Cursing, Rebble walked over. ‘Commander, this won’t work.’
‘It will have to,’ Galar replied.
‘We’ve not even got to the armour yet – you can’t put that shit into a scabbard, can you? And almost nobody from the old Hust’s worn it yet, either. Wasn’t it delivered the day after the Poisoning?’
‘Get back to the others, Rebble,’ Galar said. ‘Show some spine.’
‘Spine?’ Rebble’s sudden smile was bright and dangerous. ‘Oh, I’ve plenty of that, sir. Too much, maybe. But it ain’t the bending kind. You break it and I’m useless. But until then it’ll take a lot of weight, sir, and it knows how to push back.’
‘Your point, Rebble?’
‘Just that, sir. You want me back there, fine. But I’m no merchant. If you want me to sell something I’ll make a pitch, only I pitch with my fists, sir.’
‘Just pull Curl to your side, and Rance, and each new one to take a weapon. Line them up, Rebble.’
Still smiling, Rebble saluted and returned to the clutch of officers.
‘You should have spoken up, Wareth. You have a way with Rebble.’
Wareth grunted. ‘Hardly. I just make certain that every order I give him is for something he’d do anyway. That man chose to save my life in the mining camp, but I can’t tell you his reason for doing so. He still binds me straight every night.’ He shook his head. ‘This is how it is among us. Our crimes we hold like shields. Some are solid and strong, but others are flimsy and weak. Some are little more than illusions, or whispers.’ He nodded at the officers. ‘As with Listar, there. His mystery protects him, though who can say for how much longer. In any case, sir, those shields are more than just things to protect us. They’re also what we hide behind.’
Rebble had managed to order the others into a rough line. They had belted their weapons, but even scabbarded the swords at their hips and the others remaining on the wagon’s bed still cried out, a cacophony as shrill as gulls upon a battlefield. A mass of regular prisoners had begun pushing closer. Galar saw more than one guard being shoved backwards. Their hands were on the grips of their blades. They won’t hold.
‘They want to see for themselves,’ Wareth said. ‘They want to know what’s coming.’
At that moment, two riders walked their horses into the gap behind the thin line of guards. Recognizing them, Galar Baras felt a tremor of shock.
The two men were having a conversation, loud enough to cut through the clamour of the weapons.
‘Hark, old friend, do you hear something amiss?’
‘Crows will chatter,’ the other replied. ‘Why, I once held a blade that did nothing but complain. Eager to cut, but chafing in the misery of peace.’
‘What fate that weapon, Prazek?’
‘Seduced by rust, in the manner of retired soldiers, sagging prostitutes and decrepit bards with wavering voices. All things end in their time, Dathenar.’
‘But swords that chortle in the midst of mayhem, Prazek, surely that is untoward?’
‘Promises to the enemy,’ Prazek replied, halting his mount and leaning on his saddle horn as he surveyed the prisoners. ‘I’ve a mind to take such a blade and, indeed, to wear both the armour and its dreadful avowal. Someone must speak for the madness of civil war, after all, and if such a war is to have a voice, then these weapons will suit.’
Dathenar reined in and slipped down from his horse. He adjusted his heavy gauntlets. ‘Uncanny amusement is to make a song of our sad state of affairs? Well suited indeed. You there! Ready for me a fine weapon!’ He strode easily towards the wagon. ‘Let it be one that shrieks on my behalf! Let it crow in the manner of … of …’
‘Crows,’ suggested Prazek.
‘Of crows! Bleak and black above battles just done, outraged by bounty, furious with excess. Trapped between glee and grief, between the empty belly and salvation. Such weapons surely know how to survive, enough to crown the sky with midnight hues. Promises, you say, Prazek? Imagine the quavering knees among the enemy, there in their trembling line – why, the justice of their cause, as they might see it, shrinks like a sac of nuts in ice water. While we stand before them, hands upon engorged grips, swords climbing from slick scabbards—’
‘Dathenar! You filade the charming gender of half these soldiers here! What of the round-faced and sweet-eyed, the buxom and the ample, the curved icons of aesthetic perfection?’
Dathenar accepted a sword and scabbard. He drew the weapon with a flourish. It screamed. ‘What is this? Am I so ugly as to elicit terror?’
