Fall of Light

by Steven Erikson

  ‘I shall witness,’ Sagander went on. ‘And record, as befits a proper historian.’

  ‘There may be no battle,’ said Syntara.

  Sagander frowned, then took another sip from the flask and licked his lips. ‘Winter’s dry air is a curse,’ he muttered, and then shook his head. ‘High Priestess, of course they will fight. Their backs are to the wall – hah, the city’s wall, in fact.’

  ‘The highborn still hold their lands and their wealth,’ Syntara pointed out. ‘To gamble all that upon a single field … no, they are not all fools, historian. They’ll not make it so easy to dislodge them from their privilege. I would hazard,’ she concluded, ‘they will choose to bide their time. Once we crowd in, and days turn into months, they will begin sowing discord.’

  ‘The Legion’s loyalty—’

  ‘Ends when the Legion is dissolved,’ she said. ‘Once that happens, avarice and acquisitiveness will burgeon. Friends will fall out.’

  ‘We need only pronounce an expansion of our borders,’ Sagander said. ‘This will ensure there is enough land to go round.’

  Sheltatha Lore snorted. ‘Historian, look at a map before speaking so foolishly. Our borders are rough things for a reason. We are surrounded by poor land, once home to wild herds that are no more. Wherever settlers tried to break the soil, they failed. To the north are the Jheleck, already pushed as far as they can go – if we renew that war, sir, we will be facing a most desperate enemy and it will be a fight to the death with no quarter possible. But oh, that’s right, we won’t have our legion any more, will we? The east belongs to the Vitr’s foul influence, while the Forulkan are to the south. West? Ah, but you know that path well enough, yes?’

  Sagander’s frown was now a scowl. ‘Do not presume to know more than your betters, child. I am well aware of our geographical limits. The push must be south and west. As you say, I do know, firsthand now, the land of the Azathanai, and I tell you: they have yielded it. And to the south, well, the Forulkan are defeated. They live in fear of us.’ He waved a hand. ‘The fighting that may come of that we can leave to the Hust Legion.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Sheltatha smiled. ‘And it will be most informative, I should think, watching them today, these embittered prisoners and cast-offs.’

  ‘In any case,’ Sagander said, ‘we need only clear the forests to find more arable land.’

  ‘And the fate of the Deniers?’

  ‘You have not been paying attention,’ Sagander snapped. ‘Most of the women and children have been slaughtered. No, their time is done, and like so many other forest creatures, they will fade away.’

  ‘And you admit no pity for them, historian?’

  ‘Pity? A waste of effort.’

  ‘Yet not,’ Sheltatha said, ‘when it comes to your own infirmity.’

  Sagander glared at her.

  ‘Be silent, Sheltatha,’ said Syntara with a weary sigh. ‘We all have our appointed roles, after all, to occupy our thoughts. Look to yourself instead, and the destiny soon to find you.’ She smiled across at the young woman. ‘I see you already spreading your legs in a temple cell – shall we make you a gift to Mother Dark?’

  ‘Well, Syntara, who knows? I’ll see if your old cell is still there, shall I? Though I imagine the sheets will need a thorough washing, with a nice flat rock to beat out the worst of the stains, if such a thing is even possible.’

  In cold fury, Syntara lashed out, a sorcerous eruption of raw power meant to strike Sheltatha in the face. Instead, it was somehow shunted aside, slamming into the carriage door’s shutters. Splintered wood exploded within the confines, slivers striking both Sagander and Syntara. Crying out, the High Priestess reached up to her face and felt splinters jutting out from her cheeks. Uncomprehending, she pulled her hands away and stared at the fresh blood covering them.

  Sagander, in the meantime, was clutching at his throat, where a large shard of wood jutted out, and blood pumped in fast spurts, spilling down into his lap. Syntara frowned across at the historian. That was too much blood, and there was horror in the man’s eyes.

  Unscathed, Sheltatha stared at Sagander too, expressionless, watching as the man choked, and then drowned in a welter of red.

  The carriage had rocked to a halt moments after the flare of magic, the horses screaming in shrill fear. Now the battered door was yanked from its weakened hinges, and Infayen Menand leaned in. Her flat eyes scanned the wreckage within, and then, as Sagander sagged down in his seat, she reached out and dragged the historian outside.

