‘Milord, no painting can do other than that.’
‘No. In any case, the portrait awaits a washing of white now, yes? Perhaps a sculpture, then? Some Azathanai artisan with the usual immeasurable talent. Dust on his hands and a chisel that shouts. But then, whenever has pure marble revealed the truth beneath the surface? The aches, the strains, the twinges springing from nowhere, as if every thread of nerve within has forgotten its own health.’ Sighing, he faced the entrance. ‘Even marble pits with time. Lieutenant, I am done with Hunn Raal on this day, and all matters of campaign. Do not seek me out and send no messenger in search – I am going for a walk.’
‘Very well, milord.’
He strode from the tent.
Renarr walked over to the chair Urusander had vacated and settled in it. The heat of him remained on the leather saddle.
‘He’ll not acknowledge you in this state,’ Serap said. ‘You have fallen far and fast, Renarr.’
‘I am a ghost.’
‘The ghost of regret for Lord Urusander. You appear as the underside of your mother, like a turned stone, and where all we saw of her was in sunlight, you are nothing but darkness.’
Renarr held out her right arm and studied the not quite pearlescent skin. ‘Stained marble, not yet gnawed by age. Naked, you are like snow. But I am not.’
‘It comes to you,’ Serap said. ‘But slowly, to mark the reluctance of your faith.’
‘Is that it? I but wear my hesitation?’
‘At least our enemies wear their blight for all to see.’
Renarr dropped her arm. ‘Take him to your furs,’ she said. ‘His aches, his twinges – drive away his thoughts of mortality.’
Serap made a disgusted sound, and then asked, ‘Is that what you glimpse each night, Renarr? In that uncaring face hovering above your own? Some faint flush of immortality, like a rose in a desert?’
Renarr shrugged. ‘He’s made his flesh a sack of faults. Untie the knot, lieutenant.’
‘For the good of the Legion?’
‘If your conscience needs a salve.’
‘Conscience. That’s a word I’d not thought to hear from you.’ Serap waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Today, it will be Hunn Raal leading the Legion. Out to parley with Lord Ilgast Rend. This madness needs to end.’
‘Oh yes, and he’s a man of constraint, is our Hunn Raal.’
‘Raal is given his orders, and we were witness to them. Urusander fears arriving at the head of his legion will prove too provocative on this day. He will not invite public argument between himself and Lord Ilgast Rend.’
Renarr shot the woman a quick glance, then looked away again. ‘Trust Hunn Raal to make this argument public, if we are to descend into euphemisms for battle.’
Shaking her head, Serap said, ‘If weapons are drawn this day, they will come first from Ilgast Rend and his misfit Wardens.’
‘Jabbed by insult and driven to a corner by Hunn Raal’s smirking visage, I would say what you describe is inevitable.’
The woman’s fine brows lifted. ‘A whore and seer both. Well done. You have achieved what Mother Dark’s priestesses yearn for as they thrash through the night. Shall I send you to Daughter Light, then, as her first acolyte in kind?’
‘Yes, that is indeed the name Syntara has chosen for herself. Daughter Light. I always thought it a presumption. Oh, and now of you, too, in assuming you have the right to send me anywhere.’
‘Forgive my transgression, Renarr. There is a tutor in the camp – have you seen him? The man lacks a leg. Perhaps he would take you under his care. I shall suggest it to Urusander when next I see him.’
‘You mean Sagander, fled from House Dracons,’ Renarr replied, indifferent to the threat. ‘The whores speak of him. But he already has a child he deems to teach. The daughter of Tathe Lorat, or so I am told. Sheltatha Lore, upon whom he leans, like a man crippled by self-pity.’
Serap’s eyes hardened. ‘Sheltatha? That’s a rumour I have not yet heard.’
‘You do not consort with camp-followers and whores. Well, not regularly,’ she added with a small smile. ‘In any case, I have had my fill of tutors. Too many years of that, and oh how delicately they treated the daughter of a dead hero.’
‘They did not fail in honing your wit, Renarr, although I doubt any would take pride in the woman they created.’
‘More than a few come to mind who would happily share my furs and consider sweet their belated reward.’
