Fall of Light

by Steven Erikson

  ‘It’s the husband you need to think about, Warden,’ Rebble had added later. ‘I mean, one look into those eyes … no, not a thing to marry, not in there. Not a thing to love, or cherish, or – gods forbid – worship. That woman – I near piss myself every time we chance to meet gazes. So you can’t help but wonder at the man who took her hand. But one thing’s for certain. She’ll be a fine commander, since no man or woman, if they got eyes to see, would ever go against her.’

  ‘That’s a dubious justification,’ Wareth had replied. ‘It’s not just giving orders, Rebble. Being an officer’s a lot more than that. It’s down to who you’ll follow.’

  ‘Well, lieutenant, if you know anything about that, it’d be from the backside.’

  ‘True enough, Rebble, but that don’t make my vision any less clear.’

  Of these new officers, selected from the prisoners, only Rebble and Wareth had caught Faror Hend’s interest. Rebble was a victim of his own temper, and that was far from a rare thing. Nothing in Rebble baffled her. As for Wareth … well, monstrous he might appear to be after years of wielding a pick, but there was something gentle in the man. Gentle and, she had to admit, weak. It may well have been his cowardice that made him as clever as he was. She would not trust Wareth in any setting that threatened violence, but she did not anticipate ever finding herself in such a situation when she might have to: accordingly, she accepted him as he was, and perhaps the real reason for that was, just as with Rebble, she understood him.

  Her aversion to joining the military had guided her into the company of the Wardens. She saw nothing inviting or glorious in battle, and had no desire to seek it out.

  Accompanying Aral were Denar and Kalakan, a pair of thieves who had broken into an estate in Kharkanas, only to stumble into what they swore was a father raping all four of his children, with the wife lying dead on the floor in the room’s centre. By their tale, which they still maintained as the truth, the man in question was highborn enough to sell his innocence to the magistrate, and, indeed, to twist the scene around, accusing the thieves of the murder and the rapes. As the four children were, one and all, driven too deep into shock to be capable of responding to anyone or anything, it was the noble’s word against two common thieves.

  Denar and Kalakan had been sent to separate pits, only to reunite here in the Hust Legion. Their promotions were earned by the sharpness of their minds, and the cutting precision of their wit. Their sheer popularity made the charges against them seem profoundly unlikely, and, as it turned out, the two men had been partners in love as well as thievery.

  A few moments later, Wareth arrived, and with him was a young woman who seemed far from pleased to be in his company, or anyone’s company for that matter. She immediately moved off to stand with her back against canvas, arms crossed and eyes upon the muddy floor.

  You have my sympathy. This is a bag full of knives, and here you all are, with your hands plunged into it.

  She saw Galar Baras studying the newcomer with a frown, and then he looked away, scanning the others for a moment before nodding and rising. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘we begin issuing weapons and armour.’

  Castegan seemed to choke, but it was the quartermaster who said, ‘Commander, you cannot do that!’

  ‘It’s time, Seltin.’

  ‘The blades are eager for blood,’ Castegan said. ‘They are stung, each and every one of them. You can hear it, Galar Baras. The betrayal burns them.’

  Sighing, Galar said, ‘Enough of that nonsense, Castegan. Yes, the iron has a voice, but you would make those weapons out to be more than what they are. Henarald himself explained how the Hust iron reacts to changes in temperature, and how each blade talks to those nearest it, as would a tuning fork. What we hear is pressure, and tension. These weapons, Castegan, are not alive.’

  Castegan scowled. ‘It may be that they weren’t, Galar, but they are now. And I tell you this’ – he rapped the scabbard at his belt – ‘my blade slides into my dreams every night now. Begging for blood. Beseeching me to be the hand of its vengeance.’ He jabbed a finger at his commander. ‘Tell me, does your sword sleep at night?’

  Galar met Castegan’s gaze for a long moment, and then he turned away. ‘Wareth, do you have anything to report?’

  ‘No, sir. Just another murder. Another woman-killer now stumbles through the everlasting Abyss. The mystery of how the bodies are moved continues to perplex us. We’ve gone nowhere in our investigation.’

  ‘And who is this woman you have brought to us?’

  ‘Rance, sir. From White Crag Pit. She has the makings of an officer, sir.’

