Fall of Light

by Steven Erikson

  ‘I require no armed escort,’ Raest said, now collecting a leather cap, such as might be worn beneath a helm, which he pulled on with some effort, only to remove it immediately, reaching into the cap and withdrawing what looked like a mouse’s nest of dry grasses. Emptied, the cap proved a better fit. Thus attired, the Jaghut opened the door once more and strode outside.

  Garelko followed. ‘Good sir,’ he began, ‘about that other dragon—’

  ‘Kilmandaros has much to answer for,’ Raest cut in.

  Before them, filling most of the clearing, the dragon stood upon its four squat limbs in a weary crouch, its tattered wings half cocked in the manner of an exhausted bird. Its massive head was turned and glittering eyes regarded them.

  Frowning, Garelko said to Raest, ‘Sir, you take in vain the name of our sweet if fictional goddess mother.’

  ‘Oh, she’s real enough, Thel Akai. She’s never liked dragons, you see, and it seems some of her prejudice now infuses her wayward children. You may well be in the habit of attacking them, but not here and not now. So listen well. Draw not that weapon. Make no threat. Be gentle in your regard – well, as gentle as that face of yours can manage. As for the conversation, leave that to me.’

  ‘Conversation? Sir, with this wind I can barely hear you as it is.’

  ‘Not with you, idiot. With the dragon.’

  ‘I will delight in being the first Thel Akai to hear the slithery speech of a dragon, then!’

  ‘You will hear her or not. The choice belongs to her, not you.’

  ‘A female then! How can you tell?’

  ‘Simple. She’s bigger.’ With that, Raest strode forward, Garelko falling in a step behind the Jaghut. They halted no more than five or six paces from the creature’s snout. The dragon had lowered her head to bring it level with Raest. Rain streamed down the scales, the occasional flash of lightning sending reflected light shimmering across the pebbled hide.

  When the dragon spoke, her voice filled Garelko’s skull, cool and sweet. ‘A Jaghut and a Thel Akai. Yet not at each other’s throats, from which I conclude that you have but just met, with the night still young.’

  ‘You are of course welcome,’ said Raest out loud, ‘to wait out this storm in the faint shelter of my glade. Once the storm is past, however, I expect you to continue on to wherever it is you’re going. It’s not that I don’t like dragons, you understand. Rather, I prefer solitude.’

  ‘Of course you do, Jaghut. What then of this Thel Akai?’

  ‘Gone in the morning as well. This one and his fellows still in the cabin.’

  ‘I found a slain brother, higher upon the trail.’

  Garelko cleared his throat. ‘Alas, he surprised us.’

  In that instant, the dragon’s gaze acquired sharp intensity, fixing solely upon Garelko. ‘Do you fear me vengeful, Thel Akai?’

  Garelko blinked water from his eyes. ‘Fear?’

  Raest said, ‘Thel Akai haven’t the wits to be frightened. That said, I’ll have no fighting in my damned yard, is that understood?’

  ‘You are Jaghut. I am of no mind to challenge your temper. I am Sorrit, sister to Dalk, who now lies dead beside a lake, slain by Thel Akai. This realm proves dangerous.’

  ‘In this realm, Sorrit, resides Kilmandaros.’

  ‘Perhaps then I shall gather my kin, so that we may contemplate vengeance.’

  Raest shrugged. ‘You will find her to the east, on the Azathanai Plain. She no longer guides her children, at least not with deliberation. The curse of being a god is how quickly one becomes bored. Not to mention frustrated, exasperated and, eventually, spiteful. But, to ease you somewhat, I have heard no word of Skillen Droe.’

  ‘Your news is welcome, Jaghut. Once this storm eases, I will indeed be on my way. As for you, Thel Akai, Dalk lusted for my blood. It is well that he is dead.’

  Garelko grunted in surprise, and then said, ‘It is sad when siblings fall out. Families should be bastions of well-being, kindness and love.’

  ‘Is yours, Thel Akai?’

  ‘Well, it shall be, perhaps, once we hunt down our wayward wife, kill her lover, and drag the damned woman back home.’

  Raest slapped Garelko on the upper arm. ‘Let us go back inside. I’m getting wet.’

  As they turned about, Garelko took the opportunity to pat the Jaghut on the left shoulder, not out of affection, but to flatten the stretched nipple in the leather, which had been driving him mad.