Snorting, Serap arose. ‘What did you come here to witness, Renarr? This is your first time to your father’s command tent since we left Neret Sorr.’
‘I needed to remind him,’ Renarr replied. ‘While I remain unseen to his eyes, still he steps around me.’
‘You are his anguish.’
‘I have plenty of company in that, lieutenant.’
‘And now?’
‘Now, I will join my giggling companions, atop a hill from which to watch the battle. We’ll fix corbie eyes on the field below, and talk of bloodied rings and brooches.’
She felt the woman’s eyes upon her for some time, a full four or five breaths, and then Serap exited the tent, leaving Renarr alone.
Rising, she approached the map table, replacing the anchor stones to force down the curled edges of the map. Then she leaned over it and studied the thin inked lines denoting the terrain. ‘Ah, that hill there, then, should do us well on this day.’ Conversations of greed with glinting eyes. Sharp laughter and cackling, crude jests, and if the men and women we took last night soon lie cold and still in the mud of the valley below, well, there will always be others to take their place.
Avarice makes whores of us all.
* * *
Captain Havaral rode at a canter down the slope, the wind skirling dead leaves across his path. The broad basin of the valley ahead was not quite as level as he would have liked, with a slight climb favouring the enemy. From the crest of the rise behind him, where Ilgast Rend had arrayed his army of Wardens, the lie of the land here had seemed more or less ideal, but now he found himself picking his way around sinkholes hidden by knots of leafless brush and small, twisted trees, and here and there thin but deep run-off tracks crooked their way downward, inviting a horse’s ankle and then the sickening snap of bones. The Wardens were a mounted force, relying upon speed and mobility. What he was seeing of this slope troubled him.
He had been a Warden all his adult life, and had in Calat Hustain’s absence often taken overall command as senior officer. It was not easy to simply shrug off his sense of betrayal in learning that Lord Ilgast Rend had supplanted him in this responsibility, but he would follow orders nonetheless, without a word of complaint, nor an instant’s resentment in his expression. Personal slights were the least of his worries this morning, in any case. That the Wardens had marched on Urusander; that he and his companions were now preparing for battle, all for the sake of a few hundred slaughtered peasants in the forests, was, to his mind, utter madness.
To make matters worse, they had no reliable intelligence on the Legion’s complement. Was it fully assembled? Or was it, as Rend clearly believed, yet to achieve that? Pragmatic concerns, these. On this day they could find themselves facing the full might of Urusander’s Legion.
Civil war. I refused to think on it. I stripped the hides off my Wardens whenever they even so much as hinted at it. Now here I am, an old fool, laid siege to by knowing looks. Best hope, then, that I’ve not burned the last vestiges of respect among my soldiers. Nothing fashions a fool quicker than a hollow tirade.
But even fools could possess courage. They would follow his orders. To think otherwise was inconceivable.
For the moment he rode alone, watched by fifteen hundred of his kin, carrying to Lord Urusander an invitation to private parley with Ilgast Rend. This battle could still be prevented. Peace could be carved out of this misshapen mess, and to yearn for that was not a failing of courage. It was, in truth, a desperate grasp for the last vestiges of wisdom.
How wo
uld Urusander fare in the face of Lord Rend’s fury? That would be a scene worth witnessing, if only through a pinprick hole in the tent’s back wall. Not that such a thing was even possible. The two men would meet alone, and it was unlikely that their voices would carry enough to be heard by anyone outside.
He was halfway across the basin when he saw a troop of riders appear on the opposite crest.
Havaral frowned, his mount momentarily losing its way as he unconsciously slackened the reins.
The banner did not belong to Vatha Urusander. Instead, the standard-bearer was displaying the colours of the Legion’s First Cohort.
Hunn Raal. Have we not had enough of that man?
The insult was plain, and Havaral found himself hesitating. Then he silently berated himself. No, not for me. I am neither Calat Hustain nor Ilgast Rend. I have no right to wear this affront. Besides, Urusander might be awaiting word, and but sends his captain just as Rend has sent me. The notion sounded convincing in his head, provided he did not direct too much scrutiny its way. Kicking his mount forward, with renewed assurance, he continued on, heading directly for the delegation.