  Syntara saw the woman drop the old man’s body to the cobbled road, glance down at it briefly as others quickly gathered round, and then lean back into the carriage, her gaze fixing on the High Priestess.

  ‘Not blinded? Lucky you. But really, unleashing magic inside a carriage? What possessed you to display such stupidity, High Priestess?’

  When Syntara struggled for an answer – still shocked by the blood on her hands, the wet trickles upon her cheeks – Sheltatha Lore said, ‘Captain, I think I’d prefer to ride my horse, painful as that might be.’

  Infayen blinked at the young woman. ‘While you are untouched. Curious.’

  ‘Her temper missed its mark. Now, will you lend me an arm, captain?’

  With another glance at Syntara, and then a shrug, Infayen reached up to help Sheltatha climb out of the carriage.

  Leaving Syntara alone with her wounds, and the soaked cushion seat opposite her, which still dripped.

  In near hysteria, the High Priestess screamed for her servants.

  * * *

  Renarr remained on her horse while Lord Urusander dismounted to crouch down beside the dead historian. From her vantage point, she could see Hunn Raal riding back from the vanguard.

  A half-dozen priestesses had crowded into the carriage, from which Syntara’s harsh voice still rang out its shock and fury. Captain Infayen Menand was helping Sheltatha Lore to a waiting horse, but the limping woman seemed otherwise unharmed and free of blood-spatter, and nothing of her comportment evinced the horror of what had just happened within the carriage.

  Renarr’s eyes narrowed on her student for a moment longer, and then Hunn Raal reined in alongside Infayen. Low words were exchanged, before the Mortal Sword dismounted and moved to where Urusander was now straightening above Sagander’s corpse.

  ‘Commander, the High Priestess?’

  Urusander frowned. ‘A few cuts, I am told. Nothing more.’

  ‘To her face, one presumes,’ Hunn Raal said, something in his tone hinting at amusement. ‘I have sent for a Denul healer – it wouldn’t do to have such beauty permanently marred, would it now? Especially on this auspicious day.’

  Urusander seemed to study Hunn Raal before saying, ‘Auspicious, captain? Poor Sagander here marks the first tragic, meaningless death on this day, but not, unfortunately, the last.’

  ‘Blood is always the price,’ Hunn Raal said, shrugging. ‘For anything worthwhile, that is. Come now, commander, are we not soldiers? And who better would know the truth of what I say?’

  ‘Sorcery claims its first victim,’ Urusander said, ‘but, presumably, not the intended one. Heed the lesson, captain. Control is but an illusion – sorcery is indifferent to how it is used.’

  ‘An expert now, commander?’ Hunn Raal asked with a smile.

  ‘No, just clear-eyed. Not eager to surrender my reason, my ability to think. Of course, Raal, you’ve had decades of practice in dulling your wits.’ Dismissing the man, Urusander swung round and returned to his horse. With his back to Hunn Raal, he saw nothing of the Mortal Sword’s momentary glare, before the easy smile reappeared.

  Renarr’s attention now fixed upon Sagander. The blood looked black in the weak gloom, like a strange beard covering the man’s chin and neck. His eyes were still open, but now only partly so, the lids settling halfway down. She thought of all the fires that had burned behind those eyes only moments ago. Defiant in every surrender, as befits an ageing man. For the right ones, a laudable resolve
, sufficient to earn respect and dignity. For one such as Sagander, alas, far too infused with envy and self-pity. No matter – all is dull now, every flame quenched.

  A man of accidents, was Sagander. Our historian is dead, but make of that no ill omen. He just failed at luck. And that is a failure awaiting us all, sooner or later.

  Urusander mounted his horse and settled into the saddle. ‘Blood in the temple,’ he said. ‘Inauspicious.’

  She glanced at him. ‘The High Priestess wields a dull knife.’

  ‘Your meaning?’

  ‘Expect nothing subtle. Not in this magic so harshly blessed by Light.’

  ‘Abyss take us,’ Urusander said in a low voice, ‘I will stop this battle.’

  Renarr shook her head. ‘And if you should die, by design or’ – and she gestured down at Sagander’s body, which soldiers were now lifting from the road – ‘mischance, who will step forward to claim the throne? Who will reach, in your stead, for Mother Dark’s hand?’

