Yes, that’s the sound.
Left behind on the tabletop, blood and strands of hair. An empty tankard.
Well, I guess we’re not all going up on report after all. There’s a bright side to everything. And when Raal catches up to Sharenas, why, we’ll see her swing.
Skrael moved past her, the sack clutched in both hands. He grimaced. ‘Heavier than I expected, sir. Where to?’
‘Put it down by the door. We’ll wait for Bortan and Feled with the stretcher.’
She heard him cross the room, but did not turn. He’d pocketed the silver coin, she had seen. But the night was nearly done, and she was past caring.
EIGHT
THE TWO HORSEMEN RODE OUT THROUGH THE THINNING FOREST. The day was cold, the sky clear but dull, as if hidden behind a veil of soot. They were slumped in their saddles, the horses walking, and, as ever, the two men were engaged in conversation.
‘A most high court, a most select education, and see what it brings us, Dathenar.’
Dathenar rolled his broad shoulders beneath the heavy cloak. ‘Every bridge is but an interlude, Prazek,’ he said. ‘The arc and the span held more worth than we imagined on that dread night of our faltering. We should have stood fast at our station, scowling in each direction. Back to back, and so facing all manner of dire threat.’
‘Dire threat indeed,’ Prazek said, nodding. ‘The treacherous wind, gusting so foul and portentous.’
‘The unleavened night, bitter as black bread.’
‘Fend us, too, Dathenar, from wretched imagination all our own, and the venal thoughts of irate commanders, prone to dancing on our bones. And if we still be clothed around our precious sticks, muscle and gristle bound to honourable purpose, well, that is faint distinction.’
‘You speak ill of Silchas Ruin?’
Prazek worked with his tongue at something stuck between his teeth, somewhere near the back, and then said, ‘I’ve seen white crows with softer regard, and indeed am known to fashion a pleasant disposition from their glittering beads.’
Dathenar reached up and rubbed at his bearded jaw. ‘You liken us to carrion, and our lord’s brother to the winged arbiter of every battlefield. But bleached of hue, you say? In war, I wager, every field is aflutter with black and white. Foe and friend, all those hostile comments and unpleasant looks, and laughter the kind to make you shiver. In all, a misanthropic place, ill suited to civil debate.’
‘I’ve heard tell,’ Prazek said, ‘of a time when we were gentle. Fresh upon the land, behind us some sordid path spewing us out from some forbidden tale of misadventure. But see these majestic trees, we said! Such clear streams! A river like bold sinew to bind the world. Why, here were pits studded with ore, bitumen for the fires, soft hills to welcome sheep and goats.’
‘Even then, I suggest,’ said Dathenar, ‘there were crows of white and crows of black, to keep things simple.’
Prazek shrugged, still trying to dislodge whatever was jammed between two molars. ‘Simple enough for the flames and the forge, the night sky filled with sparks and embers. Simple, too, for the columns of smoke and the sludge to foul every pool, every lake and every stream. Why, we were avatars of Dark even then, though we knew it not. But still, let’s look back on those gentle times, and take note of their myriad instances of gentlest murder.’
‘Destruction is known to thrive in indifference,’ Dathenar said. ‘We are in sleep, calmly, and indeed comely, committed to our placid repose. As you say, these are instances of gentle mayhem, ruckled and ruined, and blissfully innocent the hands gripping the axe.’
‘Weapons needed forging, of course,’ Prazek said, nodding and then spitting. ‘Civilization’s demands are simple ones, after all. Unambiguous, you might say. It is only in the boredom of Kurald Galain’s advanced age, such as we find here, that we tangle the threads, nestle in agitation, and upend our civil simplicity, our simple civility, and like so many turtles on our backs, we flinch at crazed scenes on all sides.’
‘And so you long for simpler times.’
‘Just so. White crows upon one flank, black crows upon the other, and every field a battlefield, and every enemy a foe and every comrade a friend. Decide upon the handshake and dispense with mangling complexity. I long for the rural.’
‘And thus the rural finds you, brother.’
Leaving behind the last of the tree stumps and spindly saplings, they rode out upon the track leading into the hills. Ahead, denuded rock outcroppings and sweeps of winter-dead grass made a rough jumble.
