixed her eyes upon the last thousand subjects of her realm.
And then, with even her brother looking on, the queen knelt. Not to the First Shore – not to this horror – but to her people.
In the swirling wound eight paces behind her, a row of spear points lashed out, scything empty air. And then, pushing through the miasma, fully armoured soldiers.
‘Shit,’ muttered Brevity. ‘That’s heavy infantry.’
Yan Tovis rose, swung to face her ancient foe. For a moment she seemed deaf to her soldiers, shouting for her to rejoin the line. For a moment, Sharl thought she might instead advance to meet them, and she saw the flank behind bristling up, as if to rush to join her – one last, suicidal rush. To die beside their queen. And oh, how Sharl longed to join them.
Then Yan Tovis turned her back on the enemy, re-joined her soldiers.
The first row of Liosan stepped clear of the wound, another following. They were shouting something, those Liosan, shouting in triumph a single word – but Sharl could not make it out.
Yedan Derryg’s voice rang out above their cries. ‘All lines! Advance five!’
And there, four rows back of the Liosan front rank, a knot of officers, a single figure among them waving his sword – as if to cut down his own people – and they pressed back on all sides. And there, off to the right, another widening swirl of humanity, making space – and there, upon the left, the same. Sharl stared, unable to understand what they were—
The three isolated warriors then dissolved into blinding white light – and the light burgeoned, and inside that light, massive, scaled shapes, taking form. The flash of blazing eyes. Wings snapping out like galley sails.
And the dragon at the centre then rose into the air.
We all end somewhere.
We all end here.
As the centre ranks rose up to collide with the Liosan front line, Yedan Derryg, with Sergeant Cellows at his side, pushed forward. Five lines between him and that veering dragon. His only obstacle. But these were the elites, heavily armoured, perfectly disciplined.
He saw the other two Soletaken, one on each side, but there was nothing he could do about them. Not yet.
The Hust sword howled as he slammed into the front line. The blade was gorged on draconic blood. It had drunk deep the red wine of Hounds’ blood. It had bathed in the life-ends of a thousand Liosan soldiers. Now it shook off the chains of constraint.
So swiftly did it slash that Yedan almost lost his grip. He grunted to see the soldier before him cut through, shield, sword, chain, flesh and bone, diagonally down his torso, gore exploding out to the sides. A back swing split open the chests of the man to either side. Like a cestus, Yedan and the soldiers closest to him drove into the Liosan ranks.
The Hust sword spun, lashed out in blurs, blood sprayed. Yedan was tugged after it, stumbling, at times almost lifted from his feet as the weapon shrieked its glee, slaughtering all that dared stand before it.
All at once, there was no one between him and the Soletaken. The wreaths of white fire were pouring off the shining scales, the solid bulk of the dragon rising to fill Yedan Derryg’s vision.
Shit. Miscalculated. It’s going to get clear. Sister – I’m sorry. I’m too late.
The head lunged.
He leapt.
The sword sank deep into the dragon’s chest. The creature roared in shock and pain, and then the wings hammered at its sides, scattering Liosan and Shake alike, and the Soletaken lifted into the air.
Hanging from his sword, Yedan scrambled, fought his way on to the dragon’s shoulders. He tore his weapon free. Cut two-handed into its neck.
Twenty reaches above the melee, the creature pitched, canted hard and slammed into Lightfall.
The concussion thundered.
Yedan Derryg slid down over the dragon’s right shoulder, down between it and Lightfall.
The dragon’s neck bowed and the jaws plunged down to engulf him.
As they closed, the Hust sword burst from the top of the dragon’s snout. Wings smashing the wall of light, the giant reptile reared its head back, Yedan tumbling free, still gripping the sword.
He was caught by the talons of the Soletaken’s left foot, the massive claws convulsively clenching. Blood sprayed from the body it held.
Again the dragon careered into Lightfall, and this time a wing collapsed under the impact. Twisting, pitching head first, the creature slid downward. Slammed into the ground.
Yedan Derryg was thrown clear, his body a shattered mess, and where he fell, he did not move. At his side, the Hust sword howled its rage.
The journey through the forest by Rake’s last three Soletaken – Korlat, Prazek Goul and Dathenar Fandoris – had been as savage as fighting a riptide. Silanah was among the most ancient of all living Eleint. Her will tore at them, drove them to their knees again and again. Silanah called upon them, called them by name, sought her own summoning. Still, they managed to resist, but Korlat knew that to shift into draconic form would simply make it worse, the blood of the Eleint awakening in each of them, chaos unfurling in their souls like the deadliest flower. At the same time, she knew that there were Soletaken at the First Shore. She could feel them. And what could the Shake do against such creatures?
Only die.
The Liosan Soletaken would be able to resist Silanah – at least for a time – or perhaps indeed they could even defy her, if their own Storm, when it broke upon this world, was strong enough. And she feared it would be. This is not the taste of one or two Soletaken. No – gods, how many are there?