‘Not your visage, friend. Perhaps your breath.’
‘Impossible! I speak with rose petals upon my tongue. It’s a habit of discourse. But, if I understand you, Prazek, you spoke of women.’
‘My weakness, yes.’
‘It is surely their strength that makes you weak.’
‘That, and the unmanning fear of mystery.’
‘Then, for a woman here to take hold of such a sword, pommel glistening and iron stiff with anticipation, why, would she not prove far more fearless than any man at her side? Will not the blade shiver in deafening horror at her willingness to see it tested?’
‘Tested and tried, blunted and nicked, made limp if such a thing were possible. I now see your point, Dathenar.’
‘There are points and then there are points. I am now eager for loud armour, if only to invite a clash of opinions.’
‘Elegance was ever your suit, Dathenar. By fine tailoring and cloth’s perfect cut, by colours in subtle complement and boots of profound polish, you are ever the envy of others.’
‘Grace is an acquisition, Prazek, though it demands a mindful application. Only by practice am I born to it, as natural as the coiled and perfumed curls upon my head.’
‘And when your helm howls, Dathenar? How will you answer?’
‘With a smile, friend, as befits my supreme confidence. You, quartermaster! Is it not time for an unveiling of armour? Your officers need timely garb, with your clerks no doubt eager to allot names to kit, in even rows to prove salient organization, and scrolls coded by the colour of their wax, or some such thing. Look at me, sir! Do I not stand as if naked here?’
Standing close beside Galar Baras, Wareth muttered a disbelieving curse. ‘Commander? Who are these fools?’
Smiling, Galar Baras shook his head. ‘An unexpected blessing, Wareth. But even so, I did not expect Lord Anomander to be so … generous.’
‘Sir?’
‘The two finest officers from his Houseblades, Wareth. Lieutenants Prazek and Dathenar.’
Two of Seltin’s assistants had appeared, carrying between them a hide-wrapped bundle. They reached Dathenar and set it down at his feet.
‘Well, unwrap it now, will you, good sirs?’
The prisoners crowded still closer, although this time something had changed. No longer threatening. Urged forward instead by curiosity, and something of the pleasure that might attend the performance of mummers or jesters.
Prazek remained on his horse, and suddenly Galar understood the value of that, as the man abruptly straightened. ‘Soldiers of the Hust Legion! Your wise commander has given me leave to address this momentous moment! Did I truly say “momentous moment”? Why, indeed I did, since we are about to witness a moment so important it demands twice saying.’
‘I missed that,’ Dathenar called as he watched the unfolding of the hide. ‘Pray say it again.’
‘’Tis overfamiliarity, Dathenar,’ Prazek said in a growl, ‘that makes you careless in my company.’
‘No doubt. Now then, Prazek, in keeping with your moment of momentous import, do call to me our own precious squad, which we found upon the road on our way here. The commander would see what we have made of such misanthropic gallywags.’
‘Why, we have made nothing of them yet.’
Dathenar frowned. ‘No time like the present, which, if you think on it, could not be truer, with the past done with and the future forever undiscovered. Call them to me, Prazek. The
y may not be officers, either in material or comportment, but in answering the former we mayhap invite the latter. Failing that, we simply kill them all.’
Prazek swung his mount round and gestured. ‘Be not shy, my pretties. Do recall, it was slothfulness on the road that proved your doing in the midst of your quicker comrades’ undoing. Dulled of wit and spark, you but stood unnerved while the blood, guts, limbs and heads of your fellow deserters flung about as if of their own accord. Come now, reveal the mercy of your officers in that we permitted your return, and let it be a sundry lesson of fate to everyone else, should one or two be eyeing the empty plains beyond the camp.’
The ragtag deserters shuffled into view.
Seltin caught Galar’s eye and the commander answered with a swift nod.