‘It finds me with cruel vigour,’ Prazek said in a growl. ‘Chased by chills and stiffened leather, chafed of thigh and carbuncled of joint.’ He then pulled off his worn glove and reached into his mouth. A moment’s effort and he pulled free a shred of old meat. ‘This, too.’
‘Simple maladies,’ Dathenar easily replied. ‘The complaints of peasants.’
Prazek pulled the glove back on. ‘Well, peasantry defines itself in that miserable self-regard, and now I find myself a purveyor of mud and unheralding skies, no different from said peasant in my squinty eye and cheeky tic, and were my feet upon the ground, why, I’d shuffle one or both, to nudge along my slow thoughts.’
‘Simpler times,’ Dathenar agreed. ‘Musings on the weather can fill a skull with clouds, enough to reduce every horizon. It’s well you shuffle a foot or two, if only to lay claim to the ground upon which you stand.’
‘The threadbare fool knows well that stony soil beneath him,’ Prazek retorted. ‘And so too observes the passing of armies in column, the tidings of smoke above the trees and flotsam in the stream. He raises a damp finger to gauge every new wayward sigh of the wind, too. Then bends once again to shoulder the wrapped bundle of firewood, and sniffs at the smell of plain cooking adrift on the breeze. His wife has paced her cage all day, wearing ruts in the cabin’s floor.’
‘No certainty that pacing,’ Dathenar said. ‘Why, she might be sharpening stakes or, deadlier still, whittling. She might be tending a babe in a crib and humming country hymns to pastoral idyll.’
‘Ha! In tending that babe, Dathenar, she notes the wooden bars of the tiny cage, and then perchance glances up to see the same writ large about her. Yes, she might indeed be sharpening stakes.’
‘But her husband’s an honest man. See his battered hands and blunted finger nubs, the old scars of youthful zeal and the limp from when he miscalculatedly addressed one knee with a hatchet. Oh, those were wild times back then, hi ho! And in such demeanour, why, his idle thoughts hum a somnolent buzz, kept in beat by his plodding boots on the muddy track.’
‘You paint a generous picture, Dathenar. But come the summer a company rides up to gather in the wretched fool. They shove a spear into his hands and wave flags, be they dark or light, crowned or crown-hungry. They take the wife, too, if no crib proffers necessity.’
‘Out marching in column, Prazek.’
‘Reduced to simple thoughts pertaining to weather, aches, and the season’s gentle turn. At least until arrives the moment of terror-strewn mayhem, spears all a-clatter.’
Dathenar grunted, frowning. ‘But wait! Where are the glittering heroes waving their swords in the air? What of the stirring speeches such as to awaken the zeal of mind-wandering farmers and herders? See them stand in that ragged row—’
‘Feet shuffling.’
‘One or two, as befits the moment. Forget not the squint and tic.’
‘And the limp, too,’ Prazek added. ‘They tilt heads as the windbag rides back and forth on a confused horse—’
‘This way? Yes! No! That way! What madness afflicts my gouty master so eager to straddle me?’
‘Dathenar! Enough of the horse thoughts, all right?’
‘They were brought to mind by our chargers, with their ears flickering to catch every word we utter. My humblest pardon, brother, I beg you. The horse, back and forth. You were saying?’
‘The king’s speech!’
‘What king? Whereof comes this king of yours?’
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Prazek cleared his throat. ‘Well, let me amend that, by saying this. A king in his own mind, or indeed a queen in her own mind. It’s a crowded skull, to be sure, lofty with minarets and teetering with towers, sparkling with spires, all so grandiose as to beggar any … beggar. And see the selfsame monarch, marching this way and that up and down the echoing halls with their rustling tapestries. Why, a scion of self-importance! He wears the headdress of a high priest this moment, and a jewelled crown the next. The robes of the judge, the clasped hands of the humble penitent. The bared head of the husband and the godly penumbra of the father. Is it any wonder that he casts coy glances at his reflection in every mirror, so inviting to worship and adoration this man—’
‘Or woman,’ Dathenar interjected.
‘No, he is not a woman. She would be a woman, but not him.’
‘Pray get him and us out of his skull, Prazek, and attend to his stirring speech to the peasant soldiers.’