  * * *

  There was little comfort to be found in being carried by Skillen Droe. K’rul hung like carrion in the taloned grip of his companion, with the choppy waves of the sea far below. Droe’s leathery wings sent the chill air beating down, and the only relief came when they slipped into a thermal of rising warm air and the wings could stretch out motionless as they scythed forward.

  Above them the sky remained cloudless and cerulean, the sun hanging directly overhead as the morning gave way to afternoon. As there didn’t seem to be much to say, and speaking would require shouting, K’rul held his peace, while Skillen Droe self-evidently kept his thoughts to himself.

  K’rul had begun dozing when he was jolted awake by a sudden rush of air. Skillen Droe had begun a sharp descent, and K’rul twisted round to look down.

  A boat. It sat grounded upon a shoal, perhaps a hundred spans from a narrow sliver of coral-sand that could barely be called an island. There was nothing else in sight out to every horizon, only the endless swell of heaving waves.

  There were two occupants in the craft. Only one was visible as the other was mostly hidden beneath a tattered grey parasol. K’rul looked down to see flaming red hair, artfully if loosely curled and piled high above a face turned up to the sun. That face was impossibly white, as if no rays could bronze it. The woman wore what looked like an evening gown, the silk a bright emerald green and the frills a deeper shade. Though the gown was intended to reach down to her ankles, she had drawn it up to expose her white thighs.

  The boat had two benches, one fore and one aft. In between these was a broad-bellied gap that had once held a step-mast, but the step, sail and mast were nowhere to be seen. The woman sat at the bow, while her companion with the parasol occupied the stern.

  Skillen Droe elected to land in the gap between them, his wings beating fiercely for a moment before catching an updraught that allowed him to hover briefly, sufficient to set K’rul down before he settled his own weight amidst a crunch and groan of wood, and then Skillen folded his wings and hunched down.

  The boat was well and truly aground. K’rul straightened his clothes before facing the woman and bowing slightly. ‘Cera Planto, it has been too long since I last looked upon your lovely self.’ Glancing at the huge, iron-skinned, tusked man in the shade of the parasol, K’rul nodded. ‘Vix, I trust you are well.’

  Vix replied with a single grunt, his one eye glittering.

  Cera Planto fanned herself, ‘Always the sweetest compliments from you, K’rul, but do tell me, what on earth has happened to Skillen Droe?’

  ‘A new guise for an old self,’ K’rul replied. ‘Should he choose to speak, his words will come in scents and flavours in the mind. Peculiar, but affecting.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt he’ll have words for us, since that last unfortunate incident.’ Her broad, flaring cheekbones bore an unnatural flush amidst powdered white, and the kohl surrounding her deep blue eyes and fading up to her eyebrows glistened metallic green. ‘Are there not those among us, no matter what cast or credence, for whom mishap circles with persistent perfidy? So I see Skillen Droe, forever abuzz with ill chance.’

  As if in reply, Skillen Droe settled lower in the craft, hooking his wings to offer himself shade, and then tilted his snouted head forward, opaque lids rising up to cover his eyes.

  K’rul sighed. ‘Well, he has been flying us for some time.’

  ‘Then you have satisfied his need to feel useful,’ Cera replied. ‘Always the considerate one, you.’

  ‘I am sure,’ said K’rul, ‘on
ce he has rested, he will be happy to dislodge your craft.’

  ‘Oh, Vix can do that any time. He’s just being stubborn.’

  ‘Not half as stubborn as you,’ Vix growled.

  ‘We shall see about that, won’t we?’

  ‘You have left spawn among the mortals,’ K’rul said to Vix. ‘They name themselves Trell, and make war with the Thelomen.’

  Vix reached up to straighten his thin, wispy moustache, ensuring that the long black braids properly flanked his broad, tusked mouth. ‘I am profligate, to be sure. As for war, well, of course, why ever not?’

  ‘But you claim the Thelomen as your spawn as well,’ K’rul pointed out.

  ‘Just so. They actually share the same god. Me. And yet in my name they unleash hate and venom upon each other. Is that not amusing? Mortals are petty and vicious, unthinking and spiteful, inclined to stupidity and wilfully ignorant. I do so love them.’ He then made the habitual gesture K’rul had seen countless times before: reaching up to lightly brush the stitches sealing shut the lids of his left eye. ‘I contemplate a third breed, an admixture of Thelomen, Trell and Dog-Runner, whom I shall name Barghast. I expect they will war against everyone.’