Dathenar now raised up a hauberk of heavy chain. ‘Abyss below! We shall be adorned in the impervious! Thus weighted, no such line will ever take a back step! Why, link by link, we best our enemy – and see here, the vambraces! What so amuses them, I wonder? No matter – see if they laugh when I inadvertently sit on them. And the greaves, bracing enough to fend off whatever might seek to bark my shin, be it pup or grovelling servant. And what are these? Scales to drape my shoulders, a coif for head and neck, and at last, the helm! Oh, hollow-voiced one, I would fill your space with bold thoughts – yours if not mine! Now, who will dress me?’ He swung round, squinted at the oversized squad of deserters, and then pointed at a woman. ‘You are comely enough. Shall we make a game of it?’
Sudden laughter from the crowd of prisoners. And upon that rustle of sound, the manic mirth of the weapons fell away, leaving behind a silence that drew gasps from many.
Dathenar frowned. ‘As I suspected, Prazek! For all this performance, Hust iron is without humour. Or any natural delight in the softness of a caressing touch, the chance meeting of shy gazes, a brush of hips – ah, still my sword that I hold – some things aver public witness, for now, at least.’
Prazek stood in his stirrups to face the crowd. ‘Leer if you will at this graven and solemn scene of disrobement followed by … er, robement. Your attention is most welcome, and hopefully enlightening for the virgins among you.’
Wheeling from renewed laughter, and a few lewd shouts, Prazek kicked his horse forward into a loping, lazy trot, reining in before Galar Baras. The lieutenant dismounted and saluted. ‘Commander, by command of Lord Silchas Ruin, we are now at your disposal.’
‘Silchas? Not your lord’s?’
‘Just so, sir, as Lord Anomander has not yet returned to Kharkanas. Captain Kellaras sends his regards.’
‘You found some deserters upon the trail, lieutenant?’
Prazek frowned. ‘A wayward patrol, I’m sure, sir. Returned to the fold as you see, barring a few malcontents.’
‘You are welcome to their care, lieutenant.’
‘We shall adopt them indeed, sir. But between us, I would wager none fit as officers. Still, glory is possible in any corner. We will retain a measure of misplaced optimism suitable to the fate awaiting us all.’ Prazek then stepped closer. ‘Sir, all is amiss in Kharkanas. Lord Urusander will not wait until the season’s turn, or so it is believed. He will bring blood’s fire to winter, but few will find comfort in its bask.’
Galar Baras nodded, and then turned to Wareth. ‘Inform the quartermaster that there is no further need to wait. Distribute weapons and armour to the regulars.’
He saw a flash of uncertainty in Wareth’s expression, but then the man nodded and walked off.
Bedecked in the unusually robust armour of Hust iron, Dathenar approached. ‘See me, sir, in jangling array. Six with linked arms could make a wall, twenty in a circle a bailey. We will attend to the field like legged keeps. I feel assembled into a fortress, with myriad taunts from the battlements of my shoulders and nape, and upon the helm’s brim, why, such mocking derision as to infuriate the enemy.’
‘Heavy kitting,’ Galar Baras agreed. ‘It was in Lord Henarald’s mind to see a new kind of soldier, stolid and steadfast. The Hust Legion has a history of holding a line, and often it was will alone that blunted the foe’s desire. But now, with armour such as this, we will add iron to our spines.’
‘Well said, sir. I trust Prazek has informed you of our elevation.’
Galar Baras smiled with little humour. ‘I wondered at what insubordination led you here.’
‘A bridge left unguarded was the first of our crimes,’ Dathenar replied. ‘But worse than that, we malingered too long in the Citadel, lured into cups until we sloshed with careless aplomb. Fools that we were, to so offend the white crow with our indolence. We judge this just, and will endeavour, sir, to avoid all future disapprobation.’
‘By this,’ Prazek added, ‘he means we will serve with all the distinction nature has accorded us, and more besides.’
‘Pushed past nature, aye,’ Dathenar said, nodding. ‘Into arcane constructs of obscure logic, yielding to us the perfect symbol with swords that crow and armour eager with contempt. See how well it fits, sir. One day the Hust Legion will be asked to stand against the impossible. I foresee this legion breaking hearts, sir.’
Galar Baras felt his gaze slide away from Dathenar’s bright, challenging regard. He looked upon the mob now gathering to receive weapons and armour. ‘Lieutenants, I leave the two of you in command. I must ride to Hust Forge. If it is at all possible, I will reawaken Toras Redone to our need for her. At the very least, I wonder if she has even heard of the fall of the Wardens. If not, best I be the one to bring her the news.’