‘Korlat!’ gasped Dathenar.
‘I know. But we have no choice, do we?’
Prazek spat behind her and said. ‘Better to die in Kharkanas than anywhere else.’
Korlat agreed.
As they reached the rise, they saw a frenzied battle at the wound in Lightfall, and the Liosan soldiers now pouring from that breach vastly outnumbered the defenders. They saw a man do battle with a dragon rising skyward. Saw two Liosan warriors veering to join their winged kin.
They did not hesitate. Darkness bloomed, erupted like black smoke under water, and three black dragons rose above the strand.
As they closed, eight more Liosan veered, and the air filled with the roars of dragons.
&
nbsp; Yan Tovis dragged herself over corpses, trying to reach her brother’s horrifyingly motionless form. The two witches were taking the last from her – she felt each sorcerous wave they lashed into the flanking dragons, heard the Soletaken screaming in pain and outrage, and knew that all of it was not enough.
But they were stealing from her this one last act – this journey of love and grief – and the unfairness of that howled in her heart.
Soldiers fought around her, sought to protect their fallen queen. Bodies fell to either side. It seemed that the Liosan were now everywhere – the Shake and Letherii lines had buckled, companies driven apart, hacked at from all sides.
And still he seemed a thousand leagues away.
Draconic sorcery detonated. The bed of bodies beneath her lifted as one, and then fell back with a sound like a drum. And Yan Tovis felt a sudden absence. Skwish. She’s dead.
A trickle of strength returned to her, and she resumed pulling herself along.
Her bones were rattling to some distant sound – or was it inside her? Yes, inside, yet still … distant. As far away as hope. And that is a shore I will never reach. It shook through her. Shook even the corpses beneath her, and those to the sides.
Two stood to either side of her, two of her own, the last two, fighting.
She did not have to look to know who they were. The love filling all the empty spaces inside her now could take them in, like flavours. Brevity, who imagined that her friend Pithy was still with her, still fighting for the dignity they had always wanted, the dignity they’d once thought they could cheat and steal their way to find. Sharl – sweet, young, ancient Sharl, who knew nothing of fighting, who knew only that she had failed to save her brothers, and would not fail again.
There were all kinds of love, and, with wonder, she realized that she now knew them all.
Before her, five simple paces away – could she walk – lay the body of her brother.
Another concussion.
Pully. I am sorry.
There is no glory in dying young, unless you were old first.
No witches now to steal her strength. She lifted herself up, on to her hands and knees, and made for Yedan. As she drew up alongside, she saw the hand nearer her move.
Pulled herself up, knelt at his side, looked down into his face, the only part of him that had not been chewed and crushed beyond recognition. She saw his lips moving, leaned close.
‘Beloved brother,’ she whispered, ‘it is Yan.’
‘I see it,’ he whispered.
‘What do you see?’
‘I see it. Yan. It’s there, right before me.’ His broken lips smiled.
‘Yedan?’
‘At last,’ he sighed, ‘I am … home.’
Their queen and the body of their prince, they were now an island upon the sea, and the last of them gathered round, to hold its ever shrinking shoreline. And, above it all, three black dragons warred with ten white dragons, and then there were only two against ten.
Surrounding the island and its shore, the Liosan pushed in on waves of steel and fury. Theirs was the hunger of the ocean, and that was a hunger without end.
But the ground trembled. It shivered. And the source of that steady, drumming thunder was coming ever closer.
Leaning like a drunk on the dais, Nimander struggled for a way through this. It would seem that he had to veer, and soon, and then he would have to somehow resist Silanah’s will. He would have to fight her, try to kill her. But he knew he would fail. She would send his own kin against him, and the horror of the blood that would then spill was too much to bear.
Sandalath Drukorlat still sat on the throne, muttering under her breath. I could kill her. After all, do I not already have Tiste Andii blood on my hands? And then, should we by some miracle prevail here, why, a usurper could take this throne. That, too, has been done before.
And the new kingdom of Kharkanas shall be born in the ashes of murder. Yes, I could do that. But look upon her, Nimander – she does not even remember you. In her madness, I am my father. Sandalath, do you truly not remember? Withal and I – we lied to you. A terrible accident, the suicide that never was.
Shall I lie to you again?
No, I cannot.
There were ghosts in this palace – in this very room. He had never before felt such palpable presence, as if countless ages had awakened to this moment. As if all of the fallen had returned, to witness the end of every dream.
‘Apsal’ara,’ he whispered. ‘I need you.’
Came an answering whisper, ‘It’s not her you need.’
Smiling down on the broken form of Anomander Rake, Sandalath slowly drew her dagger. But he doesn’t have the sword. He hasn’t done what he vowed to do. How can I kill him now?
