‘Envy!’ snorted Burrugast. ‘This fool would elevate his personal pain, and make it a plague to take us all!’
‘This fool would stand for us, in our stead, against a most implacable enemy. That we now join him marks the honesty we have each faced, the thing in our souls that cries out against the void. Envy, I say, in seeing courage not found in ourselves. This is a wake I will walk, and so too will you, Burrugast. And you, Varandas. The same for Gathras, and Sanad. Suvalas and Bolirium, too. We defiant, miserable Jaghut, alone in the futures awaiting us – and yet, here we are.’
Making a vaguely helpless gesture with one hand, Varandas lowered himself into a crouch, close to the fire. ‘Bah, there’s no heat from these flames. Hood, you would have done better with a mundane lantern. Or one of those Fire-Keepers who tend their charge. These flames are cold.’
‘Illusion,’ said Haut. ‘Light has its rival, and so too heat. We fend off darkness as a matter of course, and since when did an icy breath bother us?’
‘They seek a commander for this enterprise,’ said Varandas. ‘Hood offers nothing.’
Haut nodded. ‘Just my point. This hearth and the light it yields – not real. Nor is the station of command – neither real, nor relevant. Hood pronounced his vow. Was it meant to be answered? Do we all gather as if summoned? Not by our Lord of Grief, surely. Rather, by the nature of the enterprise itself. One Jaghut gave voice, but the sentiment was heard by all – well, all of us here.’
Burrugast growled under his breath. ‘How then to command this army? By what means are we to be organized?’
In answer, Haut shrugged. ‘Do you need a banner? An order of march? What discipline, Burrugast, do you imagine necessary, given the nature of our enemy? Shall we send out scouts, seeking the dread border – when in truth it is only found in our minds, between self and oblivion?’
‘Then are we to sit here, rotting, befouling the land around us, until age itself creeps over us, stealing souls one by one? You call this a war?’
‘Call it all a war,’ Haut said.
‘Captain,’ Varandas said, ‘you have led armies, seen fields of battle. In your past, you knew the privations, the brutal games of necessity. You won a throne, only to flee it. Stood triumphant on a mound of the slain, only to kneel in surrender the following dawn. In victory you lost everything, and in defeat you won your freedom. Of all who would join Hood, I did not expect you.’
‘Ah, you old woman, Varandas. It is in that very curse – my most martial past – where hides the answer. To a warrior, war is the drunkard’s drink. We yearn unending, seeking the numbness of past horrors, but each time, the way ahead whispers of paradise. But no soldier is so blind as to believe that. It is the unfeeling that we seek, the immunity to all depravity, all cruelty. The only purity in the paradise into which we would march is the timelessness it promises.’ He shook his head. ‘Beware the lustful ambitions of old warriors – it is our thirst that makes politics, and we will drink of mayhem again and again.’
Burrugast thumped his thigh in frustration and faced Hood. ‘Yield us a single word, I beg you. How long must we wait? I will see this enemy of yours!’
Hood lifted his gaze, studied Burrugast for a long moment, and then Varandas who still crouched, and finally Haut who sat opposite him. ‘If you have come here,’ he said. ‘If you would follow.’
‘I cannot decide,’ said Burrugast. ‘Perhaps none of us can. A war is already being waged, in our minds. Should reason win, you will find yourself alone.’
Hood smiled then, without much humour. ‘If so, Burrugast, then I will still tend to this fire here.’
‘The illusion of fire – the illusion of life itself!’
‘Just so.’
‘Then’ – Burrugast looked to the others – ‘what is it you mean to say? That you are already dead?’
Hood spread his hands out, held them motionless in the flickering flames.
‘Then what is it you await?’
Haut grunted. ‘An end to the battles within us, Burrugast, is what Hood waits for – if indeed he waits for anything. Look inward, my friends, and take up weapons. Begin this night your war on reason. In ashes we will find our triumph. In desolation we will find the place where the march can begin.’
Varandas sat down on the cold ground, leaning back on his hands with legs outstretched, boots at the very edge of the hearthstones. He sighed. ‘I foresee little challenge in the war you describe, Haut. A thousand times a night, I slay reason – but yes, I see it now. We Jaghut must take the lead in this, veterans as we all are. Girded obstinate, armed stubborn, arrayed in bloody-mindedness, we are unmatched.’
