The Dark Defiles

by Richard K. Morgan

  The entire remaining world is stitched and stained through with that single forlorn, enduring hope of escape.

  Ringil grunts. That explains a lot.

  But the gaps are all levered trapdoors, set to fall as soon as that purpose is fulfilled. I would escape to the void and my sisters’ embrace, swept there by the act of releasing my bonds. But all else would be trapped in the Grey Space for eternity.

  And you’re telling me this … why?

  Because it is the truth.

  You see, Ringil. There’s a smile licking around Firfirdar’s mouth like the flames that lick at her body. The Book-Keeper is not what she seems, despite her gifts. She has manipulated you as much as any other power, betrayed you, sent you to your doom without warning.

  So I should trust you lot instead, right?

  We at least want you alive. You should trust that—or at least value it over this offered extinction. Take charge of the Talons of the Sun, Ringil. Leave its power leashed in place to serve your ends. Reach out for the throne of Yhelteth. Become the Dark King, if you will.

  It is all we ask. We will take you home.

  He nods slowly. Glances up at the slow writhing of the tentacles overhead. The tiny, imprisoned pocket of light and coiling darkness floating in front of his face.

  And you. What do you ask?

  I am weary, says the voice. A hundred thousand years of wars I wanted no part in, of acting the linchpin for a fantasy of ancient rights and ascendancy based in ornate lies and arrant self-deception. I am weary of it all.

  Ringil grimaces. Yeah, you and me both.

  He looks down the slope at the waiting dwenda horde. At the expectant Dark Court personages and their eager, welcoming smiles. The silent stones that ring him, the bleak rushing sky overhead.

  Could be worse.

  Fuck all of you gods, he says tiredly. I’m done with you. Codes—dissolve the bonds, turn the Source loose.

  He sees the shock rip across their faces. Firfirdar’s dark queen calm dissolved, Hoiran’s lips peeling back from his tusked and fanged mouth in snarling rage. Kwelgrish, dropping the blood-soaked towel from her skull and he sees the wound, sees how deep it really goes. Morakin’s snakes hissing in unified disbelief with the flicker-tongued gape of his own handsome mouth …

  It’s worth it, everything that’s coming now, just to see that look on those faces.

  I piss on you all, he calls, against a steadily rising wind. I piss on your smug schemes and destinies and storied lies. Go on—fuck off back to the real world and play your hollow games if you must. Some of us have grown out of this shit.

  The Source is released, the Codes and the Binding Force says, and he thinks there might be a hint of relief in its voice. Dissolution will follow. All coherent beings should exit the wounded spaces while there is still time …

  What do you think you’re doing? Firfirdar, screaming desperately across the wind. This is insane, this serves no one well. You cannot do this!

  It’s done, he tells her somberly. I’d get out of here while you still can, if I were you.

  It’s a conclusion the rest of the Dark Court seems already to have reached. They are turning and dissolving away as he watches, Kwelgrish reaching into the wound in her head and tugging irritably at something within, Astinhahn draining his tankard and tossing it away in disgust, Dakovash—does he, for just one moment, incline his brim-shaded face in salute?—Hoiran, Morakin, all of them, even, finally, the Mistress of Dice and Death herself. Twisting, fading, while above them all the sound of the wind is rising to a scream, and something writhing huge and tentacular and impossible to look directly at scrabbles and lunges for the hurrying sky—

  And is gone.

  Silence slams down across the horizon. The Talons of the Sun wisp away to fragments and then to nothing at all. If the storm-callers of Clan Talonreach were still in there somewhere, then whatever happened to their weapon seems to have happened to them as well. The departing Source has dragged them away in its wake.

  The clouds shred apart overhead, the wind drops once more to a keening lament.

  Ringil sniffs and looks down the slope to where the dwenda are waiting for him. He takes a couple of steps down toward them, and the standing stones refuse to move with him. They bulk as immovable and impassive as they were the night Seethlaw first brought him inside their scope. Whatever power he borrowed from them is gone now, like everything and everyone else around here.

  Oh, well. He isn’t much surprised.

