A dozen Forulkan numbered among the thousand or so now crowding the camp, and here and there – startling to Arathan’s eyes – could be found Tiste. He had made no effort towards any of them and so knew nothing of their tale. Only one among them bore the inky stains of a Sworn Child to Mother Dark. The rest, he surmised, were Deniers, dwellers from the forests, or the hills bordering the realm.
Sorcery seethed through that sprawling camp. Foodstuffs were conjured from earth and clay. Boulders leaked sweet water without surcease. Fires burned without fuel. In the cold night, voices rose in song, bone pipes made hollow music and taut skins were drummed to raise up a surly chorus beneath the glittering stars. From atop the lord’s tower, in the lee of the looming Tower of Hate, Arathan could look out upon that glittering, red-hazed camp. An island of life, its inhabitants eager to sail out from its safe shore. Dead is the sea they seek, its depth beyond comprehension.
The songs were dirges, the drumbeats the last thumps of a dying heart. The bone pipes gave voice to skulls and hollow ribcages.
‘They attend their own funeral,’ Korya had said, venting her frustration at Hood’s benighted gesture. ‘They whet their swords and spear-points. Make new straps and stitches in armour. They game in their tents and take lovers to their furs, or just use one another as a herder his sheep. Look on them, Arathan, and divest yourself of all admiration. If this is all that life can offer in defiance of death, then we deserve the brevity of our fates.’
It was clear that she did not see what Arathan saw. All deeds could be seen as sordid, in the flipping of a stone, or the stripping away of hides. The proudest candle vanishes unseen into a raging house-fire, with none to recount the beauty of its delicate glow, or the dignity of its desire. This was nothing but one’s own bitter cast of mind, the well-set frown with every muscle bent to its will, to make a face eternal in its disapproval. Arathan wondered if he would one day see that twisted pattern upon Korya’s visage – when youth surrendered to decades of sour misery.
She saw nothing of the glory that, in the contemplation of Hood and his heartbreaking vow, so easily took away Arathan’s breath, and left him feeling humbled with wonder.
‘Madness. Pointless. The railing of a fool. The myths are not literal. There is no river to cross, no whirlpool to make a hole in a lake, or the sea. There are no thrones to mark the threshold of imaginary realms. It is all ignorance, Arathan! The superstitions of the Deniers, the dirt-eating of the Dog-Runners, the grinning rock-faces of the Thel Akai. Even the Jaghut – with all their talk of thrones, sceptres, crowns and orbs – allegory! Metaphor! The poet speaks what the imagination paints, but the language belongs to dreams, and every scene conjured up is but a chimera. You cannot declare war upon death!’
And yet he did. With hand made into fist, Hood hammered words from stone. Mountains were pounded into rubble. Dreams burned like cordwood in the forge, each one cast in like an offering. Warriors and soldiers collected up their gear, left behind their petty squabbles and the fools who would order them about, and set off on what all knew would be their final march.
Sacrifice, Korya. Dismantle the word, and see the sacred in giving. The blessing that is surrender. Hood’s army assembles. One after another, the warriors arrive, and pledge allegiance not in the name of victory, but in the name of surrender. Sacrifice. To win its war, this army must begin defeated.
He would not speak his thoughts on this, not to anyone. The details of his life thus far were his own to keep, and the scars they left in him were written in a secret language. His life was accidental, a discarded tailing to a few moments of desire. Unwanted, he’d been left to obsess over an endless and growing list of wants.
He met my eye and called me son. A want appeased, yes, only to be answered with abandonment. You gain by losing everything. Family, the love of a woman, the fathering of a child. The fashioning of a home, the mapping of private rooms in measured pace. The understanding of love itself, here with the Lord of Hate.
There is nothing confusing about Hood and his vow. Or this grim army yielding up songs every night. Loss is a gift. Surrender is victory. You will see, Korya, if you stay with me in this. You will see and at last, perhaps, you will understand.