In the brief silence that followed, they all heard the sounds of heavy boots, drawing closer. Haut twisted round to see a score or more Thel Akai approaching. ‘Now then, Hood, see what the night brings. It’s the wretched Seregahl.’
Warriors, forsworn of all family ties, defiant of peace, blades unleashed in countless foreign wars, these Thel Akai were, to Haut’s mind, a curse to their people’s name. But the fiercest contempt held for the Seregahl belonged to other Thel Akai. ‘They have slain their own humour, the fools – and see what misery remains!’
The lead Seregahl – none knew their names, and for all Haut knew, those too had been surrendered to whatever secret purpose they held – now halted at the stone wall encircling Hood’s camp. Huge, heavy in battered armour, and taking a pose that involved leaning on the long handle of a massive double-bladed axe, the Seregahl commander scowled through a tangled nest of hair and beard. ‘Hood! The Seregahl will command the van – it is not for us to chew the dust of lesser folk. We shall raise a worthy banner to this noble cause. To slay death! In victory, we shall return all to the realm of the living, and be done with dying for ever more!’
Varandas, squinting up at the Thel Akai, frowned and said, ‘An impressive if well-rehearsed speech, sir. Even so, you describe a crowded world.’
The warrior blinked at Varandas. ‘A welcome future, then, Jaghut! Think of the wars that will be fought, as all battle to claim land, wealth, security!’
‘Fruitless battles, I should think, since no enemy will ever die.’
‘Pointless wealth, too,’ Haut added, ‘as by the accumulation of weight alone, it will surely lose all lustre.’
‘Security naught but an illusion,’ Burrugast added, ‘held but briefly, until the next wave of raging foes.’
‘As for the land,’ Varandas noted, ‘I see an ocean of crimson mud, banners tottering, tilting, sinking. None to die, no room for the living – why, this future life you describe, Seregahl, makes of death a heaven. Who, in that time, will rise up to pronounce a war upon life?’
‘This is strife’s own circle,’ Haut noted, giving Varandas a nod. ‘And that surely deserves a bold van.’ He looked up at the Seregahl and said, ‘Be assured that you will lead the army, sir, come the day we march. With the blessing of not only Hood, but also his chosen officers, such as you see here.’
The lead Seregahl fixed dark eyes upon Haut, and then he said, ‘Captain. I had heard that you were here. We have fought one another, have we not?’
‘A time or two.’
‘We have defeated one another.’
‘A more astute observation, sir, would be to say that we have shared opposing victories.’
The Thel Akai grunted, and then, gesturing, about-faced his troop, and off they marched into the gloom, weapons clanking.
‘You did well to see them off, Hood,’ said Varandas. ‘I now long to witness one more face to face meeting, between you and Gothos. Why, the railing might tear down the stars themselves.’
Haut shook his head. ‘Then you long for nothing, friend. What think you the Lord of Hate need say to the Lord of Grief, or, indeed, the latter to the former? If they do not know each other now, in places beyond crude words, then neither deserves his title.’
Hood surprised them all by rising to his feet. Drawing the cowl more tightly about his worn features, he wa
ved lazily at the hearth. ‘Mind the fire, will you?’
‘Is it time, then?’ Burrugast asked.
Hood paused. ‘Your query is not for me.’
They watched him walk away, southward, towards the ruins of Omtose Phellack.
‘I see no value in minding these flames,’ muttered Varandas.
A moment later, all three started laughing. The sound rang out through the dark camp, and was long in dying.
* * *
While there were in the camp Thel Akai, Forulkan, Jheck and Jhelarkan, blue-skinned peoples from the sea, and even Tiste, by far the most numerous group was that of the Dog-Runners. Korya wandered between their small fires, the low, humped huts that covered pits dug into the hard clays, the flat stones where women worked flint during the day. Not everyone slept beneath the furs. Many were awake to the watch, this time in the night when restlessness opened eyes, when thoughts stirred from the embers of half-forgotten dreams.