  How now, yells the dwenda commander. See, the stones themselves turn against you! What will you do for protection now, mortal? How will you evade the vengeance of the Shining Folk?

  Quarter ounce of krin would have been nice, he thinks vaguely.

  The sky dims again.

  BETWEEN HIM AND THE DWENDA HORDE—A TALL, PATCH-CLOAKED FIGURE, face cast in hat-brim shadow. Dakovash the Salt Lord, back for some kind of smart-arse last word, no doubt.

  Ringil raises a brow. Forget something?

  Too much, over the millennia. Far too much. The god’s voice is weary, but his habitual irritation seems to have faded into something more considered. But never mind. You asked for this.

  He holds out his hand, open. Cupped in the palm sits a dark, gold-grained pellet of krinzanz.

  Gil stares at him for a long moment. Then he reaches out and takes the offering, rolls and presses it between finger and thumb until it’s warm and pliant.

  I’m not changing my mind, he warns the Salt Lord.

  You could not now, even if you wished to. A thin smile in the shadow of the hat brim, as if Dakovash can feel the tiny spike of chill through his heart at the words. The Source was not lying. The gaps the Book-Keepers left are closing fast. Already, they are whorled too tight to permit mortal passage.

  Taking a risk coming back then, aren’t you?

  A modest gesture. Nothing I can’t handle. Could use the exercise, to be honest.

  Ringil thumbs the krin into his mouth and chews it down to mulch. He nods at the dwenda waiting below.

  What about them?

  The Salt Lord considers. Oh, some among them maybe. The very strongest might find a way back if they’re quick about it. But wherever they finally wash up, it won’t be in your world. They’re broken there as a force.

  All according to plan, eh? He can’t quite keep the bitterness from his voice.

  According to one plan, yes. Though the truth is you could equally have ended up their glorious leader.

  I nearly fucking did.

  Dakovash smiles again beneath the hat. No, I mean you, Ringil Eskiath—you could have ended up leading the dwenda to victory against the south. It was one possible outcome we foresaw. Or equally, you saved the Empire and sat on its throne, but with a shadow guard of dwenda to watch over you by night and strike terror in the hearts of your subjects. You used them to tear the Citadel apart, and in the gap left by the Revelation, we entered back in.

  There were so many plans, so many possibilities, so many endings. You gave us this one. In the end, the Book-Keeper saw you more clearly than we gave her credit for.

  You don’t look too upset about it.

  A divine shrug. The game plays out. Some you win, some you lose. No god could take a more precious attitude and survive.

  The others seemed pretty pissed off.

  Yeah, they’ll get over it.

  Ringil rubs the last grainy traces of the krin into his gums with a finger. The drug’s icy fire is already kindling in his head. Why are you helping me? Why come back like this?

  Why? Did you not know that among the Majak, I am thought the most wildly capricious and impulsive of the Sky Dwellers?

  Yeah, and your reputation in the Dark Court isn’t very much better. That’s not an answer.

  Well. Dakovash’s smile is back, and this time Gil thinks he sees a sadness in it. Let’s just say you remind me of … someone I knew, a very long time ago.

  Wildly capricious and nostalgic, then.

&nbs
p; The god inclines his head. If you like.

  Do me a favor out of nostalgia, would you?

  A favor? Dakovash coughs on a laugh. It’s a little late in the day for that, my lord Fuck-all-you-Gods. I can’t get you out of this one, I already told you that.

  That’s not what I’m asking for. He hesitates a moment, thinking it through. How it might be done. Outside Hinerion, you gave me a shadow guard of your own. A cold command, the Book-Keeper called them—

  Yes, the boy, the smith, the swordsman. Quite a neat little symbolic bundle, I thought. Nice resonances. So what of them?

  They’ve served me well. Saved my life more than once.

  Yes, that was the idea.

  They’ve done enough. Can you release them now?

  Release them? And now, in the rising, incredulous tone, he thinks he hears something of the old Dakovash leaking back through, the bad-tempered, impatient god he’s dealt with before. What do you think this is, a fucking fairy tale? No, I can’t release them, they’re already fucking dead. They’re ghosts. They’re haunting you, precisely because they have nowhere else to go. You want them released, as you put it, then get on down this hill and get yourself killed. When you cease, so will they.

