Fall of Light

by Steven Erikson

  Sudden vehemence flooded Sandalath, and the voice that came from her was not her own. ‘This child, Draconus, has taken the best of you. This child is made pure. All the love you harboured, that you so callously hoarded, and meted out with such reluctance – it now resides in this babe, given to a mother too broken to love her back.

  ‘Oh, Draconus, how do you like me now?

  ‘Tell this to Mother Dark, when next you see her. She is neither the first nor the last, but nothing you covet and nothing you need will be found in her arms. I have wounded you, Draconus. Will she be content with what’s left of you? I doubt it.

  ‘My fire lives on, but it is a lonely flame. May you kiss the same cold lips. May you yearn for what you can never have, and find no warmth in this or any other world.

  ‘Your soldiers burned me! In hate, they hurt me! All of your careless games, Draconus, now return to you! Come back to this Finnest, see what I have done!’

  Sandalath felt the presence flee her. The tiny girl in her arms, dripping with birth fluids, was plucking at her sodden blouse, hungry for what the cloth hid.

  Revulsion rippled through her, but some instinct made her yield to the babe’s need. She fumbled at the clasps, pulled her blouse apart, and let the girl suckle.

  Draconus was gone – she didn’t recall seeing him leave – and now, impossibly, the morning sun was pushing through the warped slats of the shutters. She could smell bitter, acrid smoke.

  As the child drank eagerly, she staggered, body aching, over to the window, reaching out to tug back the shutters.

  The smouldering ruin of the house surrounded the tower, the fire-cracked stones heaped up around the base. Flames had caught the barracks, but there the fire had but scorched one corner, where the stones had sunk down into a pit now filled with frozen meltwater. From beyond the outer wall, in the direction of the training field, a dozen or more columns of white smoke rose straight up, the only motion in this frozen daybreak.

  She listened to the child’s deep breaths even as the mouth drew on the nipple. Already the babe felt heavier, bulkier. Its skin was onyx, its black hair fine and long. The eyes were large and strangely elongated, luminous as they stared upward, past Sandalath’s face, seemingly focused on the empty morning sky. Something in that small, round face reminded Sandalath of her mother.

  You’ll get what you need, but nothing more.

  Turning about, she set out for the stairs.

  * * *

  Ivis sat huddled in blankets as close to the stone-ringed cookfire as he could manage, yet still shivers trembled through him.

  He recalled little. Standing upon the threshold to the main chamber, and then … awakening out beyond the wall, his hands shredded and torn and full of slivers.

  Yalad told him that he had walked out from the raging flames, with Wreneck in his arms. But not even his clothes were singed, and the boy was also miraculously untouched. Still, there had been horror and grief in the camp when it was discovered that Lady Sandalath was missing. Yalad had clawed at his face, as the weight of a dead hostage crashed down upon him – the man given the responsibility for her safety.

  The storm had moved on in the night, and now there was no wind to stir the icy air. The household of Lord Draconus, and all the Houseblades, were now homeless.

  Ivis frowned at the small flickering flames of the cookfire, as if some part of him was waiting to see something in those bright, dancing tongues. Lord Anomander, how am I to take this? You challenged the Azathanai, upon a matter of respect. See the cost of that, milord. A house in ruin, a hostage lost to the flames. Two daughters? Well … there is that, I suppose.

  Pride will undo us all, I fear.

  If he cared to, he could lift his gaze from the flames, look across the camp to where stood Lord Anomander, with Caladan Brood at his side. Their guests, bearers of unbearable gifts. It was said of the High Mason, in the night just past, that he stood to witness the collapse of the edifice built by his own hands, and how he had then spoken of the lintelstone above the gate, with its secret words carved into it, and how he had muttered, as if to himself, of a bitter truth in such a hopeful sentiment.

  What this meant, Ivis could not guess.

  If he looked the other way, to the figure crouching at the next campfire, he would see young Wreneck, whose eyes were now closed but only on the inside, revealing a regard like blank glass. Upon emerging from the burning estate, the boy had been quiescent in Ivis’s arms, at least until he heard the terrified horses, upon which he had thrashed as if fevered, kicking and pushing until Ivis had no choice but to release him.