The scuff of boots from across the square – Arathan glanced over to see Haut, Varandas, and another Jaghut approaching. They were heavy in their arcane armour, iron painted with frost. It was unusual to not see Korya at her master’s side, but something in Haut’s demeanour spoke of a bitter argument just left behind, and Arathan felt a pang of sympathy for the old warrior the others named captain.
Shifting round, Arathan fixed his gaze on Gothos, but nothing had changed there. The clawed fingers tapped, the sun’s light crawled, and the dull gleam of the lord’s eyes remained motionless, like dusted glass.
‘For Abyss’s sake, boy,’ Haut said as they drew nearer, ‘hunt her down, throw her into the hay, and put us all out of our misery.’
Arathan smiled. ‘I have seen her future, Haut, and surrender does not dwell there.’
‘He’s within?’ asked the huge Jaghut whom Arathan did not know. This warrior’s visage was flat, seamed with scars. He wore his dark hair in long, knotted braids, his tusks silver-tipped but otherwise stained deep amber.
Arathan shrugged. ‘For all the good it will do you.’
‘He calls us to join him,’ the stranger continued, scowling. ‘I see us freezing in chilled company … again.’
‘Now now, Burrugast,’ said Varandas, ‘he unmanned me long ago, so I will suffer no more in the frigidity of his obstinacy. Indeed, I find myself looking forward to the fury to come.’
‘Varandas claims a woman’s forbearance,’ said Haut, ‘so let us yield a moment of pity for the fool who tweaks his nipples.’ He raised a jug into view. ‘I have wine to thaw the lord’s surly repose.’
‘Beware the drunkard’s wisdom,’ Burrugast said in a growl.
Arathan edged back into the room to allow the three Jaghut ingress. The heat swirled against them all, eliciting a grunt from Varandas. At once, their armour glistened as if with sweat. Haut moved forward to set the clay jug on the tabletop, and then dragged out a chair and sat. Varandas walked to a shelf and collected a host of pewter cups.
Gothos gave no indication of recognition that company had arrived. Arathan found a chair and pulled it back to a wall close to the entrance, hopeful for a cooling draught.
With the three guests now seated, Haut rubbed at his narrow face and then began pouring out the wine. ‘The great tome that is the Folly goes poorly, I assume. Even reasons for suicide can grow long in the tusk at times, one concludes. Meanwhile, death waits on the Throne of Ice.’
‘Ice,’ snorted Burrugast. ‘It has the patience of winter, and in our host’s bleak soul, that is a season without end.’
‘We are called here,’ said Varandas as he examined his ragged nails, ‘so that we might be disavowed of Hood’s madness. The arguments will be assembled, every blade honed sharp by wit and whatnot. Steel your shoulders to the weight of contempt, my friends. To the assault of derision, the salvos of ridicule. We invite the siege, like fools atop our hoard.’
‘The hoard means nothing to Gothos,’ said Burrugast, drinking deep from his tankard. ‘The Lord of Hate is known to shit coins and gems, and piss rivers of gold. There is no honest blood coursing through his veins. We are in the liar’s lair …’
Haut leaned forward, one hairless brow lifting to arch a mass of wrinkles on his forehead. ‘Oh dear,’ he muttered. ‘Leave off the allusions, Burrugast. Of all accusations one can level upon Gothos, and there are many to be sure, dishonesty is not one of them.’
Burrugast shook his head. ‘I’ll not divest myself of this chain, buckle and greaves. There are two armies assembled here. The one we have just left, and the one lounging at this table’s head. I am girded for war and will remain so.’
‘And will it serve you well on this day?’ Varandas asked. ‘Already you drip, Burrugast, to the drumming of
his ink-stained fingers. We have locked our shields and await his reason, knowing well how it cut through us the day he slew civilization. With wine I assemble myself – praying that the grape serves me better today than armour and shield did yesterday.’
‘The drunk answers every assault with smirking equanimity,’ observed Haut, pouring his cup full again. ‘All reasoned words thud like pebbles in the sand. Made immune, I imbibe the nectar of the gods.’