  Urusander said nothing, but he watched as Hunn Raal rode back towards the vanguard.

  ‘Warn her,’ Renarr said. ‘Warn her about the Issgin bloodline. Proclaim your heir as soon as you can and leave no doubt.’

  Urusander flinched. ‘My son is nowhere to be found. And if he was here at my side … ah, still I would hesitate.’

  ‘An absent heir is in fact ideal, is it not?’

  He stared at her, for a moment uncomprehending. She looked away, to wait it out.

  The horns sounded, and it was time to resume the march. Sagander’s body now sprawled in careless repose by the roadside. The first of the crows that had been tracking the Legion landed in the muddy field close by, heads cocking as they regarded the waiting feast. Their time would be short, as the army’s train included grave-diggers, near the back of the column.

  It didn’t take much courage for the first crow to hop closer, but what followed Renarr did not see, for she had already ridden past. Ah, now, a life dismissed. As easy as that.

  Shortly after, even as the rim of the valley opened out ahead of them, Lord Urusander said, ‘As you said, Renarr, as you said.’

  She wondered why she bothered.

  * * *

  Tathe Lorat could feel the heat of her fury, like a fever beneath the skin. A score of survivors from her husband’s company had finally caught up with the Legion, bearing news of the disaster. The fool was dead, his soldiers slaughtered in the manner of beasts. The Deniers of the forest had won a great victory, but she knew it would be short-lived.

  We officers of the Legion are to be given land, holdings. Where else but in the forests? We will cut down every tree and leave the Deniers nowhere to hide. We’ll ride them down as if they were no more than rabid curs. I’ll see them skinned, their hides tanned, and make banners for my Houseblades.

  Still … to be honest, he wasn’t much of a husband. Slow of wit, a man who delighted in the thought of my spreading my legs for other men – well, there are worse flaws than that, I suppose. Once I settled into it. Once I gave up the notion of driving him into outrage. Once I understood that I couldn’t hurt him, no matter how hard I tried.

  Betrayal loses its heat with an indifferent, uncaring victim. He smiled the first time I announced that I’d taken to another man’s bed. That smile stung – oh, how it stung! After that, it got easier, but something was gone from it. The excitement of deceit, of forbidden lusts, all of that went away. Until all I had left was the novelty.

  He thought to give me to Hunn Raal. If Raal had invited me to his bed I would have done it, with a knife hidden in my sleeve. I would have slit the drunk’s throat, and now we’d be free of him and his sorcery, free of this new tyranny.

  Lord Anomander, I’ll not dissuade you should you reach Hunn Raal. I’ll not defend the bastard. Mother Dark, hear my prayer though my skin is white, though I am Liosan! Grant your First Son the power to defy Hunn Raal’s magic. Do this, and I will reject the Light. I will return to you. This I promise.

  Infayen Menand rode up alongside her. ‘A misplay of magic,’ she said. ‘That one-legged scholar is dead.’

  Tathe Lorat grunted but said nothing.

  ‘It’s on the wind,’ Infayen said. ‘Violence, bittersweet. Can you not feel it, Tathe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, the tragic news of your husband’s death has left you wounded.’

  ‘I have no time to grieve,’ she replied, scowling. ‘My husband’s death has made me ill. Violence? This wind smells of mud and little else. Oh, do not give me that shining gaze, Infayen Menand, I know well the grisly glory you seek for yourself. You enjoy killing, and that is not something I can abide.’

  ‘And yet, can you not hear the mocking laughter of the Deniers?’

  ‘I hear that well enough, but they shall have to wait for my vengeance. And should I make it one of horror, they have earned it. I may yield to satisfaction, once I am done, but no gleam shall light my eyes.’

  ‘War is simple,’ Infayen Menand said. ‘This is why I love it so. Free yourself of all restraint in what is to come, Tathe Lorat.’

  ‘I will keep my head, thank you. We have grievances with the highborn and today they will be made to answer for them. They are one and all servants of Mother Dark, and she is to blame for this day. Her and none other. Those we face in this battle do not deserve to die.’

  Infayen shook her head. ‘But die they will. This is not the time for pity, or mercy. With such notions clouding your head, you will be killed in the valley below.’