  Right. Guess it was stupid, thinking a lord of the Dark Court could do anything useful for me.

  Don’t you fucking start with that.

  Quarter of cheap krin—that’s about as far as your demonic powers stretch, is it?

  I said—

  What are you, a god or a fucking drug dealer?

  That is enough! An arm swings up, one gnarled, pointing finger inches from his face. You locked yourself in here, not me. You made the big gesture. Told us all to go fuck ourselves. Don’t come whining to me about the consequences.

  That old nostalgia not what it used to be, eh?

  ASK ME FOR SOMETHING IN THE REAL WORLD AND I WILL DELIVER IT!

  Black lightning forks through the air around them. The ground shivers. Beneath the god’s hat brim, the eyes kindle like the fire in the pit at An-Monal.

  Ringil grins into it. Excellent. Then I ask you to watch over Archeth Indamaninarmal and Egar Dragonbane, wherever they are. Keep them both safe from harm.

  The pointing arm drops as if severed. What?

  You heard me. And try to keep your shit a little tighter than you did with Gerin Trickfinger.

  Dakovash makes a noise in his throat like rocks coming apart. He swings away from Gil, and the same black lightning shimmers suppressed in the air around him. His shoulders seem to hunch under the battered and patched leather coat, far more than a human frame would allow. Ringil thinks he hears bones, cracking. The voice comes out a gritted whisper.

  You think you’ll … trick me like this? You think you’re going to stand here on the precipice of your own mortality and drive slick bargains with the gods?

  I think I already have, Ringil tells him soberly. What’s a god’s word worth these days?

  The Salt Lord comes back around, and for just a moment Gil thinks he sees something unhuman writhing for escape under the hat brim. Then it’s gone and only the burning bright eyes are left to show he’s facing anything other than a man.

  Dakovash stalks a tight circle around him. Leans in at his shoulder.

  I am the most wildly capricious of the Sky Dwellers. His voice is a serpent hiss. What’s to say I am bound to the promises I make?

  You shouted it loud enough for us all to hear.

  And who else do you think is here to listen? The Salt Lord prowls around him again, gestures at the dimmed earth and sky, the locked moment they stand within. What power do you think there is that will force me to honor this?

  Ringil summons a shrug. The Book-Keepers, perhaps? In the end, it doesn’t matter. You and I both heard it. You and I both know.

  Yes, well you’ll be dead shortly. And I’ve been known to keep secrets.

  From yourself?

  Oh, you’d be surprised what a god can manage to forget.

  Haven’t forgotten that old friend I remind you of, though. Have you?

  A long pause. I didn’t say he was a friend.

  Ringil says nothing. The god continues to circle him, like some wolf around a treed quarry.

  You’re wasting your time asking favors for the Dragonbane. A cruel smile glimmers up in the hat brim shadow. He’s dead. Eaten down to the bone by dragon venom in the Kiriath Wastes.

  It’s a pike-butt blow to the sternum, for all he already sensed the truth. Gil tenses his whole body against it and still he feels himself staggered. He reaches for the krin-fire in his head and belly, lets it bear him up. One day or another, Gil, it comes to us all. Dragonbane just beat you to it. Like the death blow on that dragon down in Demlarashan. He just got there first, is all.

  He looks up at the Salt Lord. Meets the burning eyes and puts on a killing smile.

  Hey, Dakovash—fuck you, too.

  Oh, I’m sorry. Did I upset you? Guess you forgot, I’m not your fairy fucking godmother. I’m a demon god, a lord of the Dark Court.

  Down at his side, Gil thinks he feels the Ravensfriend shiver impatiently. He glances at the glimmering blade and keeps his smile.

  You think I’m upset, demon god. You got no idea. You just made this a whole lot easier for me. And you still owe me half a favor, so fuck off and get it done.

  The god hesitates. Ringil can’t be sure, but the eyes beneath the hat brim seem to burn a little less bright.

  Go on, he barks. Get back to where it’s safe, why don’t you? We’re done here.

  Oh, you’re welcome. Think nothing of it. No, really.