  ‘Dog-Runner? I would think Olar Ethil might object to that, Vix.’

  ‘I piss in her fire. See how she objects to that.’

  Sighing again, K’rul settled into a cross-legged position, facing Cera Planto once more. ‘And what have you been up to, my dear?’

  ‘We thought to explore an Azath House.’

  ‘In a boat?’

  ‘Unsuccessfully. But no matter. Eventually, Vix will lose this war of obstinacy and send us on our way once more. I foresee innumerable adventures in the offing.’ She collected up a small wooden carrying case, setting it on her lap before unclasping the lid and opening it. ‘In the meantime, I found a most iridescent breed of beetle on a tropical island, and had Vix collect as many of them as possible.’ She drew out a mortar and pestle, and then a bronze jar. ‘The wings, when finely ground and mixed with a drop of beeswax and olive oil, make for a most delightful kohl, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very enticing,’ K’rul said.

  ‘But you look pale. Decidedly too masculine, too, but never mind that. Almost bloodless, one might say. Have you been up to no good again?’

  ‘I have given freely of my power, Cera, not to any breed of mortal, but to all breeds of mortal. My blood swirls in the cosmos, swims to unmindful currents.’

  Her deep blue eyes had narrowed and she now regarded him with vague disappointment. ‘Did you hear that, Vix? And you boasted of profligacy.’

  Behind K’rul, Vix said, ‘Beware the Thelomen finding potent magic. Hmm. I shall have to pay them a visit, assuming once more the role of vengeful god.’

  ‘Do not wait too long,’ K’rul said to the tusked Azathanai behind him, ‘lest they do the swatting down.’

  ‘What a mess you’ve made,’ Vix said.

  Shrugging, K’rul said, ‘It’s done. But now, with Skillen at my side, we set out to force some order upon the maelstrom.’

  ‘How?’ Cera Planto asked.

  ‘Dragons.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cera. ‘Poor Skillen Droe!’

  * * *

  At last the mountains were behind Hanako and Lasa Rook, and ahead lay a level plain where even the forest dwindled, giving way to tufts of wiry grasses that looked sickly clinging to the salty clay. Hanako staggered woodenly beneath Erelan Kreed’s slack weight, while at his side Lasa Rook hummed a children’s song the words of which Hanako barely remembered, only that it was a tale of some orphan – and how many of those were there, anyway? – stealing fruit from some orchard, and some old witch who lived in an apple tree. One night the lad reached up and plucked the wrong fruit. Don’t mess with witches! ran the refrain, They’re rotten to the core!

  Lasa Rook stopped humming abruptly, and then said, ‘Hanako of the Scars, your burden is exhausting you, leaving you little energy or attention to lavish upon me, and you well know how I enjoy being lavished. The situation, darling, is unsupportable.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Hanako, ‘if you could carry your own bedroll, and this cooking gear—’

  ‘Really? You would ask that of me? Why, if you were one of my husbands … but no, this time, in your ignorance, I shall forgive you. There is a force in the world – in all worlds, no doubt – like invisible fingers, ever plucking and pulling us down. Thus, as the years draw on, the face sags, the breasts too, and the belly and all places where the flesh bulges. It follows, sweet boy, that one must endeavour to diminish such burdens as best as one can. See this youthful visage? It remains so precisely because I have husbands to carry everything. Now, here you are, in their stead. If misery attends you, it is because you are yet to claim your reward. I am not to blame if you flatly refuse my appreciation!’

  Hanako mumbled a mostly inarticulate apology.

  They continued on, in uncomfortable silence, until they almost stumbled upon a lone figure before them. The man was seated cross-legged on the hard-packed clay, his back to them. An empty wooden bowl was at his side. He was gaunt, wizened and mostly hairless, and as Hanako and Lasa drew up to either side of him, he spoke without opening his eyes or shifting his head. ‘I believe the universe is expanding.’

  The two Thel Akai halted, Hanako groaning as he let the body of Erelan Kreed slip down from his shoulder and into his arms, and then, as he crouched, on to the ground.

