Fall of Light (137 page)

His fear circled the emptiness, terrified of slipping and plunging into that unknown. Yet the panic he felt was somehow constrained, trapped in its mad circling. There was nowhere to run to, no ‘away’ in the midst of this press of bodies. He had believed that he would escape this fate, remaining among the commanders in their place at some high vantage point, well away from the actual fighting. Instead, Toras Redone had seen through him, her sodden gaze too knowing, her recollection of him uncanny in its detail.
What source her omniscience? How so easily her striking home, and that smile! She knew too well my mind, this drunken goddess. Who now cups my soul in one hand, rolls me to the fore, no less and no more than just another piece in this dread game.

He imagined himself now, a skein of tangled threads at the mercy of the artist, woven in fate, just one more life made immortal in this panoply of stupidity. He saw his likeness upon a greasy wall, almost lost in some wick-addled corridor, a thing to pass in life’s bright-spark scurry, while his own colours dulled to candlesmoke and dust, and the knotted threads of his eyes faded to the senseless march of decades, and then centuries.

What manner the ritual of those Bonecaster witches? What truth now caps my soul, set down by their infernal dance? I see it blank. I circle it in terror, fearing my fall, my steps round and round in furious haste, tottering, slipping, catching, wheeling and reeling – oh, gods!

As the iron wept, the prisoners stood unmoving and made no sound, not a mutter, not a sigh. While, upon the other side of the valley, Urusander’s Legion shook out to form solid ranks. Bleached faces in the distance, iron polished almost white, now the hue of bone in the faltering light.

Wareth of the Pit, oh yes, he fell that day. ’Tis said the artist caught him, there in that front line of the Hust Legion. Toras Redone promised the coward a quick death. There was mercy in that, don’t you think?

Prazek and Dathenar? Why, they held the flanking companies. But in that moment – so I’m told – even they said nothing. The poet soldiers were struck silent, muted by the iron’s grief. And that sound! From the helm, piercing the skull to run riot in the brain – that was no battle cry! That was no promise of glorious victory. The Dog-Runner witches cursed them one and all, those poor fools of the Hust!

‘But you don’t know,’ he whispered. ‘You weren’t there. The witches promised us truth, and we were on the edge of it. Here, in this moment. We all felt it. We all trembled before it. And the iron? This dread keening? Why, it is the sound of knowing.’

The Hust iron grieves, and it grieves for us.

He looked across at the enemy ranks, and felt pity.

  *   *   *

Renarr rode with Lord Urusander to where Hunn Raal and the other captains now gathered, positioned centrally as the Legion assembled in ordered ranks along the ridgeline to either side. She reined in a few moments before Urusander and watched him continue on, pushing his horse forward until he reached the very edge, where he stared across at the enemy.

‘They mean to make a fight of this,’ Hunn Raal said, his voice carrying. ‘Or so they would have us believe. I for one am unconvinced.’

Renarr saw Urusander glance at Hunn Raal, but he said nothing and a moment later returned his attention to the ranks lining the far side of the valley.

‘I see Lord Anomander’s standard!’ said Infayen Menand, half rising in her stirrups. ‘He defies Mother Dark! Mortal Sword, I beg that you allow my company to face him!’

Hunn Raal laughed. ‘As you wish, captain. Ride to your cohort, then. Inspire them with a bold speech. Promise them glory and loot. Go on, Infayen, lift yet again the honour of the Menand bloodline.’

She studied him quizzically, as if uncertain of his tone, but then wheeled her horse round and set off.

Still smiling, Hunn Raal raised a flask to his lips and drank down three quick mouthfuls. ‘Lord Urusander,’ he said, ‘glad you could join us. Under normal circumstances, I would of course yield to your genius for tactics and whatnot. Alas, this will not be a battle for clever manoeuvres. Even your legendary cunning, commander, will but flail in what is to come.’

‘You remain determined to bring sorcery to this battle, Hunn Raal?’

‘I do, Lord Urusander. We are past a
civil
war. Now, two faiths are about to collide. Which camp of the faithful has prepared best for this? Let’s find out, shall we?’

‘And if your magic is answered in kind, captain?’

Hunn Raal shrugged. ‘Make your faith a wall against which the enemy will scrabble, desperate for purchase, eager for a breach. The strength of your belief is proof against such things.’ He twisted in his saddle to regard Urusander. ‘Do you doubt me, sir?’