Sevegg rode beside her cousin, and the others in Raal’s company were the same lackeys who had accompanied him on their visit to the camp of the Wardens. The truth of the rumours was plain to Havaral’s eyes. They were transformed, their skins like alabaster. Still, seeing this miraculous blessing of Light was a shock. They rode with arrogance, with the air of believing themselves privy to dangerous secrets and so worthy of both fear and respect. Like so many soldiers, they were worse than children.
The air tasted bitter, and Havaral struggled not to spit.
In crass announcement of discourtesy or bold contempt, they reined in first, to await his arrival.
The wind was building, cutting down the length of the basin, spinning leaves around the ankles of the horses and making them skittish, and already clouds of mosquitoes lifted up from the grasses to swarm in the shelter of soldier and mount.
As Havaral drew up before them, Sevegg was the first to speak. ‘Ilgast sends an old man to greet us? We can hardly call you a veteran, can we? Wardens are not soldiers. Never were, as you shall soon discover.’
Hunn Raal held up a hand to forestall any further commentary from his cousin. ‘Captain Havaral, isn’t it? Welcome. The morning is chilly, is it not? The kind that settles into your bones.’
And that was meant to soften my resolve? Vitr take me, man, you are not even sober. ‘I bring word from Lord Ilgast Rend,’ Havaral said, fixing his gaze on Raal’s reddened eyes made ghastly against the white skin. ‘He seeks private parley with Lord Vatha Urusander.’
‘I am sorry, then, my friend,’ said Hunn Raal, the secret smile of drunks playing about his thin lips. ‘That is not possible. My commander has instructed me to speak in his stead. That said, I am happy to parley with Lord Rend. Although, I think, not in private. Advisers are useful in such circumstances.’
‘Bodyguards, you mean? Or assassins?’
‘Neither, I am sure,’ Hunn Raal said, with a short easy laugh. ‘It seems your commander esteems his life of greater import than is warranted. Nor am I inclined to feel in any way threatened by his close proximity.’
‘The pride of the highborn,’ Sevegg said, shaking her head as if in disbelief. ‘Wave him down here, captain, and let’s get on with it. Since he would play the soldier again, remind him of our plain ways.’
‘Enough of that, cousin,’ Hunn Raal said. ‘See how this man pales.’
Havaral collected the reins. ‘What you invite upon yourselves on this day, sirs, is a stain of infamy that even your skins cannot hide. May you ever wear it in shame.’ Swinging his mount around, he set off back across the basin.
As they watched him ride away, Sevegg said, ‘Dear cousin, do let me cut him down, I beg you.’
Hunn Raal shook his head. ‘Save the bloodlust, dear. We leave Rend to unleash his rage, thus provoking the battle to come. By this means, cousin, we are absolved of the consequences.’
‘Then I will find that old man on the field, and take his life.’
‘He was no more than a messenger,’ Hunn Raal said.
‘I saw hate in his eyes.’
‘You stung it awake, cousin.’
‘The slur in sending him to us belongs to Lord Ilgast Rend, I’ll grant you. But I see nothing to respect among the Wardens. If only it was Calat Hustain leading them.’
Her cousin snorted. ‘Dear fool, Calat would never have brought them to us in the first place.’
She said nothing for a moment, and then managed a dismissive shrug. ‘We’re saved the march, then.’
‘Yes.’
At Hunn Raal’s lead, they pulled their horses round and set off, back the way they had come. The mosquitoes swept in pursuit, but were soon outdistanced.
* * *
The morning lengthened, gathering its own violence with a sharp, buffeting wind that flattened the grasses on the hill where Renarr stood, a short distance from the other men and women. Behind them, on this island of ill desires, the orphaned children who had, in no official manner, adopted the score or so whores who shared this particular tent ran and laughed and cursed the frenzied insects. Some were building a fire from a few ragged dung-chips, in the hope that the smoke would send the bugs away, but such fuel offered up little in the way of relief. Others lit pipes if they could beg the rustleaf from a favoured whore. Those who could not simply stuffed grass into the bowls. Their wretched coughing triggered gales of piping laughter.
