Fall of Light

by Steven Erikson

  Prazek wiped at his face, wincing at his torn lip. ‘Salvage me some hope, I beg you.’

  Dathenar reached across to settle a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there is this.’

  * * *

  Wareth remained at Rebble’s side, holding the man’s weight as best he could as they clambered up the last few paces to reach the crest. The moment they arrived, Rebble reached up and gripped Wareth’s arm, just above the elbow, and tugged hard.

  ‘In the name of our Mother, Wareth, set me down.’

  Together, they settled to the ground, Wareth being as gentle as he could with his friend. Rebble settled on to his back, eyes filled with pain as he stared skyward. ‘I make it thirty-seven,’ he said.

  Wareth looked down, saw the blood still streaming from the sword-wound in Rebble’s chest. But the man wasn’t coughing blood – there was that mercy, at least. ‘Thirty-seven?’

  Rebble lifted a trembling hand. ‘Doubt I can make it,’ he said, ‘but I’ll give it a try.’

  Wareth wiped at his face. ‘You’re not making any sense,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me, Wareth, did I see true? Toras Redone kneeling beside a body? Was it Faror Hend who fell?’

  To earn such grief? Such wails and tearing at hair? ‘No, Rebble. Galar Baras.’

  ‘Ah. Then. I see.’

  ‘She drew a knife and would have cut her own throat. Faror Hend prevented her, twisted the weapon free. In her face there was vengeance and satisfaction, as she glared down at the broken woman. Rebble, such things shake me.’

  Others of the broken legion were settling here and there. Wareth saw drawn faces, expressions taut with the pain of wounds. But even then, something seemed to be missing.

  ‘Crack the knuckles,’ Rebble said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘One for every life I took, every fucked up stupidity I went and did. I make it four, for today. Not sure they all died, though. I’m thinking they didn’t. I’m hoping they didn’t. Anyway,’ he smiled up at the heavy clouds, ‘thirty-seven. Rebble’s idiot toll.’ He paused then, and shifted his gaze slightly, enough to meet Wareth’s eyes. ‘Them Bonecasters … quite the gift they gave us …’

  Baffled, Wareth said, ‘I still don’t know what it was.’

  ‘Truly?’

  Wareth nodded.

  Rebble laughed, and then winced.

  ‘What gift, Rebble? What did that ritual do?’

  ‘No more lies. That’s all. No lying to anyone else. But mostly, no lying to yourself.’

  Frowning, Wareth shook his head. ‘I’ve never lied to myself.’

  Rebble studied him for a moment, and then said, ‘So, you never even noticed.’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’

  Rebble brought his hands together over his belly. He began cracking his knuckles.

  ‘I need to know,’ Wareth said. ‘Why did you protect me? Back in the pit? Why did you bother?’

  ‘Why did I bother?’

  ‘Being my friend.’

  Knuckles cracked. ‘I don’t know,’ Rebble replied, and then he smiled. ‘I guess you had an honest face.’

  Wareth settled back on to his haunches. He saw now that everyone among the Hust had halted their march, gathering in silent clumps. No lies, is that what is missing here? In these faces? These raw stares into the distance?

  Listar still lived, but he didn’t know about Rance. So many of the other officers drawn up from the prisoner ranks were dead. They’d come to the fore in the Legion’s desperate withdrawal, holding back the enemy and giving up their lives to do so.

  Wareth’s throat was still raw from his frantic shouting. And yet, impossibly, the Hust had responded to his desperate commands, and when Prazek and then Dathenar curled their companies around, folding them into the retreat, the Hust Legion’s day of battle was done. Through it all, Toras Redone was nowhere to be seen, until the very end.

  He listened to his friend cracking his knuckles until the sound of bones popping stopped.

  Rebble never managed all thirty-seven, and, as simply as that, his only friend was gone.

  He edged closer, to lift Rebble’s head and rest it on his thighs. He groomed the man’s beard with his fingers, pulling at the knots, and studied the peaceful repose of the face, knowing that he would never again see it animate, that hard grin, the sly flick of the gaze, and the raging temper that hung like a storm-cloud behind everything.

  Rebble, my friend. You weren’t any more than what you were. I treasured you. How I treasured you.