  It had been Yalad who then grasped Wreneck, even as the boy lunged back towards the flames of the house, screaming his need to save the horses – even though the beasts were already being driven through the gate behind them.

  Well. This winter’s seen its share of madness. We can agree on that, can we not?

  He was slow to react to the cries of alarm, and then amazement, and then the sudden descent of shocked silence, but at last, as each detail registered in his mind, assembling into a progression, he looked up.

  A crowd, led by Yalad, had rushed across the field, only to halt halfway. Upon the far side, climbing weakly from the ditch, was Lady Sandalath. At first, Ivis thought her wearing a crimson skirt – one that he did not know she possessed – but then he saw how it was a stain, spilled out from between her legs. And he saw that she carried a small shape, pressed against her bared chest.

  He thought it a doll, until he saw a tiny hand curling tight into a fist.

  As Yalad and the others backed away, as Lord Anomander and the High Mason moved towards her only to stop again after but a few strides, as Ivis himself rose to watch as Sandalath drew closer – the crowd parting before her – and approached him, only one man stepped into her path.

  ‘Milady,’ said Surgeon Prok, tilting his head. ‘I must attend to you, I’m afraid. To you both, in fact.’

  She halted before the surgeon, and said, ‘If you insist.’

  He stepped closer. ‘May I see the child, milady?’

  ‘A girl,’ she said.

  ‘I’d wager … four, perhaps five weeks old, but that—’

  ‘She is mine,’ cut in Sandalath, her tone oddly without inflection. ‘The one that lived. Her name,’ she added, ‘is Korlat.’

  ‘Milady—’

  ‘She is filled with love,’ Sandalath continued, ‘but not mine.’ She then pulled the babe away from her breast and held it out to Prok.

  Only then did the surgeon falter, and the look upon his face, as he turned to meet Ivis’s gaze, was a crumpled ruin of grief.

  As no one moved, as no one spoke, as all stared at Sandalath who offered the babe with outstretched arms, a small figure moved past Ivis and edged around Surgeon Prok.

  ‘Can I hold her, milady?’ Wreneck asked, and without awaiting a reply he accepted the babe, drawing his own blanket up around the naked child. ‘Orfantal has a sister,’ he said, ‘and she’s big!’ He reached down with one finger, which the babe suddenly grasped.

  Smiling, Wreneck turned to Ivis. ‘Master, she’s a strong one.’

  Wretched, anguished beyond words, Ivis found himself staring at them both, through a veil of sorrow.

  BOOK THREE

  The Gratitude of Chains

  SEVENTEEN

  CAPTAIN HALLYD BAHANN COULD WELL RECALL HIS SEASON OF terror as a child, when a pack of wild dogs, driven out of the forest by wolves, had invaded the village. The creatures knew no fear. Three villagers, two women and an old man, had been pulled down, torn apart outside their own homes. When a dozen adults gathered weapons and set out to kill the beasts, the dogs vanished into the hills. A hunt was organized, but though the well-armed, mounted party scoured the broken crags, ravines and draws, they found few signs and spent three fruitless days of searching before returning home.

  A week later, two children vanished while playing in a yard, leaving behind tatters of gory clothing and blood-splashed w
ooden toys.

  The village was young, the homes new and the ground of the farms surrounding it only recently broken. The pocket forest skirting the shallow river that curled round the raised oxbow upon which the village had been built still held enough trees to be considered wild. Hallyd Bahann’s father had set out the morning after the children had disappeared, riding north. That night, alone with his cloying mother, who’d made fear a way of life, Hallyd had shivered with dread, unwittingly drinking in his mother’s terror. He could still remember that night, mapped like a brand on his soul.

  His father returned the next day, with company. At his side trotted a fur-clad savage, pock-scarred and covered in matted hair. The stranger smelled foul. He ate raw meat and slept through the afternoon in filth of his own making, near the back door of the house. With the sun setting, he rose, and Hallyd recalled watching the man lope out into the gloom.