  ‘There is a manner,’ the stranger continued, ‘in which the soul can free itself of the flesh, and so wing swift as thought into the reaches of space. I have been contemplating this, as I dined. As one does. And it has occurred to me that the expanding universe is nothing more and nothing less than mortal souls in eternal flight. And that, should you somehow appear at the very edge of this ever-expanding creation, you would find the very first soul, impossibly ancient, so far along on its journey from its mortal flesh that not even dust remains of that body. We must be grateful to that soul, don’t you think? For … all of this.’

  A moment later, the old man tilted slightly for a brief moment of flatulence, and then settled back once more. ‘Beans, but no rice.’

  Hanako and Lasa exchanged a look, and then Hanako bent down and collected up Erelan Kreed once more. They walked past the old man, leaving him to his contemplation.

  Some time later, Lasa Rook hissed and shook her head. ‘Azathanai.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘HE HAS FRECKLES,’ KORYA SAID. ‘ON HIS ARMS.’

  Arathan looked up from the vellum. ‘Do you see this? What I’m scribing on, Korya Delath? It’s vellum. I don’t know where he gets it from, but it must be rare. And expensive, and should I be startled into making an error—’

  She stepped inside, letting the old goat-skin curtain fall back to fill the doorway. ‘Why aren’t you in the Tower of Hate?’

  Sighing, Arathan set down the stylus. ‘I needed somewhere without interruptions. Gothos was getting too many visitors. Everyone’s complaining. Though it has nothing to do with Gothos, they all seem to think he has some influence with Hood. But he doesn’t. Who has freckles?’

  She strolled closer, eyeing the decrepit furnishings, the arcane symbols scratched into the plastered walls. ‘Young, sweet Ifayle. A Dog-Runner. He wants to sleep with me.’

  Arathan returned to his transcribing. ‘That’s nice. I hear they have lice and ticks and fleas. Maybe those weren’t freckles at all, just welts from all the bites and things.’

  ‘They were freckles. And he’s clean enough. They use oils on their bodies. Drowns everything, and highlights the red in the hairs on his arms – they glisten like gold.’

  ‘You really like his arms, don’t you?’

  ‘They’re strong, too.’

  ‘So go roll in the grass with him, then!’

  ‘Maybe I will!’

  ‘Better do it now, since presumably this Ifayle’s here to march with Hood.’

  ‘March? Where? When? There’s a
reason Hood’s not packed up his tent – he can’t figure out where to go!’

  Arathan scowled down at the vellum, resumed his work. ‘Don’t be absurd. He’s just waiting.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘More people are still coming in—’

  ‘A mere trickle, and most of them are undecided. More curious than anything else. People like spectacle, and that’s all this is. Vapid, useless, pointless spectacle! Hood’s joke, and it’s on all of you.’ She walked over to the etched wall. ‘What’s all this about?’

  Arathan shrugged. ‘It’s not Jaghut script. Gothos said something about a mad Builder.’

  ‘Builder?’

  ‘The ones who make Azath Houses.’

  ‘No one makes Azath Houses, you fool. That’s the whole point, the whole mystery of them. They just appear.’

  ‘What’s that in your hand?’

  ‘This? An acorn. Why? Do you have a problem with it?’

  ‘Well, there are no oaks here.’

  ‘So? Anyway, the Azath Houses just grow up out of the ground.’

  He leaned back. ‘Have you seen this happen?’ he asked.

  ‘Haut explained it. And their yards are hungry.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Just what I said. Their yards are hungry. Haut’s own words. I have a good memory, you know. Better than most people.’

  ‘So you don’t know what it means either. Hungry yards. Sounds … ominous.’ Abruptly he began cleaning his stylus, and then he stoppered the bottle of ink.

  ‘What are you doing? I thought you were busy.’

  ‘There is an Azath House at the western edge of the ruins. When Omtose Phellack was a thousand years old, it sprang up one night, upsetting the Jaghut no end. But as none could get inside, and it was proof against all magic, they decided to ignore it.’ He collected up his cloak. ‘I think I’ll go take a look.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Ifayle’s freckles won’t like that.’

  ‘You do know that they won’t let you go, Arathan. The Jaghut. You’re hiding, anyway. From what? Probably a woman. It was a woman, wasn’t it? People have said things.’