Fall of Light (103 page)

Poor Cage. So bitterly perfect in his naming – he’d found his knowing a prison, tormented by what he could not ignore.

And then there were two widows, not just the one, and the village was in need of a blacksmith.

While I, poor apprentice, not yet ready, not yet recovered, I needed a new village.

There are all kinds of betrayals. By the Abyss, that wide-eyed boy who was me learned that fast enough. Fuck one thing and it fucks everything else.

The Legion found me and then pressed me into service. There was a war to fight. As if I cared. I remember my first sight of you, Hunn Raal—

Snarling, Hunn Raal choked off Bilikk’s voice – the squalid memories, each one crowding the next as they mapped out the dull lessons of a dull life. He had no interest in such things, but there was new knowledge in his muscles and bones, skill behind his measuring eye, a timbre to his senses. He knew the art of the forge now.

Stolen talent, stolen skill.

It’d be useful to learn how this is done—

The fire bitch’s harsh laughter echoed in his skull.
‘Then aspire to godhood, Hunn Raal! But no, not even godhood. Become an elemental force, a disembodied will, a flavour in the air, a stain upon the ground.

‘The First Forge’s gift to you will not last, in any case. Once we leave this realm, the ghost of your blacksmith will flee your wretchedly mortal body. You cannot hold what would not have you. Anything else is possession, and I assure you, Hunn Raal, you would not like possession.’

‘Then we’re wasting time here,’ Hunn Raal said. ‘I have a sceptre to forge.’

‘Then descend into the fires, Mortal Sword. I will await your return.’

A sudden suspicion took him and he scowled down at the thigh bone in his hand. ‘Dog or wolf. This creation will not belong to Light – not in its entirety.’

‘My reward for this bargain, Hunn Raal. By your blessed Light I will see. A privilege I do not mean to abuse, I assure you.’

‘A detail you’d rather the High Priestess knew nothing about, I take it.’

‘True enough. Only you.’

‘Then I in turn might make use of your … sight.’

‘I expect you will. Now go.’

He glanced over at the kneeling corpse beside him.
Just as well. Saves me killing him later.

  *   *   *

Old things returned to life exuded an air of fragility that no amount of polish, paint or gilt could hide. Resurrection was an illusion, as what returned was never the same as what had gone away, although a careless glance might suggest otherwise. That, or the willing blindness of belief.

Lord Vatha Urusander’s armour was brought to him. Freshly oiled, lacquered and bearing new leather straps. The vambraces to sheathe his wrists were newly painted, inlaid with a gold sunburst. A breastplate of white enamelled wood, fringed in gold filigree. A fur-lined cloak of crimson, embroidered with gold thread. Only the weapon-belt and its scabbarded sword remained unadorned.

As he was dressed by his servants, Urusander stood motionless, and upon his lined face there was no emotion. Then he spoke. ‘In my mind, I see Kadaspala. Paintbrush between his teeth, three more balanced in one hand. He eyes this regalia with a jaded disposition, and yet nods at its political necessity. He would play that role. Purveyor of legend. The elevation of the banal into myth.’

Renarr, seated in her usual chair, tilted her head and said, ‘In such pose, Father, you more invite the artist who works in stone, or bronze.’

‘They battle each other for permanence, I’m sure,’ Urusander muttered. ‘But my thoughts are on Kadaspala. Some thought him an inveterate complainer, a wallower in misery. Some voiced their dismissal of him with careless ease, as if from a position of intellectual superiority, or at least wizened pragmatism. How that always angered me.’

‘He was well able to fight his own battles,’ Renarr pointed out, watching the servants cinch straps and fasten buckles, fussing over the falling folds of the cloak.

‘Against such fools, nothing he could say would shake them from their judgement.’

‘No, nothing would,’ she agreed. In the compound below, officers of the Legion had gathered, flinging jests and laughter as they readied their mounts or checked weapons. Captain Tathe Lorat had collected her daughter for this, under the wary eye of Infayen Menand, and by all reports Hunn Raal was still missing.