  The stranger returned three days later, dragging a mass of boiled skulls on a rope. There had been, it turned out, twenty-six dogs in the feral pack. In payment, he was given a cask of cider, which he drank while sitting on the ground in the front yard. The liquor made him vicious, growling when anyone drew near – as word went out, and curious villagers came by to look at the skulls, and at the Jheleck who had collected them – but eventually the cask was empty, and the hunter passed out.

  He was gone when Hallyd woke the next morning, though the dog skulls remained, heaped into a pyramid. Hallyd’s father cursed upon discovering that the Jheleck had stolen the empty cask.

  To this day, the dogs gave shape – flitting and deadly – to Hallyd Bahann’s fears, and in his nightmares he often saw their bared fangs, and imagined in their eyes something remorseless, untamable.

  The scout was huddled before him, shivering, wrapped in furs. A soldier of the Legion, reduced to this pitiful state.

  ‘We were on her trail. We were closing in. Then everything changed – the night came alive. Arrows, sir, they attacked us with arrows, as if we were wild beasts! Deniers. I was in a squad, me and four others. I alone escaped. There were hundreds, captain, moving in packs – those wretched, stinking forest-grubbers – and we thought we’d killed them all!’

  Weary, disgusted, Hallyd waved the soldier away. Two of his guards closed in, dragged the man out of the tent. Nothing disappointed him more than seeing a soldier reduced by terror. You ran, you fool, abandoning your squad-mates. You ran, when you should have stood your ground, when you should have fought. Even so, at least now he knew what awaited them behind the treeline to the west. The hunt for Sharenas was now incidental. It seemed that they were far from done with the Deniers.

  Arrows. The coward’s way. Well, that should not surprise anyone.

  Wicker shields. But where will we find what we need to make them?

  ‘Lieutenant Esk!’

  The tent flap was tugged aside and a tall, willowy woman entered, armour clanking. ‘Captain?’

  ‘You commanded the south flank yesterday, yes? Did you draw within sight of Manaleth?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘What flag rode the high winds?’

  ‘Neither the lord nor the lady was present in the keep, sir.’

  ‘You are certain of that?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Hallyd Bahann rose, grunting at a twinge in his lower back. He’d never much liked riding. ‘It’s the worst of winter – what’s driven the highborn out from their keep, I wonder?’

  Lieutenant Esk had no suggestions.

  ‘Assemble twenty of our best, lieutenant, for some night work. We’re taking that keep, by stealth if at all possible.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We need to resupply, lieutenant. Do you imagine the castellan would be generous to the enemy?’

  ‘No sir.’

  Seeing her hesitate, he said, ‘Go on, out with it.’

  ‘Thus far, sir, we have not overtly drawn noble blood—’

  ‘Lord Andarist would beg to differ.’

  ‘But no such accusation has been formally levelled, has it, sir?’

  ‘You have something to suggest?’

  She nodded. ‘Sir, the word’s out, from the surviving scouts who reached us. The Deniers are now organized, and since that is so, then it follows that someone is doing the organizing. It would be a stretch to imagine the forest-grubbers managing that on their own. I understand the Shake monasteries have proclaimed themselves neutral, but they do share the same faith, sir.’

  ‘Go on. I am intrigued.’

  ‘Yannis and Yedan monasteries, sir. If stealth can win us entry into Manalle’s keep, then why not the monasteries? In terms of resupply, we could do no better, and besides, we would be effectively removing the Shake from the field, and thereby not have to rely on their promises of neutrality. Besides, how much faith can we place in goodwill, sir, in the midst of civil war?’

  ‘An attack, justified by the charge that their agents have turned their forest-dwelling followers into an army?’

  ‘As I said, sir, someone is organizing the forest-grubbers. Who else would have reason to do so? And more to the point, who else could claim the authority?’

  ‘The priestly warriors of the Shake, lieutenant, are formidable. It won’t be like facing the Wardens.’

  ‘Stealth, sir, as you said. A night attack, an opened gate. If we catch them unawares.’

