Fall of Light (143 page)

A half-dozen soldiers set out, hurrying down to where the priests were now lying side by side, one dead and the other perhaps only moments from joining him.

‘Am I a coward,’ Anomander asked, ‘to abjure from giving you leave to slaughter my enemy? If I refuse you, Azathanai …’

‘You will lose this battle, milord, and many of your Tiste Andii will die. In place of that, sir, I offer you naught but Liosan dead. But as I said, time is short. Wait too long, and I will be matched.’

‘By Hunn Raal?’

‘No. He is still too clumsy with the power of Elemental Light. Another comes, and she is not far.’

Anomander seemed nonplussed.

Suddenly stiffening, Kellaras said, ‘Forgive me, sirs. Azathanai, do you speak of one of your own?’

Caladan Brood sighed, and then nodded. ‘She whom you have named T’riss. Content only with balance, I’m afraid. A sentiment plaguing many of my kin.’

‘But not you,’ said Anomander.

The Azathanai shrugged. ‘You wanted peace, First Son.’

‘My answer to all that I fear. My response to all that threatens me. Caladan Brood, you would see me become a tyrant in the name of purity, in the name of a peace that is maintained at any cost.’

‘Yes, milord.’

‘Azathanai, I must refuse you.’

‘I understand—’

‘Do you? I name that presumption, sir. This war belongs to the Tiste. Absolve none of us. Nor, indeed, is such absolution yours to give.’ He cast Kellaras a glare. ‘Ride on, captain, this instant!’

‘Milord.’ Kellaras gathered up his reins. Moments later he was riding for the left flank, and his mind was a storm of chaos.
You decry sentiment, Anomander? You damned fool, by what other name have you just surrendered certain victory?

Ahead, he saw Lord Draconus, and at his side, Ivis. Both men were now positioned in front of their Houseblades, and it was clear that they would lead the charge.

Not a coward’s thought, not there, with those two fools. Abyss below. Sentiment!

Win her back, will you, Draconus? With this dusk and its suffocating madness? I fear not, sir, oh, Mother save us, I fear not.

  *   *   *

And now, an eternity later, the battle was done, and still the night held back, a drawn breath suspended in the firmament. Kellaras remained standing in the midst of the battlefield. Figures moved here and there, lending what aid they could to those fallen who still lived. Here, at last, it mattered not the uniform worn, as every piteous cry proclaimed no colours, and even the skin, cloven white or black, was made one in the mud.

Someone approached from his left, and Kellaras slowly turned, to see Silchas Ruin. He felt his own spine stiffening as he straightened, concealing the fury he felt behind his soldier’s mask, his survivor’s insensate mien. ‘Milord,’ he said.

‘He struck the standard?’

Kellaras nodded. ‘And now makes formal surrender.’

Silchas Ruin was wounded, blood thick upon his left shoulder. ‘It was the highborn, Kellaras. Our betrayers. Mother Dark’s own children of the blood. Did you see the Hust, captain? Did you see how they held? I’d not thought it possible. Convicts. Murderers. Truly that iron is its own sorcery.’ He stood, now watching his brother in the distance. ‘He struck the standard,’ he said again.

‘Milord, you are wounded—’

‘This? Infayen Menand. She attacked while I was engaged with two others, sought to come upon me from behind, but I caught the motion.’

‘Her fate?’

Silchas shrugged. ‘She was a Menand.’ He was silent for a moment, and then he asked, ‘Captain, the Hust Legion – was their retreat by Redone’s command?’

‘I do not know, milord. Only that nearly a thousand of them lie dead, having not retreated a single step.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘If indeed it was Commander Toras Redone who ordered the flag, she did the right thing.’

Silchas Ruin’s stained face twitched in a cold half-grin as he studied Kellaras. ‘Ah, captain, the world’s torment knows ease with your opinion voiced.’

‘I would think not, sir. Indeed,’ he added, his voice hardening, ‘on this day, we are the makers of this world’s torment. The only ease granted now is named death.’

‘And surrender,’ Silchas Ruin said, his moment of contempt past. His eyes narrowed on the distant scene. ‘Ah, now Hunn Raal comes to the fore. Spent, and yet even at this distance I see the smear of his smile.’

‘Yes,’ said Kellaras – though not bothering to follow Ruin’s hard gaze. ‘It seems there is to be a marriage.’