‘Easier said than done,’ Prazek replied. ‘Very well. Since we two are so busy, so thoroughly distracted by all the noble thoughts implicit in our noble bearing and whatnot, taking little note of peasants by the wayside—’
‘We’ve seen none.’
‘No matter. They exist in principle, I’m sure.’
‘Let’s hear this call to war!’
‘Yes, why not, Dathenar? A moment, while I compose myself.’
‘I see a week at least.’
‘My dearest soldiers! My beloved citizens! My wretched minions!’
Dathenar tilted his head back and yelled, ‘We’re here, sire! Summoned—’
‘Press-ganged.’
‘Your pardon, press-ganged into your service, as if tithes weren’t enough—’
‘You, peasant, what was that you mumbled?’
‘Nothing, sire, I but await your speech!’
‘Dearest instruments of my will, howsoever I will it – and I will—’
‘Now there’s a chilling promise.’
‘We are gathered here upon the eve of battle—’
‘Best make it dawn, Prazek, we’re nearing the hills.’
‘Upon the dawn of a day promising glorious battle! Permit me to elaborate. The battle is yours and the glory is mine. There will be no confusion regarding this matter, I trust. Excellent! You are here, and you will fight in my name, for one perfectly reasonable reason – to wit, because you are not over there, upon the valley’s other side, fighting in the name of him, or her. In other words, you are here and not there. Is that clear, then?’
‘Sire! Sire!’
‘What is it?’
‘I have a brother who fights for him or her, over there!’
‘That man is no brother of yours, fool.’
‘But our mother—’
‘Your mother was a whore and a liar! Now, where was I?’
Dathenar sighed. ‘We were being stirred unto inspiration.’
Prazek waved a hand. ‘I hold high this sword, my kin, my comrades, and with it do point that way, towards the enemy. And where my sword points, you follow. You will march, yes, and when close enough, why, you will charge, and if you prevail, I will be pleased, and further pleased to send those of you left alive back to your shacks and barns, if you please. But if you fail, I’ll not be pleased. No, not at all. In fact, your failure will mean that I’m likely to get my skull cracked open—’
‘Spilling into the ditch minarets and towers and spires all tumbling every which way. Crowns askew, robes besmudged, bared head laid bare through and through, and, alas, godliness snuffed out like a guttered candle.’
‘Just so. Was that succinct enough, then? Now, we march to war!’
With this strident challenge ringing in the air, the two men fell silent, both slumping a bit further into their saddles. Until Dathenar sighed and said, ‘Never mind the peasants, Prazek, and let’s speak instead of prisoners.’
‘A touchy subject,’ Prazek replied. ‘Of crime or duty?’
‘Your distinction reeks of the disingenuous.’
‘In this mud, no distinction is possible.’
‘And we not yet upon battle’s field.’
Prazek stood on his stirrups and looked about, eyes narrowed.
‘What now, brother?’
‘Somewhere, lying in the grasses about us, is a pillager of prose, a looter of language.’
Dathenar snorted. ‘Nonsense, we but ape the noble cause, my friend. With hairy discourse.’
Settling back down in the saddle, Prazek scowled. ‘Let us defy the ghost, then, and ride on in silence. I must prepare, in my mind, my stirring speech to my prisoners.’
‘You’ll win their hearts, I am sure.’
‘I need only their swords to cheer.’
‘Yes,’ Dathenar grunted, ‘there is that.’
A short time later, a score of crows winged out from the hills, and made their way overhead, seeking the distant trees. The two officers exchanged a look, but, for a change, neither spoke.
* * *
Flakes of snow drifted down from laden branches, carpeting the stone-lined track ahead, like the petals of fallen blossoms. Spring, however, seemed far away. The sound of his horse’s hoofs was sharp and solid, and yet Captain Kellaras heard little echo, as the snow-shrouded forest made for a muted world. This was one of the few remaining stretches of true wilderness left in the realm, spared the axe only by an ancient royal mandate, granted to an ancestor of House Tulla.
The night before, he had heard wolves, and their voices, rising so mournfully into the night, had stirred something primal within the captain, something he had not known existed. He pondered that experience now, as he let his horse choose its own pace on the slippery cobbles, and it seemed that his thoughts well matched his surroundings. Cloaked in strange isolation, where the only sounds he heard belonged to himself, his mount, and their journey.