  Someone moved to halt at his side and Wareth looked up into Listar’s face. ‘He’s gone, Listar.’

  ‘Just the two of us, then,’ Listar replied.

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Who stood between them and the Cats.’ Listar paused and then said, ‘The coward and the man who wanted to die. The honourable one – why, as you say, now he’s dead.’

  Wareth considered the man’s words, and their harsh, blunt tone. ‘No lies,’ he said.

  ‘I couldn’t do it, Wareth. I couldn’t kill anyone. All I did was defend.’

  ‘So it was with most of them, Listar. I saw it, on all sides. That’s how I knew that we would never win. Wouldn’t yield either. Just stand there, dying. I saw it, Listar, though I didn’t understand it. Not until Rebble explained. The ritual—’

  ‘Yes, my beloved gift to you all.’

  ‘You were sent.’

  ‘I was sent. But what did I ask for? From them? Has anyone even asked me that? They said we needed something to absolve us, to cleanse us, to sweep away the curse of our crimes.’

  Wareth stroked Rebble’s cooling brow. ‘Is that not what you asked, Listar?’

  ‘No. Not quite.’

  ‘Then … what?’

  ‘I wanted us – all of us – to accept who we were. To face our crimes, our cruel pasts, our vicious thoughts. If we’re to feel, Wareth – I told the Bonecasters – if we’re to feel, then do not let us hide, or run from those feelings. Do not let us pretend.’

  Wareth lifted his gaze, squinted up at Listar.

  ‘You still don’t get it,’ Listar said. ‘You’re not the only coward. Not even close. This Hust Legion, all these convicts. Wareth, most of them are cowards. Those men we faced down in the pit, the ones eager to get at the women. Was it just lust? No. Rapists are many things, but mostly they’re cowards, the kind that has to feed on victims. It’s a different kind of cowardice from yours, Wareth, but it’s still cowardice. Why did they all hate you? Because you were the sole coward not in hiding.’ The man paused then, looking away. ‘Look at them, Wareth. Blessed by my gift. Seeing them, I think that Rebble’s the lucky one.’

  With that, Listar stumbled away.

  Wareth stared after him. No lies. Well, that’s no proof against being stupid.

  Shit, I forgot to ask him about Rance.

  * * *

  ‘Priest.’

  Endest Silann looked up, saw a woman in the livery of a Houseblade. His attention proved brief, as inevitably he resumed staring at his hands where they rested on his thighs.

  ‘Are you fit to stand?’ the woman asked.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We need a burial place consecrated.’

  He thought to laugh at that, glancing briefly at the valley floor below, with its hundreds of corpses, its dead and dying horses.

  ‘Not there, priest. But it’s not far. We’re building a cairn for just one man.’

  Endest held up his hands. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what do you see?’

  ‘Old blood.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘What else would there be to see?’

  He nodded. ‘Just so. Her eyes are gone. Not even a scar remains. She’s left me.’

  A few moments passed. ‘Ah, you were that one, then. From the market. The one who spoke with a dragon. More to the point, you were one of the priests who stood against Hunn Raal. Now I wonder, why is no one attending you?’

  ‘I sent th
em away.’

  She stepped forward and hooked a hand under his left arm, lifting him to his feet. ‘You did damned well, priest. Gave us a chance. We just didn’t take it.’

  He couldn’t make much sense of this woman, or what she truly wanted from him, but he let her guide him up the track. They passed through the exhausted soldiers of the Hust, but the sight of so many broken men and women was too much, and Endest dropped his gaze, studied the snow and sleet-crusted mud and stone at his feet.

  After ascending a short slope they left the track, and the woman drew him over to where a huge old man was busy piling the last of the stones to a cairn. This man’s breaths were harsh, and when he glanced over at them, Endest saw why. He had lost most of his nose. But the injury was old. He wore the same livery as the woman.

  All around them, on this faint summit, horse hoofs had stamped deep into the mud, and nearby waited three horses, one bearing a filigreed saddle.

  The woman spoke to the other man. ‘They gave up, then?’

  ‘They didn’t like it, Pelk. Didn’t like it at all. But it seemed they didn’t want to cross me.’