Silchas Ruin nodded, and then spat red into the mud at his feet. ‘Sound the bells, Wise Kharkanas. Retrieve your refugees to line the streets. Roll out the crimson bandages to make suitable bunting and streamers. Lay out the weapons to make the aisle for our king and queen. Something notched and stained underfoot – was not iron our first glory, captain? The very birth of the Tiste, if the legends are to be believed.’ He waved a hand more red than white. ‘As suits the moment.’

‘Milord, I saw a dragon. Overhead. In the storm-clouds.’

‘I did not.’

Kellaras frowned, only to realize that he had nothing more to say.

‘Captain.’

‘Milord?’

‘My brother still stands alone. Are you not of his Houseblades? Take your surviving company and join him.’

And what of you, his brother?
‘Yes sir.’ Kellaras turned to gather his Houseblades. As they drew up around him, he saw Silchas Ruin wander off, westward, as if he would now walk to Kharkanas. Kellaras then glanced to the southeast, in time to see the last of the Hust Legion reach the crest. The sound of its iron, faint yet clear, rode the icy tears of the wind.

  *   *   *

They reached the road, the valley behind them. Prazek drew off his gore-spattered gauntlets and dropped them to the ground. ‘Well,’ he said around a cut lip already scabbed black, ‘that was a sorry day.’

Dathenar slowly hunched over, still struggling to regain his breath from a mace-blow that had driven him from his feet. ‘“Sorry”, is it? No, friend, set sorrow aside. Disband this beleaguered company of regrets. I see no blessing in their sordid attendance.’

‘They line the road like refugees,’ Prazek said, spitting.

‘And would seek the shelter of rationalization, as befits their desperate need. But these are modest roofs, and the crowds jostle beneath each one, as would a family of fools breeding out of their house, too many bodies and not enough rooms. Shall we build additions? Extend this paltry roof? Bah, let’s just breed some more.’

‘And to this you say?’

Dathenar shrugged. ‘Why, I say, fuck you in your fuckery. But we are right, friend. Regrets breed regrets, a spawn unceasing in humping zeal. At the last, we are less than animals. For all our claim to nature’s graces, we are absent dignity.’

Prazek considered his friend’s words for a moment. Then he glanced around, at the figures shuffling past. ‘See this current,’ he said in a low mutter, ‘and here I am, snagged, tugged and frayed.’ Abruptly he sat down on the cold, wet ground.

After a moment, Dathenar did the same.

‘I have often wondered,’ mused Prazek, ‘at the mind of certain of our fellows, those for whom the hunt incites a flush of zeal, the eyes bright as a child’s. I have seen the arrow strike true. Some noble creature in a glade, head lifted in alarm, only to crumple to the iron bite. By your confession, friend, I see now what is slain. Dignity is the natural stance of beasts. Their innate essence, which, perhaps, the hunters in their moral paucity envy, and so grow vicious. To slay out of spite, ah, Dathenar, the years are stripped away.’

Dathenar sighed. ‘Behold the child revealed, flushed and bright, posing beside the kill. If we war against nature, why, we war against dignity itself. Our sordid dominion makes ascension a lie. The truth is, we
descend,
with all the dignity of a disease.’

Prazek wiped at his face, wincing at his torn lip. ‘Salvage me some hope, I beg you.’

Dathenar reached across to settle a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there is this.’

  *   *   *

Wareth remained at Rebble’s side, holding the man’s weight as best he could as they clambered up the last few paces to reach the crest. The moment they arrived, Rebble reached up and gripped Wareth’s arm, just above the elbow, and tugged hard.

‘In the name of our Mother, Wareth, set me down.’

Together, they settled to the ground, Wareth being as gentle as he could with his friend. Rebble settled on to his back, eyes filled with pain as he stared skyward. ‘I make it thirty-seven,’ he said.

Wareth looked down, saw the blood still streaming from the sword-wound in Rebble’s chest. But the man wasn’t coughing blood – there was that mercy, at least. ‘Thirty-seven?’

Rebble lifted a trembling hand. ‘Doubt I can make it,’ he said, ‘but I’ll give it a try.’

Wareth wiped at his face. ‘You’re not making any sense,’ he said.

‘Tell me, Wareth, did I see true? Toras Redone kneeling beside a body? Was it Faror Hend who fell?’

To earn such grief? Such wails and tearing at hair?
‘No, Rebble. Galar Baras.’

‘Ah. Then. I see.’

‘She drew a knife and would have cut her own throat. Faror Hend prevented her, twisted the weapon free. In her face there was vengeance and satisfaction, as she glared down at the broken woman. Rebble, such things shake me.’

Others of the broken legion were settling here and there. Wareth saw drawn faces, expressions taut with the pain of wounds. But even then, something seemed to be missing.