  Galar Baras grunted, and then faced her. ‘Rance. What think you? Shall I distribute the weapons and armour of the Hust to you and your fellow recruits?’

  Her eyes narrowed on the commander. ‘It’s a conversation we cannot but overhear, sir,’ she said. ‘Those … things. What you suggest … I don’t know if any of us want to be part of that conversation.’

  ‘Not a conversation,’ Castegan said. ‘An argument. They’ll pluck at the worst in you. Think on that, Galar Baras! Think on these wretched murderers you would now arm! There will be chaos. Bloody chaos.’

  Denar cleared his throat, glancing briefly at Kalakan, and then said, ‘Sir, it’s chaos already, and that’s building. We all spent years working, stumbling exhausted back to our bunks. Now we just march this way and that – at least, those willing to listen to us. Most of them, sir, just lie around bickering.’

  Kalakan added, ‘We need more than just weapons, maybe. We need to be doing something. Anyway.’

  Galar Baras nodded. ‘Well, consider this, then. It seems that Urusander is not interested in doing things the traditional way. He will not wait for spring. He will probably begin his march on Kharkanas before the month’s out.’

  Faror Hend wondered at that, and then she said, ‘Forgive me, commander. But that would be foolish of him. The Wardens—’

  Castegan cut her off with a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Then you’ve not heard. Ilgast Rend was given command by Calat Hustain and took your Wardens to Neret Sorr. There was a battle with Urusander’s Legion. Rend’s dead, the Wardens shattered.’

  She stared at the man, unable to comprehend his news. Galar Baras stepped close and set a hand upon her shoulder. ‘Damn Castegan for his insensitivity, Faror. I would have spoken of it to you, once this meeting was done. I am sorry. The tale but just arrived, from a courier out of Kharkanas.’

  ‘This is the season of sordid ends,’ Castegan said, now pacing. ‘No time for sentimentality. I make my words hard and cruel, not out of malice, but to impress upon everyone here that niceties are an indulgence we can no longer afford. Galar – send that rider back to Kharkanas, with a message for Silchas Ruin. The effort here has failed. There is no Hust Legion. It’s dead. Gone. Exhort him to sue for peace.’

  Faror backed away from Galar’s grip, until she felt the cold, wet tent wall at her back. Ilgast Rend … no! My friends— ‘Commander, what is the fate of Calat Hustain? He rode out to the Vitr with a company—’ Spinnock! You still live. Oh, feel my relief – woman, are you truly this shallow? ‘Captain Finarra Stone was sent to the Shake. Does she – has she learned of this?’ What, what am I to do now?

  A camp-stool nudged her left leg, and she looked down, uncomprehendingly, until Wareth’s voice said, ‘Sit, Faror.’

  Numb, she sank down.

  Galar Baras was speaking. ‘… mission is now imperative. He wants us ready to march in two weeks. The matter is made simple. We have no choice, now.’

  ‘Untrue!’ Castegan said in a snarl. ‘We cannot hope to command these savages! The only choice left us is to surrender!’

  ‘Wareth.’

  ‘Commander?’

  ‘Gather the sergeants and corporals drawn from the prisoners. Add more to make the complement complete. I will want that list before noon today. Bring them to the training ground. We will do this in two phases. They are the first to be armed and armoured.’<
br />
  ‘Long overdue,’ said Curl, making fists with his battered hands. ‘I would feel that iron. Taste it. Listen to its song.’

  ‘Wareth, take your fellows out to the wagons. Oh, by the way, your old blade awaits you.’

  At those words, Wareth flinched. ‘Sir, I beg you, not that one.’

  ‘You are bound to it,’ Galar Baras replied. ‘Until death takes you. Really, Wareth, you already knew that.’

  ‘Then, sir, I humbly request that I remain unarmed.’

  ‘Denied. Seltin, join Wareth and see to the proper issuing to my lieutenants here. Thereafter, remain at your post, and double the guard over the wagons. We will see what happens when the sergeants and corporals return to their squads – this afternoon and tonight. Then, if all goes well, we will equip the regulars tomorrow.’

  As the quartermaster led the prisoners out of the tent, Galar turned to Castegan. ‘Get out. I will speak in private with Faror Hend now.’