  ‘No one wants to cross you, Rancept.’

  She finally halted Endest close to the cairn. ‘In there,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lord Venes Turayd.’

  ‘The lord is dead?’

  The woman glanced at her companion, who wiped at his weeping nose and then shrugged. She then turned back to Endest Silann and said, ‘I should think so, by now.’

  * * *

  Faror Hend found Prazek and Dathenar sitting on the muddy road. Both men still wore their chain hauberks, but their helms and gauntlets were on the ground beside them, and from the scabbarded swords sounded a low, incessant mutter.

  Her own blade was silent. Drawing off her helm, she felt the blessed cold wind on her brow, and the low moan of the iron that had filled her head was suddenly gone. ‘I made them take her away,’ she said. ‘Under guard. Galar Baras died from a broken neck, when his wounded horse threw him. She wanted to fight, you know. She wanted to throw herself into the fray, so that someone could kill her. I would have welcomed that, and indeed, I would have joined her. Instead, she was too drunk to stand.’

  Dathenar nodded. ‘We are vulnerable, one and all, Faror Hend, to the madness of our desires. So much of the longing in our lives is revealed as a longing for death. These guises are myriad, but none are available to us now, nor for our lives to come.’

  ‘Absent the sweet and lustful lies,’ added Prazek, ‘the future appears bleak.’

  ‘Too eager with the wagging finger, the iteration of old warnings renewed one more time. All our secrets lead us to grief.’ Dathenar grunted and then slowly climbed to his feet. ‘I am soaked through.’ His eyes shifted and he half turned to the west. ‘They must be drawing near the city by now.’

  Faror Hend felt like weeping, for what she knew not. There was no lack of reasons; rather, there was a vicious crowd of them, so many before her she was unable to choose among them. Betrothed. Kagamandra Tulas, hear my confession. I cannot love a hero, cannot love an honourable man, cannot give myself to him as one should. I have nothing to match your worth, and should I try, I will die. It may take centuries before my flesh catches up, but it will, eventually. The soul is weak. It can wilt to a chilled breath. But the husk abides, with few hints to the hollowness it hides.

  ‘We should gather the Legion,’ said Prazek, rising to join Dathenar. ‘Midnight draws near, I should think. We must march to our train, to the wagons.’

  ‘Prazek,’ said Dathenar, turning to face his friend. ‘We abandoned the bridge. A step taken, one to either side, and into the benighted waters we did plunge.’

  ‘It’s said none ever rise again from the Dorssan Ryl.’

  ‘I feel the same, friend.’

  Faror Hend looked to the south, and saw there a small group of riders. They were still distant, but the man in the lead looked tall, sitting straight in the saddle, with a mane of grey hair.

  Of course. ‘I will leave you to it, then,’ she said to Prazek and Dathenar.

  ‘Faror Hend?’

  ‘You spoke of a bleak future. I go to meet mine.’

  * * *

  Unaccompanied, Lord Anomander, First Son of Darkness, sat on his horse, gaze fixed on the valley below. He merely tilted his head for an instant in Kellaras’s direction as the captain rode up to halt beside him.

  ‘Milord, your brother has set out for Kharkanas. He is walking. We should be able to catch him.’

  Anomander seemed momentarily confused. ‘Kharkanas?’

  ‘Milord, there will be a wedding. The details of peace.’

  ‘The details of peace,’ Anomander repeated. ‘But Kellaras, there is no peace within me.’

  Kellaras said nothing.

  Then his lord continued, ‘No, leave them to it. I will ride to my brother, to Andarist. I will yield vengeance.’ He turned then, giving Kellaras his full attention. ‘Her name is Pelk, yes? Perhaps, will she be returning there as well?’

  ‘I do not know, milord. It is possible. Do you wish me to accompany you?’

  Anomander smiled. ‘I would welcome your company, Kellaras.’

  Nodding, the captain collected the reins. ‘Now, milord?’

  ‘Yes. Now.’

  Side by side, they set out, into the north.

  * * *

  Wreneck took little notice of the two riders who came down into the valley from the northeast. Instead, he continued walking among the corpses of the fallen Legion soldiers. The ground under them was torn and savaged, as if it had been chewed. He used his spear as if it was a staff in order to keep his balance as he stepped over bodies, crouching down every now and then to study lifeless faces.