‘Death is at the heart of this scene,’ Varandas said, punctuating his assertion with a belch. ‘There is no road to its border, he will tell us. No high walls to hammer against. The raids are always done by the time we arrive, the looters long gone, the rapists’ gift of pain and horror fled the sightless eyes of every victim. We pursue a wake we can never hope to catch, much less breach, the echo of riders leaving only dust, fires only charcoal and ash.’
‘Hood seeks a direction,’ Burrugast said, ‘but none offers itself with a righteous claim. Might as well war against the night sky, Gothos will tell us. Or the rising sun.’
‘We are chained to time,’ added Haut, ‘and yet, death lies beyond time. The running sands are all stopped in that unknown place. Nothing moves, neither to advance nor retreat, and the absence shows us no face, no enemy arrayed before us. Are we to carve blades through indifferent waves? Cursing the seas so deftly defying our pretensions? He will say this to us, knowing we have no answer.’
‘It is cause for fury!’ Burrugast shouted, a fist thumping the tabletop. ‘We have faced reason, and have stared it down! We have withstood every argument and seen it off! This lord here spoke against all progress, all hope, all ambition – I now accuse him as death’s own agent! Seeking to turn us away, fugged by defeat, despondent and bemused and thoroughly disarmed before we march a single step! He is Hood’s sworn enemy! Love’s scarred foe! The face of misery cursing every claim to delight! I will not yield to this despiser!’ And with that, he thrust out his cup and Haut refilled it from the jug that never seemed to empty.
Arathan leaned his chair back, tilted against the beaded stone wall. His eyes were half closed as he regarded Gothos, who sat as if still alone, still waiting – or not waiting at all, despite those tapping talons on the old wood. Tension made the hot air brittle.
A sound to his right made him twist round slightly, to see a blue-skinned woman standing in the threshold. She was squatter than a Tiste, her limbs solid, her face round, with eyes of brown so deep as to be almost black. A curved knife was tucked into her thin leather belt, over which bulged a belly that had known plenty of ale. Her accent strange, she said, ‘There was word of a gathering. Hood’s officers, I am told.’
‘His officers?’ Haut looked around, frowning. ‘Why, of course. Here we sit, chosen and select, if only in our own minds. Yet observe this master of his own demise – and ours, too, if his will prevails. Friend from the sea, allow me to introduce the Lord of Hate, Gothos, who defies Hood in all things, and sets before us a fierce challenge against our solemn vow. Come in, friend; we fools will grasp with desperation your alliance in the face of this withering flood.’
Uncertainly, she ventured inside, and took a chair on the other side of the table, almost directly opposite Arathan. Her dark eyes fixed on him and she nodded a faint greeting.
‘Yes,’ said Varandas, as he offered the woman a cup of wine, ‘he is the child who will march with us. So young to challenge death. So bold and so careless with the long life promised him – the promise that belongs only to the young, of course. The rest of us, naturally, have since choked on its dregs and done our share of spitting out. Should we not talk him out of this? Well, if Gothos himself has failed in achieving that, what hope have we?’
‘If we tremble here,’ said Burrugast to the woman, ‘do add your shield to our line, but tell us your name and what of your story you would offer strangers.’
She looked down at her cup as she drank, and then said, ‘I see no value in my name, as I am already surrendered to my fate. I ask not to be remembered.’ Her eyes shifted to the Jaghut at the table’s head. ‘I never thought I would find myself in the company of the Lord of Hate. I am honoured, and more to the point, I welcome his indifference.’ She paused and looked round at the others, ending once more on Arathan. ‘You have already lost this battle against Gothos, and every reason he flings at you, to give proof to your madness. This sentiment is one you would do well getting used to, don’t you think? After all, death will answer us likewise.’
Haut sighed. ‘Pray someone step outside and intercept the Seregahl, and what agents of the Dog-Runners might be on their way to this assembly. Snare the Forulkan’s speaker, too, with knotted cords about her ankles, and leave her lying on the cold stones. Whip the Jheck into yelping retreat. I for one do not know how much more I can take. Here, Varandas, I will have the jug back.’
They drank. They said nothing, the silence stretching. The clawed fingers made notches in the time that passed.