  ‘Consider well,’ said Castegan in a growl, ‘the honour of the Hust Legion.’

  ‘See to your own, Castegan!’ Galar snapped, eyes holding on Faror where she sat.

  The man straightened. ‘When it is all I have left to defend, Galar Baras, I require no admonition from you.’

  Galar turned on him. ‘Is it honour you now fight for? I would think guilt a more apt word for what gnaws at your soul. Swallow it down whole, Castegan, and muse long on its weight. At the very least, it will keep your feet on the ground.’

  ‘Commander Toras Redone defied my seniority here—’

  ‘Defied? No. She questioned it. You may have me in years, but not years in service to the Hust. I will, if you ask it, release you to return to your original legion. I am sure you will have plenty of intelligence to sell to Urusander.’

  Castegan was trembling as he faced his commander. ‘You make a dangerous offer, Galar Baras.’

  ‘Why? This is not a gale you need face. Leave it to push you round, and, like a hand at your back, send you running home.’

  Saying nothing more, Castegan strode from the tent.

  After a long moment, Galar Baras faced Faror Hend once again. ‘What Lord Ilgast Rend did was unforgivable.’

  She snorted. ‘He need not beg for forgiveness any longer, sir, now that he lies dead.’

  ‘Faror, Lord Silchas Ruin has given me command of all forces but the Houseblades of the highborn Houses. For all that, I expect it to be temporary. When Lord Anomander returns, it will be Silchas taking my place.’

  She blinked up at him. ‘Toras Redone will return to command the Hust, sir.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Her husband will see to it.’

  Galar Baras studied her briefly, and then shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But we cannot rely upon that. The Wardens are no more. I am attaching you to my staff, elevating your rank to captain. You will command a company, Faror Hend.’

  ‘Sir, I cannot. Calat Hustain is my commander still.’

  ‘He has lost his command. Faror, I have word – there are survivors from the battle. Not many, but some. Seen on the south tracks. They are fleeing here, captain.’

  Oh, gods below. ‘Sir, send a rider to Yedan Monastery. Captain Finarra Stone is there. She will be the ranking officer, not me.’

  ‘Until then, it will have to be you, Faror Hend.’

  ‘Sir, I do not want a Hust sword.’

  Galar strode to the woodstove. He kicked the latch so that the grilled door opened, and then crouched to fling in handfuls of dung-chips. ‘There was a time,’ he said, ‘when the Hust Legion was a name spoken of with pride. For all the tales of cursed weapons and such, we stood against the Forulkan. We saved not just Kharkanas, but all of Kurald Galain.’

  ‘I am not a soldier, Galar Baras.’

  His shoulders shook in silent laughter, ‘Oh, have I not heard that said enough yet?’

  ‘How can you hope to resurrect the Hust Legion?’ she asked. ‘To what it once was? Where, sir, will you find glory in these men and women?’

  He straightened, but kept his face averted. ‘I can but try.’

  * * *

  ‘Nothing downtrodden in yonder peasants,’ Prazek observed.

  ‘Nothing peasantry in them either, brother,’ Dathenar replied.

  Ahead upon the track stood a score or more figures. They had been hurrying from the west, bundled under gear wrapped in blankets and furs. Upon spying the two approaching riders, they had drawn up in a clump, barring the way.

  Clearing his throat, Dathenar said, ‘Lacking a king, they merely await your first and, one hopes, most stirring speech, Prazek.’

  ‘I have speech to stir indeed.’

  ‘Emotions to churn, thoughts to swirl, but save your last handful of spice, Prazek, for the final turn.’

  ‘You invite a burning hand, Dathenar, to give bridling sting to my slap.’

  ‘Shall a slap suffice? I see not the yoke of drudgery before me, but loot collected in the dark, and in haste. And see how they are armed, with cudgels, spears and brush-hooks.’

  ‘Forest bandits, perchance? But then, why, their zeal with said brush-hooks is unequalled in the annals of wayfarers, for not a tree stands to hide their hidey-hole.’

  ‘Zealotry has its downside,’ Dathenar added, nodding.

  Three over-muscled men had stepped out from the crowd. Two wielded spears made of knives bound to shafts, while the one in the centre carried a pair of brush-hooks, one of which appeared to be splashed with frozen blood. This man was smiling.