‘And will the confession of doubt see my corpse laid out in the field below?’

Hunn Raal shrugged. ‘I do not anticipate you riding down into the press, sir. If you do, no assurances are possible.’

‘And the failing shall be mine.’

‘Make your faith a wall.’

Urusander said nothing for a moment, as if considering all that hid behind Hunn Raal’s words, and then he seemed to cast away all that troubled him. ‘Walls may shield you, but they blind you as well, Hunn Raal. Will you make faith synonymous with ignorance? If so, I shall with great interest observe this battle, and, to your satisfaction, I shall do so from here.’

Hunn Raal’s laugh was easy, almost careless. He gestured and a number of his own guards edged their mounts forward, moving until they in effect surrounded Urusander. ‘I acknowledge your courage, sir. Contrary to your promise, it has occurred to me that you might be of a mind to ride down into the valley, not with your soldiers, but alone, to parley with Lord Anomander. Seeking a path to peace, an end to this battle before it is even begun.’

Urusander made no immediate reply, and then he shrugged. ‘I see now that peace is no longer a possibility.’

‘Not here. Not yet. Peace, sir, will but delay the inevitable. We are here in strength. A year from now, with each captain off building estates and breaking new land, we become vulnerable. We need this battle. We need this victory, and we need to make it an overwhelming one. Only then will true peace be possible. More to the point,’ he added, ‘we need you on a throne beside Mother Dark.’

‘So I am to yield command of my legion to you, Hunn Raal?’

‘For your safety, sir, I will stand in your stead.’

A golden glow was building around the group of officers, and Renarr saw the approach of High Priestess Syntara, the refulgent light spilling out from her. Flanked by priestesses bearing bright lanterns on poles, she walked slowly, and soldiers parted for her, some fighting suddenly skittish horses. Unmindful of the jostling, Syntara strode up close to Hunn Raal, and then past him, taking position beside Urusander.

‘Father Light,’ she said. ‘I will remain at your side here. I will be your shield against all sorcery.’

‘She should be able to manage that well enough,’ Hunn Raal said, nodding. He gathered his reins. ‘Now, this miserable day falters. The time has come. Captains, to your cohorts.’ Nudging his mount forward, he guided his horse to the crest. He then dismounted and set off, alone, down the gentle slope.

Upon the opposite side of the valley, Renarr could make out two figures, both on foot and both working their way down a short distance before separating and taking position directly below the two gaps in the army’s three distinct divisions.

It seemed a strange way to begin a battle. In her mind’s eye a memory suddenly returned, and she saw a bloodied girl chasing a boy with a stone; saw her catch up, saw her swing the stone down with both hands, crushing the boy’s skull.

Where were the whores now? Rising on her stirrups, she looked until she found them, a ragged row well off to the right. Collecting her reins, she headed for them.

Leave it to the whores to find the best vantage point.

She had vowed to remain at Lord Urusander’s side, but such a thing was not possible at the moment.
No matter, he will be safe enough where he is. Syntara will see to that.

She was halfway to where the camp-followers were gathered when the first wave of magic ignited the dusk.

  *   *   *

The horse’s broad back creaked beneath her, shedding dust and seeds that whispered down through the woven grasses of its body. Sergeant Threadbare cursed under her breath, fighting against a shudder. Golems of twisted grass and roots, of twigs and branches – the horse was dead as the winter, and yet its limbs moved, its long head dipped, and the track beneath its bundled hoofs slid past as they rode towards the Valley of Tarns.

Beside her, T’riss was clad once more in her strange armour of woven reeds and grass. Hardly proof against the chill, but the Azathanai woman seemed unaffected by such things. Her long blonde hair hadn’t seen a comb in a long while, leaving it knotted, ratty and wild, lending her an air of quiet madness, and Threadbare had come to believe that the unkempt halo of hair mimicked the scattered thoughts of the woman herself.

The cave that had been their refuge was far behind them now, as Threadbare’s impatience finally succeeded in wearing down the Azathanai’s distracted indifference. They had fallen into a kind of rapport on this journey. Threadbare found most of it nonsensical, but she had gleaned enough to feel a growing urgency, as if something terrible was about to happen.

‘Tell me again,’ she said, resuming her assault upon her companion’s obfuscation, ‘what is so important about the Valley of Tarns?’