‘You delight in heavy burdens, sir.’
Dathenar’s observation had come in a casual tone, but the truth of it cut Galar Baras, so that he stood for a moment, bereft of words, with something roaring in his skull. Shaking himself free of the paralysis, he turned away from the two lieutenants, and then paused and glanced back. ‘Welcome to the Hust Legion. Look to Wareth to inform you of any details with respect to the prisoners. Oh, and there is a killer in our midst, revisiting, perhaps, old hurts. Wareth will give you the details.’
‘Intrigue and mystery, sir, keep us young.’
Galar Baras eyed Dathenar, with his now placid expression, and then Prazek, who stood smiling like a man about to dance. ‘Again, you are both most welcome.’
An empty niche in a corridor, from which echoes still seemed to drift out, rebounding from some other place, but with weariness and overtones of loss. As the recollection of that day slowly faded from his mind, Galar Baras turned away from the niche and resumed his walk. Earlier in the day, before his eventual audience with Lord Henarald, he had walked the work yard, shocked by the fading energy of cooling blast furnaces, tall chimneys all but one yielding no column of smoke, an air of exhaustion heavy in the bitter winter air.
Behind the dozen bricked furnaces with their flanking bellows, there had been a row of wagons, sagging with coal left unattended. He had seen in all this the truth of what Henarald would soon tell him: the forges were dying. The charcoal was gone, the new seams of coal rotten. The age of weapons was itself coming to an end, in the manner that would surprise only a fool. War, this artless collapse that sees every forged blade worked to its sole purpose. How is it, then, that in the perfection of the form, and in its equally perfect application, we bring upon ourselves nothing but chaos and destruction? Am I alone in seeing the irony of this? Industry, you unfold in the machinations of our minds, so sweetly reasoned that we believe you both inevitable and righteous. But see what you build. No, step around the monuments, around every glorious edifice. Walk here, to this place of tailings and slag.
Henarald was right. The only freedom left the world belongs to what we discard, the pointless wastage we so quickly sweep away. See the birds dance on the heaps, thinking every glistening twinkle the betrayal of an insect’s wings. But to feed there is to die, and the hunt’s lure rewards with nothing but starvation.
He had walked the yards, and now, as he drew closer to the inner wing of the keep, where Toras Redone
had either retreated or been locked away from the sight of others, he listened for the distant roar of the forges, but heard nothing.
Industry, your artistry was an illusion. Your offer of permanence was a lie. You are nothing more than the maw we built, and then fed until both we and the world sank down in exhaustion, and in the failing of your fires, your never-satisfied hunger, we turn not upon you, but upon each other.
The Jaghut alone dared face you and name you the demon in their midst. Us? Why, we will die at your feet as if you were an altar, and hold with our last breath to the belief in your sanctity, even as the rust seizes your soul, and the last drop of blood falls from ours.
As with so many other things, Galar Baras realized, the seeds of civilization’s death were sown in its birth. But the Jaghut had proved that progress was not inevitable, that the fates could be defied, broken, utterly discarded.
He reached the door, studied its black bronze, its rivets and stained wood. Beyond it, alas, was his love. No matter her condition, he knew that he would fall to his knees upon seeing her, if not in body then in his soul. We do well to curse love. That makes us so abject, so eager to surrender. She need only meet my eye to know that I am hers, to do with as she pleases. Where then is my courage?
He hesitated.
Toras Redone, I bring sad news. The Wardens have been destroyed in battle. But Calat Hustain survives, and is blameless in the fate of his people. Or can that be said? Did he not give his command to Ilgast Rend? Was he not precipitous in setting out to the Vitr in such a time as this? The news is sad indeed, and you will choose which – the end of the Wardens, or that your husband still lives.
He could imagine himself, standing before her, unbowed by her sordid presence. Speaking his mind, flensing all decorum from the raw hungers and needs that plagued both him and her. But no, I can hardly be certain of her, can I? She was drunk the night she made me her plaything. It left embers between us, fanned by flattery and chance gazes locked a moment too long. For all her games, her memory of that night might be blurred, stripped of all detail.
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