  ‘Well met, sirs!’ he cried.

  The two riders reined in, but a dozen or so paces distant from the three men.

  ‘Met well indeed,’ Prazek called back, ‘since by cogent meditation I conclude you to be recruits of the Hust Legion, but it seems you travel without an officer, and perhaps have found yourselves lost so far from the camp. Fortunate for you, then, that we find you here.’

  ‘For this day,’ Dathenar added, ‘you will see our lenient side, and rather than tangle your mob’s many legs with something as mentally challenging as a proper march in cadence, you can scurry back to the camp like a gaggle of sheep.’

  ‘Sheep, Dathenar?’ Prazek asked. ‘Surely, by the belligerence arrayed before us, we must consider the simile as inaccurate. Better we deem them goats.’

  ‘Listen to these shits!’ one of the men said, and the others laughed. ‘You sweat perfume too, do you?’

  ‘Goatly humour,’ Prazek explained to Dathenar. ‘Forever barking up ill-chosen trees. Sweat, good sir, belongs to the unwashed multitudes, such as are lacking the civil hygiene of panic well hidden. If perfume you seek, why, set nose to your own arse and breathe deep.’

  ‘Prazek!’ exclaimed Dathenar. ‘You bend low to crass regard.’

  ‘No more than but to match said gentleman’s anticipated posture.’

  ‘Shut your mouths,’ snapped the man with the two brush-hooks, no longer smiling. ‘We’ll take your horses. Oh, and your weapons and armour. And if we’re feeling … what was that word? Lenient? … we might let you keep your silk sac-bags, so whatever shrivelled stuff’s inside ’em don’t disappear entirely.’

  ‘That stretched a breath, Dathenar, did it not?’

  ‘I myself hearkened more to the stretching of his thoughts, not to mention grammar, Prazek – nigh unto breaking, I’d swear.’

  ‘Let us dispense with leniency, Dathenar. Surely the Hust Legion can indulge our spat of discipline as might be needed here.’

  Someone in the crowd now said, ‘Leave ’em be, Biskin. They’s feckin’ armoured and feck.’

  ‘Now there are wise words,’ said Dathenar, brightening.

  ‘Indeed?’ Prazek asked. ‘How could you tell?’

  No answer was possible, as the first three men charged them, with a dozen or so others following.

  Weapons leapt from scabbards. The mounts surged forward, eager to close.

  Hoofs lashed out, blades slashed, stabbed and twisted. Figures flew away to the sides of
the track, while others vanished beneath the stamping horses. Blades flickered. Voices shrieked.

  Moments later, both Houseblades rode clear and then reined in to wheel round. In their wake, a dozen deserters were still standing. Half that number writhed on the ground, while the remaining bodies did not move at all. There was blood on the track, blood bright upon the thin drifts of snow to either side.

  Dathenar whipped his sword blade downward, shedding gore from its length. ‘Wise words, Prazek, are rarely understood.’

  Their horses stamped and snorted, eager for another charge into the press, but both men were quick to quiet them.

  Prazek eyed the deserters. ‘Few enough now, I think, to see them march in proper cadence.’

  ‘The cadence of the limp, yes.’

  ‘The limp, the shuffle, the stagger and the reel.’

  ‘You describe the gait of the defeated and the cowed, the battered and the bruised.’

  ‘I but describe what I see before me, Dathenar. Which of us, then, shall round up and make them proper?’

  ‘’Twas your stirring speech, was it not?’

  ‘Was it? Why, I thought it yours!’

  ‘Shall we ask Biskin?’

  Prazek sighed. ‘Alas, Biskin tried to swallow my horse’s left forehoof. What remains of his brain bears the imprint of a horseshoe, decidedly unlucky.’

  ‘Ah, and do we see the other two from the front? One I know flung his head out of the path of my sword.’

  ‘Careless of you.’

  ‘No, just his head. His body went the other way.’

  ‘Ah, well. This is poor showing on our part, as the other man lost his hat.’

  ‘He wore no hat.’

  ‘Well, the cap bearing most of his hair, then.’

  Dathenar sighed. ‘When leaders wrongly lead, why, best that others step in to take their place. You and I, perhaps? See, they recover – those that can – and look to us with the broken regard of the broken.’