Wilderness offered a curious solitude. The comforts of society were gone, and in their place, indifferent nature – but that indifference set forth a challenge to the spirit. It would be easy to choose to see it as cruel, and to then fear it, flee it, or destroy it. Even easier, perhaps, to surrender to animal instincts, to live or die by its own rules.
Long before villages, or towns, or cities, the wild forests were home to modest huddles of makeshift huts, to clans of family. Each camp no doubt commanded a vast range, since such forests were miserly in what they yielded. But by the hearth-fires alone, the wild was kept at bay, and in those flames, a war had begun.
It was not difficult to see the path of devastation made by that still ongoing war, and from the perspective of where he now rode, in this silent forest, it was a challenge to find virtue in the many monuments to victory with which his kind now surrounded itself. Keeps of stone and timber laid claim to the simplest needs, of shelter and warmth and security. Villages, towns and indeed cities gave purpose and protection to the gathered denizens, and the pursuit of convenience was a powerful motivator in all things. All of these creations were fashioned from the bones of nature, the slain corpses in this eternal war. In this manner, the victors did enclose themselves in what they had killed, be it tree or wild stone.
Surrounded by death, it was little wonder that they would sense virtually nothing of what lay beyond it. And yet, from nature’s bones the artists among the people would find and make things of great beauty, things that pleased the eye, with poetry of form and the peace of those forms rearranged in seeming balance. More to the point, Kellaras realized, so much of what was deemed pleasing, or satisfying, or indeed edifying, was but a simulacrum, a reinventing of what nature already possessed, far beyond the lifeless walls and tamed fields.
Was art, then, nothing more than a stumbling, half-blind journey back into the wilderness, with each path selected in groping isolation, endlessly rediscovering what should have been already known, reinventing what already existed, recreating the beauty of what had already been slain?
It would be a shock indeed, should an artist reach thi
s revelation: comprehending the relationship of their art with murder, with generations of destruction, and with this long, long journey away from those first hearth-fires, in that first forest, when the enemy at hand was first glimpsed, like a spark in the mind, and from it was born the first fear. The first unknown.
If imagination’s birth had come from something as ignoble as fear, then, at last, Kellaras understood this eternal war. By a wilful twist of the mind, he could of course choose to be selective in what he saw, and what he felt, and, from those two forces in combination, in what he believed. A brightly gaze, then, to paint the world with the bliss of optimism, and every wonder crafted by the hand, whether mundane tool or glorious edifice, as symbols of the triumphant spirit. But each such pronouncement, no matter how bold the assertion, or how adamant the claim to virtue, was but a cry in the face of a deeper silence, a silence in which lurked a vague unease, a yearning for something else, something more.
Lift high gods and goddesses, if you will. Dream of exaltation, in what the altar bleeds, in what the fires burn, in what art we raise, in what industry we occupy our lives. Each is lifted into view from an ineffable need, a yearning, a hunger to fill some empty space inside.
Our spirits are not whole. Some crucial piece has been carved from them. If we go back, and back, to a forest such as this one, and make for ourselves an entire world of the same, we come to the silence, and the isolation, and the seed-ground of our every thought, beaten down, unlit and awaiting the season’s turn. We come to our beginning, before the walls, before the keeps and towers, with nothing but living wood encircling our precious glade.
In such a place, the gods and goddesses must step down from the high heavens, and kneel, with us, in humility.
But Kellaras was not so naïve as to imagine such a return. The rush and the conflagration of progress were demonic in their intensity. And we stake our lives in this fight for our place in things we ourselves invented. And in our new world, nature is indeed very far away.
Rounding a slow wend in the road, he caught his first glimpse of the outer wall of the Tulla estate. The past summer’s vines made a stark, chaotic latticework upon those walls, like withered veins and arteries drained of all life. The track straightened before a gateway, and beyond, centred amidst expansive grounds, rose the estate itself, built upon massive Azathanai foundation stones. Various outbuildings clustered to either side of the structure, including stables and a mill. Riding through the gateway, Kellaras saw the frozen sweep of a fishpond on his left, and three rows of leafless fruit-bearing trees on his right.
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