Fall of Light
Authors: Steven Erikson
FALL OF LIGHT
Steven Erikson
A Tom Doherty Associates Book
New York
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PURAKE HOLD
Anomander
Andarist
Silchas Ruin
Kellaras
Prazek
Dathenar
TULLA HOLD
Hish Tulla
Venes Turayd
Rancept
Sukul Ankhadu (hostage)
Gripp Galas
DRETH HOLD
Drethdenan
Horult Chiv
Sekarrow
DRACONS HOLD
Draconus
Spite
Envy
Ivis
Yalad
Sandalath Drukorlat (hostage)
HOUSE DURAV
Spinnock Durav
Faror Hend
VANUT HOLD
Lady Degalla
Jureg Thaw
Lord Vanut Degalla
Syl Lebanas
THE CITADEL AND PRIESTHOOD
Mother Dark
Emral Lanear
Endest Silann
Cedorpul Ahras
Rise Herat
Orfantal
Ribs
HUST
The Forge Works
Hust Henarald
The Hust Legion
Toras Redone
Galar Baras
Seltin Ryggandas
THE SHAKE
The Yannis Monastery
Sheccanto Derran
Warlock Resh
Caplo Dreem
The Yedan Monastery
Higher Grace Skelenal
Witch Ruvera
URUSANDER’S LEGION
Scara Bandaris
Ilgast Rend
Esthala
Kagamandra Tulas (Shorn)
Tathe Lorat
Sheltatha Lore
Infayen Menand
Sharenas Ankhadu
Hallyd Bahann
Sagander
THE BORDERSWORDS
Lahanis
THE DENIERS
Wreneck
Narad
Glyph
THE PRISONERS
Wareth
Listar
Rebble
Rance
THE WARDENS
Calat Hustain
Faror Hend
Spinnock Durav
Bursa
Finarra Stone
NERET SORR (TOWN OF)
Vatha Urusander
Hunn Raal
Serap
Sevegg
Renarr
Syntara
The Tiste: Holds, Greater and Lesser Houses, Priesthood and Court
So
THEY LUST FOR BLOOD. POETS KNOW ITS TASTE, BUT SOME KNOW IT
better than others. A few are known to choke on it. Stand at a distance, then, and make violence into a dance. Glory in its sounds, in the mayhem and those stern expressions that seem better suited to an unpleasant task completed with reluctant forbearance. There is for the audience that glee of admiration in the well-swung sword, the perfect thrust, the cold, professional face with the flat eyes. Revel, then, in the strut, and see something enticing in the grim camaraderie of failed men and women—
Failed? You say many do not see that? Oh dear.
Shall I then offer up the reek of shit and piss? The cries for loved ones far away? The hopeless longing for a mother’s embrace to ease the pain and the terror, to bless the gentle slowing of the hammering heart? Shall I describe the true faces of violence? The twist of fear, the heaviness of dread, the panic that rushes in a surge of blood, a surge that drains the visage and bulges the eyes? But what value any of this, when to feel is to acknowledge the frailty of one’s own soul, and such frailty must ever be denied in the public swagger that so many find essential, lest they lose grip.
Indeed, I would think armour itself whispers of weakness. Tug free the helm’s strap, let your scalp prickle in the cool air. Strip down until you stand naked, and let’s see again that swagger.
There are poets who glory in their recounts of battle, of all those struggles so deftly ritualized. And they tend lovingly their garden of words, heaping high the harvest of glory, duty, courage and honour. But each of those luscious, stirring words is plucked from the same vine, and alas, it is a poisonous one. Name it necessity, and look well upon its spun strands, its fibrous belligerence.
Necessity. The soldiers attack, but they attack in order to defend. Those they face stand firm, and they stand firm to defend as well. The foes are waging war in self-defence. Consider this, I beg you. Consider this well and consider this long. Choose a cool dusk, with the air motionless, with dampness upon the ground. Draw away from all company and stand alone, watching the dying sun, watching the night sky awaken above you, and give your thoughts to necessity.