She felt their regard as she walked past, but believed that they gave little thought to her. They but observed her, in the manner of animals. The night was a private world, the watch its most hidden refuge. She thought of Kharkanas, and imagined it now as a city transformed. Unrelieved by light, it must hold to some kind of eternal contemplation, each denizen remote, drifting away from mundane concerns.
The poets would stumble on to new questions, unimagined questions. To utter them was to shatter the world, and so none spoke, none challenged the darkness. She thought of musicians, sitting alone, fingers light upon the strings, calloused tips shivering along the taut gut, searching their way forward, seeking a song for the absence all around them. Each note, plucked or sung, would stand alone, inviting no comforting answer, no birth of melody. Asking, forever asking, what next?
In her mind, Kharkanas was a monument to the night’s watch: pensive and withdrawn. She saw towers and estates, terraced dwellings and bridges, all thrown up in miniature, made into a place for the dolls of her youth. Clothes drab, colours washed out, in tired poses; she could look down upon them, and offer each one – all of them – not a moment’s thought.
See the circlet of their mouths, their unblinking eyes. Standing motionless, arranged by an unseen hand. Some drama waits.
If I was their god, I’d leave them that way. For ever.
Oh, this is a cruel span of night, to imagine an uncaring god, an indifferent god. Suffer a father’s dismissal, a mother’s, a brother’s or a sister’s, or even a child’s, but suffer not the same dismissal from a god. A better fate, to be sure, standing frozen, for ever and timeless, with all the modest ambitions a doll might possess. Frozen, like a memory, isolated and going nowhere. A scene to make playwrights tremble. Poses to make sculptors shy away. A breath drawn, forever awaiting the song.
Some questions must never be asked. Lest the moment freeze in eternity, on the edge of an answer that never comes.
Kharkanas the Wise City belonged to the night, now; to darkness. Its poets stumbled on unseen words. Its sculptors collided with shapeless forms. Its singers pursued down every corridor some dwindling voice, and the dancers longed for one last sure step. Its common denizens, then, waited for a dawn that would never come, even as the artists fell away, curled black like rotting leaves.
She realized that someone was padding softly at her side – lost in her thoughts, she had no idea how long she had been accompanied by this stranger. Glancing across, she saw a young Dog-Runner, yellow-haired, wearing a cloak of hides – narrow, vertically sewn strips, multihued and glistening, that left tails dragging in his wake. Red-ochre rimmed his light blue or grey eyes, with a single tear tracking down each cheek, ending in the wisps of golden whiskers on his jaw.
He was handsome enough, in that savage, Dog-Runner way. But it was the soft smile playing across his full mouth that caught her attention. ‘What so amuses you?’ she asked.
In answer, he made a series of gestures.
She shrugged. ‘I do not know that manner of Dog-Runner communication – your silent talk. And please, do not start singing to me either. That, too, means nothing to me, and when two voices come from a single throat, why, it’s unnerving.’
‘I smile at you,’ the youth said, ‘with admiration.’
‘Oh,’ she replied. They continued walking, silent. Damn you, Korya, think of something to say! ‘Why are you here? I mean, why did you come? Are those tears painted on your cheeks? Do you hope to find someone? Someone dead? You long to bring him, or her, back?’
Tentatively, he reached up and ventured a touch upon one of the red-painted tears. ‘Back? There is no “back”. She never left.’
‘Who? Your mate? You seem young for that, even for a Dog-Runner. Did she die in childbirth? So many do. I’m sorry. But Hood is not your salvation here. This army is going nowhere. It’s all pointless.’
‘I have made you nervous,’ he said, edging away.
‘You wouldn’t if you answered a single cursed question!’
His forearms were freckled, a detail that fascinated her, and they moved as if to hold up the words he spoke. ‘Too many questions. I wear my mother’s grief, for a sister she lost. A twin. I follow to take care of her on this journey. Mother’s dead twin speaks to her – even I have heard her, shouting in my ear, waking me in the night.’
‘The dead woman talks, does she? Well, what does she have to say?’
‘The Jaghut and his vow. They must be heeded.’
‘It’s not enough that the living want their dead back – now the dead want to come back, too. How is it souls can get lonely, when their entire existence is alone? Is mortal flesh so precious? Wouldn’t you rather fly free of it, sail off into the sky? Dance around stars, feeling no cold, no pain – is that not a perfect freedom? Who would want to return from that?’