‘So it falls to me,’ Urusander continued. ‘I am disinclined to ignore stupidity, no matter how seemly its garb. Oh, I do not decry the act of judgement itself, or even the notion of righteous opinion. Rather, it is the tone I so despise. No, their dismissal proclaims nothing that is intellectually superior. And the insult behind their judgement fails to hide their venal paucity of wisdom. Every fool eager with an opinion invites the same judgemental weapons wielded against
them.
As in a field of battle, all is fair. Would you not – no, give me that belt, I’ll set my own sword, damn you – would you not agree, Renarr?’

‘Stunted intellects are rarely stung by such judgement, Father.’

‘Then let us drag them into the clearing, into the light. I am no artist. I am simply a soldier. I will call them out and challenge their defence, such as it is.’

‘You’ve not the audience,’ Renarr replied.

After a moment, Urusander sighed. ‘No. I have not.’

‘In any case,’ she continued, ‘I am less forgiving of the notion that all opinions are equally valid. Some are just plain ignorant.’

Urusander grunted. ‘Leave me now,’ he said to the servants, and watched as they hurried from the room. He faced Renarr. ‘My mind is diminished with age. I lack the verisimilitude of years past. Worse yet, my fires have ebbed. Awaiting me now, Renarr, is the desire to dispense with contemplation. Have done with the musings that so afflict the artist who sees too much, who knows too well, who would defy the rush of base appetites. A battle awaits us. Let us ride to meet it.’

She rose then, collecting her own cloak. ‘You have set your mind as well as your sword.’

Urusander paused, and then sighed. ‘No matter the outcome, this battle will be my last.’

She studied him, but said nothing.

He stood, still possessing all his airs of command, the grace of competence, while beneath all the gilt, the surficial propriety, something broken hid its swollen face.

Duty, it seems, is a harsh mistress to this man. We are invited to sympathy.

But see him march to the river of blood.

‘Will you ride at my side?’ he asked.

‘Father, from this moment on, I’ll not leave it.’

The swollen face lifted then, revealed itself to her, and she saw it clearly.

Well, that is no surprise, is it? We hide our own, each and every one of us. Bruised and beaten by injustice.

And in that child’s face, so bloated with tears, she saw hope.

Oh, how the lessons of betrayal are so quickly forgotten.

  *   *   *

From the high wall of the keep, High Priestess Syntara had looked down upon the curled snake of Urusander’s Legion, watching how it seemed to ripple in the dawn. Steam rose from it as if the entire creature had just crawled out from the earth, mixing with the smoke from the town’s forge, where a fire had burned the building and its yard to the ground, taking with it at least four people, including the Legion’s blacksmith. Townsfolk had fought that fire through the night, finally quenching it just before dawn.

The Legion’s tail half encircled the town, but its blunt head was angled facing south. The image remained with her as she led her procession down into the courtyard, cutting through the gathered officers awaiting the arrival of Urusander.

She was not inclined to join them. While the soldiers of the Legion still turned to their commander in all things, the faith and its sacred servants did not bow to that now insufficient military structure. Until Urusander was made Father Light, he was nothing more than the leader of an army.

This serpent is mine, and we holy servants of Light shall lead the van. With blinding venom, we shall be its fangs. Best Urusander understand this immediately. Best this lesson be delivered to every officer here, and every soldier down below.

Their petty lust for wealth and land is too base for the righteousness awaiting us.

Still Hunn Raal was nowhere to be seen.

If he’ll not be first, surely he’ll be last. The Mortal Sword desires a vast audience, presumably. Or, perhaps, he’s lying insensate in some alley … though I should not hope for such an unlikely ignominy.

I will find me a destriant of the faith. I must choose my champion, a worthy foil to our Mortal Sword. Perhaps among the highborn, or in the Citadel itself.

Passing through the gate in solemn silence, the High Priestess and her flock, one and all brocaded in white, set out down the cobbled track.

  *   *   *

‘The whore has airs,’ murmured Tathe Lorat, watching the procession pass. Torches and lanterns, fine flowing robes of bleached and crushed wool threaded in starburst patterns, and skin so pale as to be cadaverous. She grunted. ‘See how bloodless we seem.’

Infayen Menand set her hand against her mount’s muzzle, letting it breathe in her scent. It had been too long since they had last ridden to battle. The horse was getting on.
She might even fail beneath me. A fitting demise for us both. But she’ll taste my eagerness to take down Houseblades – those privileged betrayers so quick to sell their blades to the highborn. She’ll answer me one more time.