  Gil jerks his chin at him. Yeah. Thanks. Been a pleasure.

  Dakovash does not move. The light in his eyes is out. And for just a moment, out of nowhere, Ringil has a sudden flash of ikinri ‘ska vision. As if the sky splits open to spill fresh light in, and there’s the god, frozen in place like some storm-blasted tree on a heath, old and worn and hollowed out, nothing left living but the bark.

  The eyes are dim, but a single bright glimmer tracks down one weathered cheek.

  Ringil—

  Gil shakes his head. ’Sokay. Thanks for the krin. Going to be a big help.

  He slings the Ravensfriend up and over his shoulder, walks away from the god and down the slope toward the waiting dwenda.

  After all, he calls back, worse fates than being forced into a place where your choice of acts is limited to those where your soul burns brightest.

  Right?

  If the god has an answer, he doesn’t hear it.

  THE DWENDA COME TO MEET HIM. CRUMP-CRUMP OF THEIR BOOTS ACROSS the ground as the ranks move up. Here and there, gray light gleams off the curve of a visor or the edge of a blade. Ringil nods to himself.

  Do you know, he calls down to them conversationally, how I can tell you’re not demons or gods?

  Glaring hatred and a taut, shrill cry as the dwenda commander rushes him. Ringil stands his ground, meets the chop of the Aldrain blade with Kiriath steel, loops it away. The swords lock up and they face each other, dwenda and human, teeth bared in mutual effort and hate. Ringil hisses over the straining steel.

  You threaten the torture of children as a weapon, you call down fire and ruin on unarmed multitudes—

  The dwenda commander snarls and shoves at the clinch. Ringil stands his ground, holds the lock. It feels like nothing, it feels effortless. The krin is a screaming exultant engine in his head. His voice rises over the dwenda’s growls.

  —and you leave thousands weeping eternally in your wake. None of this shit is demonic, none of it. You don’t need demons for that.

  The blades tilt over and down, up and back. Ringil leans in closer, almost whispering now.

  Your acts—are the acts of men. Of lost apes, gibbering in the mist. That’s all you are, it’s all you ever were—

  No! It is not so! We are the—

  —and I’ve been killing men just like you, all my fucking life.

  Face-to-face, inches o
ff biting distance, he smooches his opponent a kiss. The dwenda snarls and tries to force the clinch again.

  Ringil lets it slip, lets him think he’s won.

  The blades slide, go shivering, grating. The two of them pivot on the lock, the dwenda advances with a shrill, triumphant cry. Gil steps in hard and fast, hooks an elbow up and into the commander’s face, tangles a leg around his opponent’s ankles, shoves. The dwenda staggers. The Ravensfriend comes scraping shrieking off the other blade, swings up and around.

  Chops the dwenda’s head loose.

  Blood geysers up, the head dangles over at the neck by fleshy shreds. The decapitated body stands for a long moment before it crumples bonelessly into the grass. Ringil lifts his head and lets the blood patter down on his face like rain. He howls, counterpoint to the keening wind, a lament for everything that never was and now has gone away. His bloodied gaze drops to the ranks of the dwenda facing him.

  You are men—you are nothing more than men, he yells at them. You’re just like me.

  And now it’s time to die.

  He storms down in savage joy, to meet all the waiting blades and hate.

  CHAPTER 67

  he so-called Imperial Road south out of Ishlin-ichan was an undramatic dun-colored streak across the steppe, little more than a drover’s track grown broad. At this end, it snaked up to the city’s southern gate through trampled surrounding grass and expired there in a patch of stony ground. There was barely enough space at the gates for a wagon to turn around in, let alone mustering room for two hundred and eleven Skaranak horsemen and their mounts. Thus Marnak’s solution—a select couple of dozen sat honor guard along the sides of the road with the marines and Throne Eternal, while Archeth made her farewells. The rest had to content themselves with gathering a watchful distance away in the grass beyond, or watering their horses down by the river until it was time to ride.

  “Probably just as well,” Carden Han observed. “There haven’t been this many Skaranak outside the walls since the bandlight meander massacres three years back. Whole town’s pretty nervous about this lot; they’ll be glad when you take them away.”