‘Now I have made you angry.’
‘It’s not you. Well, it is, but don’t take it personally. I just can’t make sense of any of you.’
‘You are Tiste.’
Korya nodded. They’d walked to the camp’s very edge, and before them was a plain of scattered stones, shaped but broken or eroded, the city’s dwindling demise. ‘A hostage to the Jaghut, Haut. The Captain. The Old Misery. The Lord of Riddles. Crier of Aches and Imagined Illnesses. He has made me a Mahybe – knock me and I’ll ring hollow.’
The youth’s eyes were wide now, studying her avidly. ‘Lie with me,’ he said.
‘What? No. I didn’t mean – what is your name, by the way?’
‘Ifayle. In our language, it means “falling sky”.’
She frowned at him. ‘Something falling from the sky?’
He nodded. ‘Like that, yes.’
‘On the night you were born, something fell from the sky.’
‘No. I fell from the sky.’
‘No you didn’t. You fell out between your mother’s legs.’
‘Yes, that too.’
She pulled her eyes away from his intense, unambiguous gaze, and studied the plain. Silvered by frost and starlight, it stretched away into the southeast for as far as she could see. ‘You shouldn’t follow the Jaghut,’ she said. ‘They’re not gods. They’re not even wise.’
‘We do not worship Hood,’ Ifayle said. ‘But we kneel to his promise.’
‘He can’t fulfil it,’ Korya said harshly. ‘Death is not something you can close hands around. You can’t … strangle it, much as you’d like to. Hood’s promise was … well, it was metaphorical. Not meant to be taken literally. Oh, listen to me, trying to explain poetic nuances to a Dog-Runner. How long were you following me, anyway?’
He smiled. ‘I did not follow you, Korya.’
‘So, you just popped up from the ground?’
‘No, I fell from the sky.’
When she set about, marching back into the abandoned city of Omtose Phellack, Ifayle did not follow her. Not that she wanted him to – although seeing the look on Arathan’s face would have been a delight – but his abandonment seemed sudden, as if she’d done something to m
ake him lose interest in her. The notion irritated her, fouling her mood.
She drew out the acorn and studied it, seeking to sense the power hidden inside. There was nothing. It was, as far as she could tell, just an acorn. Conjured up on a treeless plain. ‘Don’t break it,’ he said.
She drew nearer the Tower of Hate. Arathan would be asleep. Even the thought of that frustrated her. This is still the watch … almost. He should be awake. At the window, looking out on Hood’s sea of burning stars, wondering where I’ve gone to. Whom I might be with.
Rutting some Dog-Runner with snowy eyes and freckles on his arms. If Ifayle really wanted me, as he said, he would’ve followed. Empty chambers abound in this city. He didn’t even smell bad, all things considered.
The invitation was a tease. Lucky I saw through it and made plain my shock. My disgust. That smile was amused, not admiring. That’s why I bridled. And Arathan’s no better. Gift to Gothos, only now he says he’s leaving. Joining Hood, and why? Nothing but sentiment, the rush of the impossible to take hold of every romantic, deluded soul.
Look at them all!
Death will have to chase me down. Hunt me across, I don’t know, centuries. And even then, I vow to leave it … dissatisfied.
You fell from the sky, did you? With flecks of golden sunlight on your arms, I saw. How quaint.
* * *
Restless but reluctant to leave Gothos’s company and make his way back to the abode he and Korya shared, Arathan sat close to the ebbing heat from one of the braziers, at last thankful for its warmth. She would be lying in wait, he suspected, to assail him once again, to scoff at his foolish romanticism. And he had little with which to fend off her arguments.
Dawn was not too far away, in any case. Winter was a pernicious beast, he decided, to make caves, holes and gloomy chambers so inviting, where musings could huddle and stretch hands out over softly glowing embers. The outer world was bleak enough without the sleeping season’s reminder of what was lost, and what still remained months away. And yet, he thought to walk the camp in the day to come, or perhaps wander once more through the ruins of abandoned Omtose Phellack, to let the musings unfurl in winter’s cold, unyielding light.
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