‘Crack the knuckles,’ Rebble said.

‘What?’

‘One for every life I took, every fucked up stupidity I went and did. I make it four, for today. Not sure they all died, though. I’m thinking they didn’t. I’m hoping they didn’t. Anyway,’ he smiled up at the heavy clouds, ‘thirty-seven. Rebble’s idiot toll.’ He paused then, and shifted his gaze slightly, enough to meet Wareth’s eyes. ‘Them Bonecasters … quite the gift they gave us …’

Baffled, Wareth said, ‘I still don’t know what it was.’

‘Truly?’

Wareth nodded.

Rebble laughed, and then winced.

‘What gift, Rebble? What did that ritual do?’

‘No more lies. That’s all. No lying to anyone else. But mostly, no lying to yourself.’

Frowning, Wareth shook his head. ‘I’ve never lied to myself.’

Rebble studied him for a moment, and then said, ‘So, you never even noticed.’

‘No. I suppose not.’

Rebble brought his hands together over his belly. He began cracking his knuckles.

‘I need to know,’ Wareth said. ‘Why did you protect me? Back in the pit? Why did you bother?’

‘Why did I bother?’

‘Being my friend.’

Knuckles cracked. ‘I don’t know,’ Rebble replied, and then he smiled. ‘I guess you had an honest face.’

Wareth settled back on to his haunches. He saw now that everyone among the Hust had halted their march, gathering in silent clumps.
No lies, is that what is missing here? In these faces? These raw stares into the distance?

Listar still lived, but he didn’t know about Rance. So many of the other officers drawn up from the prisoner ranks were dead. They’d come to the fore in the Legion’s desperate withdrawal, holding back the enemy and giving up their lives to do so.

Wareth’s throat was still raw from his frantic shouting. And yet, impossibly, the Hust had responded to his desperate commands, and when Prazek and then Dathenar curled their companies around, folding them into the retreat, the Hust Legion’s day of battle was done. Through it all, Toras Redone was nowhere to be seen, until the very end.

He listened to his friend cracking his knuckles until the sound of bones popping stopped.

Rebble never managed all thirty-seven, and, as simply as that, his only friend was gone.

He edged closer, to lift Rebble’s head and rest it on his thighs. He groomed the man’s beard with his fingers, pulling at the knots, and studied the peaceful repose of the face, knowing that he would never again see it animate, that hard grin, the sly flick of the gaze, and the raging temper that hung like a storm-cloud behind everything.

Rebble, my friend. You weren’t any more than what you were. I treasured you. How I treasured you.

Someone moved to halt at his side and Wareth looked up into Listar’s face. ‘He’s gone, Listar.’

‘Just the two of us, then,’ Listar replied.

‘Two?’

‘Who stood between them and the Cats.’ Listar paused and then said, ‘The coward and the man who wanted to die. The honourable one – why, as you say, now he’s dead.’

Wareth considered the man’s words, and their harsh, blunt tone. ‘No lies,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t do it, Wareth. I couldn’t kill anyone. All I did was defend.’

‘So it was with most of them, Listar. I saw it, on all sides. That’s how I knew that we would never win. Wouldn’t yield either. Just stand there, dying. I saw it, Listar, though I didn’t understand it. Not until Rebble explained. The ritual—’

‘Yes, my beloved gift to you all.’

‘You were sent.’

‘I was sent. But what did I ask for? From them? Has anyone even asked me that? They said we needed something to absolve us, to cleanse us, to sweep away the curse of our crimes.’

Wareth stroked Rebble’s cooling brow. ‘Is that not what you asked, Listar?’

‘No. Not quite.’

‘Then … what?’

‘I wanted us – all of us – to accept who we were. To face our crimes, our cruel pasts, our vicious thoughts. If we’re to feel, Wareth – I told the Bonecasters – if we’re to
feel
, then do not let us hide, or run from those feelings. Do not let us pretend.’

Wareth lifted his gaze, squinted up at Listar.

‘You still don’t get it,’ Listar said. ‘You’re not the only coward. Not even close. This Hust Legion, all these convicts. Wareth, most of them are cowards. Those men we faced down in the pit, the ones eager to get at the women. Was it just lust? No. Rapists are many things, but mostly they’re cowards, the kind that has to feed on victims. It’s a different kind of cowardice from yours, Wareth, but it’s still cowardice. Why did they all hate you? Because you were the sole coward not in hiding.’ The man paused then, looking away. ‘Look at them, Wareth. Blessed by my gift. Seeing them, I think that Rebble’s the lucky one.’