‘The spirits whisper the name,’ T’riss replied.

‘Yes, so you keep saying.’

‘And you know where it is. So we ride there.’

‘Right.’ Threadbare considered for a moment, and then said, ‘You see, it’s like this, Azathanai. I don’t argue against the idea that ghosts exist. That is, I’ve never seen one. But even so, some places where people died badly, well, they stink of it, no matter how long ago it all was. It’s not a stink you smell with your nose. It’s some other kind of stink. And it seeps straight in and makes you feel awful. In any case, these spirits you keep listening to – are they ghosts?’

‘Your words make them cringe. The world wears down. What once were mountains are now hills. Rivers change their paths. Cliff-sides crumble, forests rise and then disappear again. There are different kinds of life, and some of them move too slowly for you to even see. Unless you’ve been away, returning only to discover that nothing is as it once was.’

‘How fascinating,’ Threadbare replied. ‘This thing about ghosts and spirits, though. You see, I’m of a mind to think that ghosts have nothing useful to say, nothing good, nothing pleasing. I figure that, mostly, they’re miserable things, trapped halfway between one place and the other. I wouldn’t follow any advice from that quarter, is what I’m saying.’

‘Coming back,’ the woman riding beside her said, ‘foments a crisis. Has everything truly changed? Those rivers, the forests and the worn-down crags? Or is it just the world of the one who returns that has changed? The world inside her, that is. And so an argument begins, between the soul and this rock, or that hill, those trees. This sorcerous night, so powerful in shrouding the day. Anger builds, frustration mounts. Denial becomes a fever, and that fever begins to rage.’

The day was drawing to a close. Somewhere to the south was the rumble of thunder, a strange thing for the season. Threadbare caught the occasional flash of lurid light, flickering through the heavy clouds that grew darker by the moment. ‘What do the spirits care about the Valley of Tarns? What’s happening there?’

‘They speak of an old man in a ditch. A boy is with him, and toy soldiers fight on the floor of the ditch. The old man casts the die. Soldiers fall. A most ferocious battle, and in the boy’s mind he can see it all, every detail. He can hear the screams of the wounded and the dying. He can see the faces filled with fear, or pain, or grief. But the old man crows with every victory, even as tears track down his lined cheeks.’

‘The spirits told you all this?’

‘They watch. It is all they can do. But events far away have stirred them awake. Now they walk the earth, helpless. The time for their own war is yet to come.’

The first stinging spatter of sleet bit at Threadbare’s face. Ahead, the clouds were unleashing their slivers of frozen rain in slanted columns that marched across the land. She pointed to the south. ‘Azathanai, is any of this natural? That thunder and lightning – is that happening at the valley?’

T’riss reined in suddenly, forcing Threadbare to pull hard on the braided reins of her own golem, swinging it round to face the Azathanai in time to see the woman twist in the woven saddle, tilting her face upward …

… as three dragons burst from the heavy cloud cover behind them, low enough for both Threadbare and her companion to feel the roiling wall of air buffet them an instant before the enormous creatures sailed overhead.

Turning, Threadbare’s gaze followed the dragons as they sailed southward into the storm. Her mouth was dry, her chest tight. She shot T’riss a wild, frantic look. ‘What in the Abyss are we riding into?’

‘Do you hear laughing?’ the Azathanai asked, her brows lifting. ‘The dead are laughing even as they weep. Why is that, I wonder?’

‘You wonder? You fucking wonder? What is all this, damn you?’

T’riss shrugged. ‘Oh, Light and Dark never liked each other. Worse than Sky and Earth. But, as must be obvious to anyone who cares to consider such matters, Life and Death rule us all. Unless, of course, Death forgets itself. I fear that has occurred. Death had forgotten itself. The ghosts are here and still here, because they can’t find the gate.’ She shook her head, as if exasperated. ‘What a mess.’

‘What’s happening at the Valley of Tarns?’

‘A battle. A battle is happening. The one everyone expected, but few wanted. Or so they claimed. But the truth is, bloodlust is a plague, and it has found your people. Oh well.’

Swearing, Threadbare yanked her mount around and, eyes narrowing to slits, glared into the sleet and the roiling clouds of the south. Driving her heels into the flanks of the golem snapped twigs and branches, but the creature surged forward, and in moments reached a gallop.