Look at him, though! This … thing. Against mighty Draconus? Impossible. I suspected it, back on the island. That broken window, the body lying on the cobbles. How few his followers then, how pathetic his lack of control.
A new voice spoke. ‘Orfantal will die if you do not release Silanah.’
Sandalath looked up. Her eyes widened. A ghost stood before her, where Anomander – in that bold, deceitful moment of bluster – had been a moment earlier. A woman, young, and she knew her – no, I do not. I will not. I refuse. How can my thoughts summon?
Silanah? Who was speaking of her? Was it me?
To the ghost standing before her, she growled, ‘I do not know you.’
Smiling, the ghost said, ‘But you do. You knew me all too well, as I recall. I am Phaed. My brother,’ and she gestured down to Anomander, ‘is of such honour that he would rather give you your end, here and now, than hurt you further. Nor will he threaten you with what he cannot do in any case – no matter what the cost – to his people, to those doomed humans upon the First Shore.’
‘I only want my son,’ Sandalath whispered. ‘He took him, and I want him back!’
‘This is not Anomander Rake,’ Phaed said. ‘This is his son. How can you not remember, Sandalath Drukorlat? Upon the islands, across the vast seas – you took us in, as if we were your children. Now Nimander is here, begging you to release Silanah – to end the destruction of Kharkanas.’
Sandalath sneered. ‘I can taste lies – they fill this room. Ten thousand lies built this keep, stone by stone. Remember what Gallan said? “At the roots of every great empire you will find ten thousand lies.” But he was not blind then, was he? I never trusted you, Phaed.’
‘But you trusted Nimander.’
She blinked. Nimander? ‘You are right – he does not lie. What a damned fool, just like his father, and see where it has got us.’
‘Your son Orfantal will die, Sandalath Drukorlat, unless you release Silanah.’
‘Orfantal! Bring him to me.’
‘I will, once you relinquish the throne and all the power it grants you. Once you free Silanah from your will.’
She licked her lips, studied the ghost’s strangely flat eyes. I remember those eyes, the knowing in them. Knowing that I knew the truth of her. Phaed. Venal, conscienceless. ‘You are the liar among us!’
Phaed cocked her head, smiled. ‘I never liked you, it’s true. But I never lied to you. Now, do you want to see your son or not? This is what I offer.’
She stared at the ghost, and then looked down at Anoman— no, Nimander. ‘You have never lied to me, Nimander. Does your sister speak true?’
‘Do not ask him!’ Phaed snapped. ‘This negotiation is between you and me. Sandalath, you of all people should understand what is going on here. You know the way of Hostages.’
‘Orfantal is not a Hostage!’
‘Events have changed things – there are new powers here.’
‘That is not fair!’
Phaed’s laugh stabbed like a knife. ‘The Hostage whimpers at the unfairness of it all.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Oh, shall I show some mercy, then?’
‘Stop it!’
‘Very well,’ said Phaed, ‘I will give you this
… gift. Retire to the chamber in the tower, Sandalath. You know the one. Lock the door from within, so that no one else may enter. Remain there. Await your son. And when he comes, why, then you can unlock your door. To take him into your arms.’
My room. My sweet, perfect room. If I wait there. If I hide there, everything will be all right. Tears streamed down Sandalath’s face. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘My son.’
‘Will you yield the throne?’ Phaed asked. ‘It must be now. Once you have done that, then you can go to your room, Sandalath. Where you will be safe, and where you can wait for him.’
There was no end, it seemed, to what could spill down from her eyes. She rose, the dagger falling to clatter on the stones. My room, yes. It’s safe there. I have the lock, there at the door. The lock, to keep me safe.
Silanah – hear me. I will see my son! They will bring him to me! But first, I must release you. Eleint, you are free.
And soon, we will all be free. All of us hostages. We will finally be free.
After Sandalath Drukorlat, making sounds like an excited child, had rushed from the throne room, Nimander looked across at the ghost of Phaed.
Who stared back, expressionless. ‘I vowed to haunt you. My brother. My killer. To torment you for the rest of your days. Instead, you deliver me … home.’
His eyes narrowed on her, suspicious – as he knew he would always be, with this one.
‘Join your kin, Nimander. There is little time.’
‘What of you?’ he demanded.
Phaed seemed to soften before his eyes. ‘A mother will sit in a tower, awaiting her son. She will keep the door locked. She will wait for the sound of boots upon the stairs. I go to keep her company.’
‘Phaed.’
The ghost smiled. ‘Shall we call this penance, brother?’
Blows rang, skittered off his armour, and beneath the banded ribbons of iron, the scales and the chain, his flesh was bruised, split and crushed. Withal swung his mace, even as a spear point gouged a score above the rim of his helm, twisting his head round. He felt a shield shatter beneath his attacking blow, and someone cried out in pain. Half blinded – blood was now streaming down the inside of his helm, clouding the vision of his left eye – he pushed forward to finish the Liosan.