  Pain and death made them hard to recognize, and even the memories to which he clung were now blurred in his mind’s eye.

  He was cold, and the night was strangely grey, as if trapped inside a cloud of ash that refused to settle. The dying horses had finally gone quiet. Crows came down like night’s tattered flags, and they too had nothing to complain about, yielding a silence to the field that seemed almost suffocating.

  One frozen visage drew his attention and he made his way over to stand above it, looking down. Is this one of them? He might be. I have seen him before. Yes, this is one of them. Someone got to him first. But it doesn’t matter who got here first. It only matters who comes last.

  I said I would avenge Jinia, and now here I am.

  He brought the spear around and tilted the iron point down, edging it forward until it rested on the breast of the dead man.

  I will stab deep. That’s all I need to do. His ghost is here. Close. I can’t see them any more, but I know they’re here. They have nowhere else to go.

  Stab deep. Push the blade in, slicing through the leather, the wool, the skin. This is what vengeance means. What I’m doing right here.

  Hearing a sound he glanced up. Two women sat astride horses made of knotted grasses and twigs. They sat in silence, watching him from a dozen paces away.

  He didn’t know either of them. They didn’t match the faces he was looking for. Wreneck returned his attention to the dead man. He leaned on the spear, but the leather armour would not give. It needs a thrust. He drew the weapon back, and then poked it against the body.

  ‘He’s not bothered,’ said one of the women. ‘Go ahead, if you must. But abusing a corpse is unseemly, don’t you think?’

  Unseemly? Wreneck looked around at all the dead bodies. Shaking his head, he poked a second time. The leather armour was tough. He leaned closer then, to find what had killed the man. He saw a nick in the corpse’s throat, where blood had sprayed and then poured out on to the ground. It didn’t seem like much, but no other wounds were visible.

  He prodded a third time, hard against the chest, and then stepped back. He turned to the two women. ‘It’s all right now,’ he said. ‘I’m done avenging what they did to her. I’m going home now.’


  The woman who had spoken earlier now leaned forward on her saddle. ‘And I, sir, am your witness. She is avenged.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Wreneck asked. ‘I need to know, since you’ve witnessed and everything.’

  ‘Threadbare.’

  The golden-haired woman beside Threadbare said, ‘And I am T’riss.’ She smiled. ‘Your witnesses.’

  Satisfied, Wreneck nodded. Home was a long way away and he had a lot of walking to do. He would salvage a cloak from one of these bodies, with maybe a second one for a blanket.

  Jinia, it’s done. I feel better. I hope you will, too.

  Sometimes it takes being a child to do what’s right.

  * * *

  ‘What was all that about?’ T’riss asked. ‘You send children into war now, Tiste?’

  ‘His blade was clean,’ Threadbare replied. She raised her gaze skyward. ‘They’re gone, right? Not still winging around up there in the gloom and clouds?’

  ‘Gone, for now.’

  Threadbare sighed, gathering up the braided reins. ‘I think I prefer it this way,’ she said.

  ‘Prefer what?’

  ‘Coming too late to fight. Missing the whole fucking mess. I’ve seen enough of it, T’riss. Look around here. All these sad corpses. It’s a stupid argument that ends up with someone dead and the others looking guilty behind all that satisfaction.’ She looked over at T’riss. ‘I am riding to Kharkanas, to find my people. What about you?’

  ‘There is a forest,’ T’riss replied, ‘where waits another Azathanai. I think I need to see him.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘He will know of me. Who I once was.’

  ‘That makes a difference?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Threadbare shrugged. ‘Whoever you were isn’t who you are now. Sounds to me you’re heading for confusion and probably misery. Maybe some secrets should stay secrets. That ever occurred to you?’

  T’riss smiled. ‘All the time. The thing is, we almost clashed. Here, in the Valley of Tarns. Had I come in time. Had he awakened his power. The dragons would have … enjoyed that.’ She paused, and then shrugged. ‘But something happened. Someone, I think, held him back. Someone pretty much saved the world. I’m curious, aren’t you? About this Tiste who refused my Azathanai brother?’