‘He exhausts me,’ Varandas finally muttered. ‘Defeat has made me stupid, too stupid to heed his wisdom.’
‘It is the same for all of us here,’ said Haut. ‘Gothos has failed. Everyone, rejoice.’ He looked down at the tabletop, and added, ‘As you will.’
Burrugast was the first to rise, wobbling slightly. ‘I will return to Hood,’ he said, ‘and report his rival’s surrender. We have, my friends, withstood our first assault.’ He raised his empty cup. ‘See. I collect a trophy, this war’s spoil.’
Weaving, he made his way outside, clutching the pewter cup as if it was gold and studded with gems. A moment later, Varandas stood and followed him out.
Rubbing at his lined face, Haut nodded, as if to some unspoken thought, and then stood. ‘Gothos, once again you are too formidable to withstand. And so I retreat. No doubt Korya waits in ambush – is it any wonder I would run to death?’
As Haut strode from the chamber, the blue-skinned woman – who had been staring at Arathan with disconcerting intensity – now rose. She bowed towards Gothos, and then said to Arathan, ‘This last war should not be your first, boy. You miss the point.’
He shook his head, but said nothing. The surrender in his soul would remain private. Of all the vows breeding in this place, it was to his mind the only one worth keeping.
Scowling, she departed.
Alone with Gothos again, Arathan finally spoke. ‘I expected at least one Azathanai,’ he said. ‘They are in the camp, I’m told. A few. Keeping to themselves.’
The fingers drummed.
‘I thought I would hear your final arguments,’ Arathan said, squinting across at the Lord of Hate.
Abruptly, Gothos stood and turned back to face his desk close to the lead-paned window with its burst webs of frost. ‘Let it not be said,’ he muttered, ‘that I did not try my best. Now, Arathan, I need more ink, and another stack awaits you.’
Arathan bowed his head in seeming acknowledgement, but mostly to hide his smile.
* * *
The three blue-skinned warriors flung their gear to the ground close to the natural wall made by the huge boulder atop which Korya was perched. Peering down, wondering if they knew of her presence, she studied their long shadows in sinewy play over the frozen ground, flowing from and following the two women and one man as they set about preparing their camp.
The shadows betray will. Ignore the flesh and see only how the will flows like water, like ink. Enough to fill a thousand empty vessels. A thousand Mahybes. But no shadow can push a pebble, bend a twig or flutter a leaf. And a vessel thus filled remains empty. This then is the lesson of will.
The man below had been carrying a small open stove of iron with four splayed legs, which he set down close to the wall. He now spilled coals from a lidded cup into its basin, and then began feeding in chunks of stone that looked like pumice. Green flames lifted into view, edges flickering yellow and blue. The rising heat startled Korya with its intensity.
The rhythm of their speech was odd but the words were understandabl
e. This was a detail that had lodged in her mind, as something unusual, and perhaps worthy of examination. For the moment, however, she was content to slip through the army’s encampment, to perch and listen in, to make of herself something less than a shadow.
One of the women now said, ‘A mob to make a city.’
The other woman, younger, smaller, was laying out the makings of a meal – mostly dried fish and seaweed. She shrugged and said, ‘Does it matter where we washed up? I saw Hyras floating in the bilge with an eel in his mouth. Fat like a black tongue. Hyras had no eyes to see, but that tongue never stopped wiggling.’
‘Someone said there were officers,’ the first woman said. ‘Command tent, or even a building.’ She shook her head. ‘Our self-proclaimed captain’s not saying anything, but that was a short briefing up at that tower.’
‘Makes no matter,’ said the man, as he moved back from the heavy heat cast off by the pumice stones. ‘Defeat rides a failing wind, once you get far enough away from the red waters. I saw nothing of what happened to us on the strand we found.’ He paused, and then added, ‘We’re safe.’
‘Left the ships to roll,’ said the younger woman.
‘The tide’ll take them out,’ the man said. ‘The sands reach out a league or more, not a reef in sight, not a killer stone to mark.’ He seemed to glare across at both women. ‘Fit for tombs and nothing else now, anyway.’
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