Whores from other tents were appearing along the hilltop, a few shouting insults across the gaps. The rival groups of children began throwing stones at one another. The day’s first blood was drawn when a sharp rock caught a girl on the temple, adding to her facial scars. In fury she charged the boy who had thrown the rock and he fled squealing.
Renarr watched with all the others as boy and girl ran down the slope.
To the right, Hunn Raal had drawn up his own cohort, although the ancient title was misplaced, as each cohort of Urusander’s Legion now comprised a full thousand soldiers. This was the force Raal offered up to the measure of Ilgast Rend and his Wardens, who were arrayed on the valley’s opposite ridgeline. Unseen by the Wardens and their lord, two flanking cohorts waited on the back-slope, with units of lightly armoured cavalry among the foot soldiers.
Along the crest, she could see, pikes were being readied in the six-deep line behind Hunn Raal and his officers, and she understood such weapons to be the best suited when facing cavalry. A few hundred skirmishers were moving down the slope, armed with javelins. Some of these shouted now at the two children, warning them off, but neither reacted, and the girl’s long legs were closing the gap between her and the smaller boy, whose laughter was gone, and who ran in earnest.
Renarr could see how the blood now covered one half of the girl’s face.
The boy made a sharp turn moments before she reached him, rushing out towards the distant enemy.
Catching up again, the girl pushed with both arms, sending the boy tumbling. He rolled and sought to regain his feet but she was quicker, driving him down with her knees, and only now did Renarr see the large rock in her right hand.
The shouts from the skirmishers fell away, as the girl brought the stone down on the boy’s head, again and again. The waving arms and kicking legs of the boy flopped out to the sides and did not move as the girl continued driving the rock down.
‘Pay up, Srilla!’ cried one of the whores. ‘I took your wager, so pay up!’
Renarr pulled her robe tighter about herself. She saw a skirmisher move nearer the girl, and say something to her. When it was clear that she was not hearing his words, he edged closer and cuffed the side of her head. Dropping his javelin, he grasped the girl’s arms and forced the bloodied stone from her small hands. Then he shoved her away.
She stumbled off, looking up and seeing, as if for the first time, where her hunt had taken her. Once again her long legs flashe
d as she ran back towards her hill, but she ran as one drunk on wine.
The body of the boy was small and bedraggled, spreadeagled like the remnant of some grisly sacrifice, and the skirmishers gave it a wide berth as they advanced.
‘Now that’s the way to start a war!’ the whore cried, holding up a fist clutching her winnings.
* * *
The captains and their messengers clustered around Lord Ilgast Rend. For all that the nobleborn commander looked solid, heavy in his well-worn armour and bearing a visage betraying nothing but confidence as he sat astride his warhorse, Havaral fought against a cold dread. There was a hollow pit in his gut that no bravado could fill.
He remained at the outer edge of this cluster of officers, with Sergeant Kullis at his side, to act as a rider and flag-crier once the orders were given.
Flat-faced and dour, Kullis was a man of few words, so when he spoke Havaral was startled. ‘It is said every army is like a body, a thing of flesh, bone and blood. And of course, the one who commands can be said to be its head, its brain.’ The sergeant’s voice was pitched low. It was unlikely that anyone else could make out his words.
‘This is not the time, sergeant,’ Havaral said in a soft growl, ‘to raise matters of faith.’
As if unwilling to be dissuaded, Kullis continued, ‘But an army also possesses a heart, a slow-beating drum in the very centre of its chest. A true commander knows that he or she must command that first, before all else.’
‘Kullis, that will be enough.’
‘Today, sir, the heart commands the head.’
The sergeant’s methodical thinking had made slow and measured steps, arriving at a truth Havaral had understood with the man’s first words. Lord Ilgast Rend was too angry, and the drumbeat’s ever quickening pace had brought them headlong to this ridge, beneath this cold morning sky. The enemy facing them here were, one and all, heroes of Kurald Galain. Worse, they had not marched on the Wardens, and so had offered no direct provocation.
Fall of Light Page 2