  ‘I will defend myself but no more than that,’ Tathe said, startled by her own decision. ‘You are too quick to cast away your respect for those about to face us. Lord Anomander, Draconus, Silchas Ruin. Have you forgotten how they fought at our side? Is it so easy for you to find hate for those who were once your friends? Be assured, I will bear that in mind.’

  Infayen Menand laughed. ‘You were never my friend, Tathe Lorat. I’ve no time for sluts.’

  Tathe Lorat smiled. ‘I have often wondered at that.’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘You and your kind, so quick to judge.’

  ‘What “kind” would that be?’

  ‘Fish-cold, frightened of love and quick to point a finger, when what you truly feel is envy, at my freedom, my willingness and all the pleasures I embrace.’

  ‘As you pushed your daughter into a man’s arms.’

  ‘Oh, is that what is bothering you? Do not be deceived by Sheltatha and her airs of sophistication. She begged me the first time, and after that, there was no stopping her.’

  ‘I do not believe you.’

  Well enough, but Infayen, did you really think I would tell you the truth of what lies between me and my daughter? As you point out, we’re not friends. ‘Think what you like, then.’

  They reached the valley, the cohorts spilling out from the old road and forming up along the crest, and for the first time Tathe Lorat saw the enemy arrayed upon the opposite side. The highborn were there, with all their Houseblades. She didn’t think she had quite believed that would happen. And there, holding the centre, the Hust Legion. Her gaze narrowed on those solid ranks. Are they drugged? Prisoners, criminals, they should be agitated, nervous, terrified. They should be rioting even now. Instead, the ranks were motionless, the only movement coming from the three standards raised above the companies, where the faint wind rippled the dark cloth.

  Infayen said, ‘The wind moans its promise of—’

  ‘You fool!’ Tathe Lorat snapped. ‘That’s not the wind moaning. It’s the Hust swords – look, they’re drawn!’

  * * *

  The soft keening filled the air, as if iron could know pain, and pain could rise and twist like threads, weaving a tapestry to trap this moment, binding every soul of the Hust Legion. Wareth stood motionless, feeling himself circling an emptiness inside, wondering if the absence within him announced an end to things, a fate, his future wiped clean. A future without me, without Wareth of the Pits, the coward, the fool. J
ust a name now, uttered by the survivors, at least in passing, and soon to be forgotten.

  Like so many others.

  It was no wonder the Hust iron mourned, for surely that was what this sound was, all these voices making the noise that precedes a sob, and he waited for that wrung-out cry with trembling limbs, his hands feeling drained of blood, his legs watery beneath him.

  He wore his helmet now, as did his fellow soldiers of the Hust. The hinged cheek-guards were locked in place, shutting out most of the world to left and right, barring a curved gap at eye-level that Wareth found far too narrow for his liking. The keening of the iron filled his ears, but there was a coldness to this intimacy, as if it whispered like a lover who promised nothing but grief.

  His fear circled the emptiness, terrified of slipping and plunging into that unknown. Yet the panic he felt was somehow constrained, trapped in its mad circling. There was nowhere to run to, no ‘away’ in the midst of this press of bodies. He had believed that he would escape this fate, remaining among the commanders in their place at some high vantage point, well away from the actual fighting. Instead, Toras Redone had seen through him, her sodden gaze too knowing, her recollection of him uncanny in its detail. What source her omniscience? How so easily her striking home, and that smile! She knew too well my mind, this drunken goddess. Who now cups my soul in one hand, rolls me to the fore, no less and no more than just another piece in this dread game.

  He imagined himself now, a skein of tangled threads at the mercy of the artist, woven in fate, just one more life made immortal in this panoply of stupidity. He saw his likeness upon a greasy wall, almost lost in some wick-addled corridor, a thing to pass in life’s bright-spark scurry, while his own colours dulled to candlesmoke and dust, and the knotted threads of his eyes faded to the senseless march of decades, and then centuries.

  What manner the ritual of those Bonecaster witches? What truth now caps my soul, set down by their infernal dance? I see it blank. I circle it in terror, fearing my fall, my steps round and round in furious haste, tottering, slipping, catching, wheeling and reeling – oh, gods!