  Hallyd considered. There was merit to this. What a coup it would be! Hunn Raal would have no choice, then, but to acknowledge Hallyd Bahann as second only to Raal himself. The annihilation of the Shake was tactically sound. Esk was right – it would be foolish to trust in that official pronouncement of neutrality.

  We could loot the temples, strip their stores, their weapons. We could cut out the heart of their pathetic cult. But most of all, we will be ending the old line of regal blood, thereby eliminating any complications for the future. No possible rivals to the thrones, not with Sheccanto and Skelenal dead.

  ‘Inform your fellow officers, Esk, we ride southeast, to Yannis.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Oh, and how many scouts made it back?’

  ‘Eleven thus far, sir.’

  ‘Execute them on charges of cowardice and abandoning their comrades. Cowardice is rot and I’ll not see it fester in my ranks.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  For years, Hallyd had believed that the lone Jheleck had killed with his own hands all those wild dogs, only to overhear, one day, an offhand comment from his father. The savage had simply poisoned the animals with tainted meat. The lesson shifted in Hallyd’s mind, then, from notions of appalling prowess and physical might to the elegance of cold expedience. And for that, the fool got paid in cider and a single cask. Even the cunning can be witless. In that man’s place, I would have demanded ten horses, or more.

  ‘How big a fool was that hunter, son?’ his father had asked when they’d discussed it. ‘Poison. I could have done the same to the cider.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘No point. Either way, it’s a fouled cask.’

  Hallyd Bahann began dressing in his armour. Fouled cask. Yes. When I return, Hunn Raal, I’ll see your forced smile, feel your brittle clasp of congratulations upon my shoulder, and see you struggle to keep your footing firm.

  But fear not, when all is said and done, and we’ve ridden through the gates of the Citadel, trailing our collection of skulls, you and I will share a drink. But then, I could never match you cup for cup, so I’ll take instead some mulled wine, and leave to you the cask.

  We’ll toast your cunning and mine, and then take measure of the wits between them.

  He paused, thinking about the drunken fool, sweaty and clumsy as he struggled to pleasure Tathe Lorat. Indeed, by the time he returned, she would have unmanned him utterly.

  We’ll make of him our fool, and when he is finished, why, we’ll turn upon Urusander himself. Old man, you had your glory, but those days are long past, now. Father Light is but a title, and one that, I wager, can be worn
by any of us.

  Ah, my friends, the days ahead will be adventurous.

  * * *

  Wearing cloaks of unbleached fleece, Master-at-arms Gelas Storco and Sergeant Threadbare lay well concealed upon the ridge, amidst ash-grey ribs of snow, exposed granite and withered grass. The sergeant held a seeing tube to one eye. It was said to be Jaghut in origin, and had been in the possession of Greater House Manaleth for more than two centuries. Threadbare, leader of the company of scouts and trackers, had explained the inner workings of the brass and blackwood tube, but talk of mirrors and polished lenses made little sense to Gelas.

  No matter. That it could see farther than the naked eye was all that mattered. The master-at-arms shifted slightly, as the cold of the ground seeped up through his garments. ‘Well?’

  ‘I wager three hundred,’ Threadbare replied, her breath a stream of white. ‘They’re definitely doubling back.’

  ‘So, not the forest after all, and more important, not us either.’

  ‘So it seems, sir. Inviting the question, where now? Have they tucked tail?’

  Gelas Storco grunted. ‘Tell me again what that fool said.’

  Three nights past, before the appearance of Hallyd Bahann’s company, a half-dead Legion scout had arrived at the keep gate. He had been fevered and wounded. Threadbare had found the stubs of two hunting arrows in the man’s back. Skilled at healing, she had worked on him through the night, cutting out the flint heads, but too much blood had been lost, and what remained was now poisoned by infection. The scout had died even as dawn broke the eastern horizon.

  Threadbare lowered the eye-piece, rolled on to her side to face him. ‘Thousands in the forest, hunting Legion soldiers, chasing them down, shooting them with arrows.’

  ‘But Hunn Raal’s soldiers swept that forest, killing everyone. We saw the fires, breathed the damned smoke. Abyss below, we heard the screams.’