‘I set little weight to this faith,’ Tathe Lorat continued in a low voice. ‘Not enough, fortunately, to see this porcelain tarnished. It seems kind to indifference.’

‘If Light blesses,’ Infayen said, ‘it does so indiscriminately. It will touch every scene, from sweet bliss to sweet horror. The scouts make no report of your husband’s imminent return. Are you concerned?’

‘Indeed I am. Incompetence will win us no favours.’

‘And if you had set out to hunt down Sharenas Ankhadu?’

Tathe Lorat bared her teeth. ‘Her head would ride my company’s standard, and on this morning its rotted visage would be mere tatters of flesh on bone.’

Infayen frowned. ‘Hallyd has some capacity for command, Tathe Lorat. You denigrate him for reasons well hidden behind the flag you’re now waving. Contempt blinds both ways.’

Tathe Lorat glanced towards her daughter, who stood a short distance away, lithe and relaxed with her back resting against a wall.

Seeing this, Infayen’s frown deepened.
Would that Sharenas had found your tent first that night, Tathe Lorat. But no matter. You’ll not take your daughter under wing again.

Infayen was eager for the battle ahead. The first spilling of highborn blood had been by her hand, after all, a detail none could take away from her.
Though my soldiers lost their discipline. The Enes clan fought too well. Blood ran high, especially when Cryl Durav appeared. The rape was a crime too far. Well, even in war there can be regrets.

But we’ll be laying in rows plenty of highborn corpses before this is done, to give the Enes clan company. Sometimes, privilege needs a serious fucking over, to send the message home. And now, it must be said, outrage serves as a banner for both sides. The fighting will be fierce.

I only pray that I can cross blades with Andarist, if not Silchas Ruin. Perhaps even Anomander.
Few could agree on which of the three was best with the sword. But by nature, Anomander still seemed the most formidable.
If I find him wounded on the field, or exhausted. If I catch him unawares. If he stumbles, slips in bloody mud.

The details would be lost, in time. The truth would be made simple.
The day the Houseblades of the highborn fell, Infayen Menand slew Lord Anomander Purake on the field of battle, and thus died the First Son of Darkness.

It was hardly surprising that the surviving brothers then murdered her. Besides, the Menand bloodline was ever fated …

‘Your smile is cold, Infayen Menand.’

She glanced across at Tathe Lorat. ‘Where will it take place, do you think?’

‘What?’

‘The battle, what else?’

‘Tarns.’

Infayen nodded. ‘Yes. Tarns. Urusander will see to it.’

‘They’ll not risk damaging Kharkanas itself. The city is, after all, the prize.’

That city means nothing to me. I’d be just as happy to see it burn.
‘Where Urusander will be made king.’

‘Father Light.’

Infayen shrugged.
The only title of interest to me shall be mine. Infayen Menand, Slayer of the First Son of Darkness.
A chance shifting of her gaze caught Sheltatha Lore’s eyes fixed upon her. After a long moment, Tathe’s daughter smiled.

Infayen’s unease was momentary, and quickly forgotten with the arrival of Lord Urusander.

Their commander was not one for speeches, but Infayen felt the sudden rise of excitement and anticipation. It was finally coming to pass.
We march to Kharkanas, and there will be justice.

  *   *   *

They had managed only a hundred and fifty wicker shields, so Captain Hallyd Bahann paired up his three hundred soldiers, one to bear the shield and the other to wield weapons. The forest line ahead was patchy, broken up by the vagaries of fire and stumps left by past cutting. The snow on the ground looked dirty, crusted and hard and not yet softened by the morning light.

The morning light. Such as it is. What goddess is she that invites gloom? That dims her realm, as if we were all on the edge of losing consciousness?

He was still flush with his triumph at the monastery, though the victory had proved bloodier than anticipated. Sending the children out on to the south track to walk to Yedan panged him somewhat. The winter was reluctant to yield its bitter harvest of cold and snow. But they had been warmly clad, dragging sleds on which provisions had been stored. If they didn’t lose the trail, they would already be at the monastery, warm and safe.