Fall of Light (The Kharkanas Trilogy 2)

‘I think that is the plan,’ Listar replied, his gaze now searching Wareth with some confusion.

But Wareth was unable to respond. We are all cowards, until we are not. The words thundered through him, as did the easy dismissal with which she had uttered them. He wanted to turn, to set off after Hataras Raze, to demand more from her. Do you offer me hope? A rebirth? If cowardice only before now, then when and how its end? What side of me still hides? Where, in myself, have I not already crawled, or cowered, or searched?

Do not offer me such words! Do not leave me with them, damn you!

The crowd had parted, and closed in again to form an informal escort as the Bonecasters made their way into the camp, Listar lingering between them and Wareth.

‘Sir?’

‘C-can they do this, Listar?’

After a long moment, Listar nodded, and said, ‘Mother help us all.’

* * *

Galar Baras scowled at Prazek, and then Dathenar. ‘You are both addled,’ he said. The three of them stood just outside the command tent. A moment later he waved away the soldier who’d delivered the news of Listar’s return. Stepping close to Prazek, he said, ‘This is madness. We are Tiste Andii. Children of Mother Dark. To bring in foreign witches—’

‘Children we may be,’ Prazek cut in, ‘but of the Hust, not Mother Dark.’

‘Be not deceived by the cast of the skin,’ Dathenar added. ‘That was a summary blessing. The Hust iron now claims these men and women, and it bridles with newborn power. Sorcery and witchery, a dance of the unknown, yet we would face it. We would grasp it. We would make it our own.’

Galar Baras shook his head. ‘The commander will not sanction this.’

‘Our commander lies insensate to the world,’ Prazek retorted.

‘A singular proclamation,’ said Dathenar, ‘to embrace all manner of leader and politician. Waters made opaque by unsecured belief and misapprehension, to which dear Toras Redone has splashed a sampling of sour wine. We meet her inebriation with indifference, deeming it irrelevant to the failures implicit among all who would rule us.’

‘Mother Dark,’ said Prazek, scratching at his beard, ‘made no distinction in her blessing, and now leaves the skin to will its hue, as befits each man’s and each woman’s mercurial moods. This is a wavering faith, a host of questions devoid of stipulation.’

‘The Hust Legion,’ said Dathenar, ‘requires more than that. Manic blades and moaning armour will not suffice. The shared residue of pits and picks, shackles and groaning carts, of crimes snared and punishments binding, all prove insufficient to our need.’

Galar could now see a knot of figures entering the parade square, while from all sides, soldiers had abandoned their preparations for the march and were drawing closer in a rough, jostling ring. Swords bickered in scabbards. Chain and scales muttered incessantly. Dark faces remained expressionless.

Overhead, the sky was pale and dull, a formless white stretched across the heavens. A hint of warmth rode the soft winds from the south. The day seemed to slump, heavy feet rooted to the still frozen ground. Sounds were dying away, one by one, like unfinished thoughts.

He watched as the two Dog-Runner witches emerged from an unbidden divide among the soldiers, heading towards Rebble who now stood with Sergeant Rance at his side. The bearded man was gripping Rance’s left arm. Frowning, Galar Baras swung to Prazek. ‘Is that woman to be their sacrifice? I cannot permit—’

‘No blood will be spilled,’ Prazek said.

‘How do you know?’

‘Not the Dog-Runner way,’ Dathenar said. ‘Join us, Galar Baras. Stand in your commander’s stead. You need neither condone nor bless. We shall witness, and in witnessing, partake. Alas, what finds us on this day may well fail in penetrating our commander’s present state of unconsciousness.’

‘Unfortunate,’ muttered Prazek, ‘that the one who, perhaps, needs healing the most, has inadvertently excused herself. But then, who could have predicted the timing of this?’

‘Sergeant Rance,’ said Dathenar to Galar Baras, ‘has been killing men in the camp. And yet the woman you see yonder is in fact innocent, though the blood stains her hands.’

‘What riddle is this?’

‘Another hides within her, Galar Baras. One adept with sorcery, and yet consumed by the madness of murder.’

‘What will these witches do to her?’

‘We don’t know.’

Galar Baras stared at Dathenar, and then at Prazek. ‘And our soldiers are to witness all this as well? Have they not suffered enough scenes of punishment and retribution? And to now be reminded once again on the very day before we march? Gentlemen, you will see this legion torn apart!’

‘Possibly,’ Prazek conceded. ‘The manner in which we gamble defines the stakes. Win or lose, it shall be absolute.’