Fall of Light (The Kharkanas Trilogy 2)

Riding a massive, broad-backed horse, Rancept found himself in the company of Captain Horult Chiv and Sekarrow. In their martial accoutrements, the night in the kitchen at Tulla Keep seemed long ago and impossibly far away.

Sekarrow, her iltre stored inside a leather case strapped to her saddle, her gloved hands resting on the horn, reins loosely wrapped about them, leaned companionably close to the castellan and said, ‘Has Lady Hish preceded us, then?’

The jostling from the trotting horse sent stabs of pain through Rancept’s bent frame, forcing his breath out in sharp gasps. It was a moment before he managed to speak. ‘She leaves this to her uncle.’

Sekarrow uttered a surprised grunt, and said, ‘That seems … unlikely. Something must have happened—’

‘Yes, something did.’

Riding up on to Rancept’s other side, Horult Chiv rapped his gauntleted knuckles against the wooden scabbard of his sword. ‘Castellan, know this: my lord Drethdenan is resolved. If it comes to calling out cowards, he will not hesitate!’

Rancept nodded, although he was far from convinced. It seemed that Horult elevated his beloved far beyond the opinions most might hold of the man’s fortitude. That said, Rancept hoped the captain was right.

Venes Tu

rayd was not a man to be trusted, not on this day. Pelk, riding at Turayd’s side, had made clear her opinion in this matter, conveyed with a simple glance instead of words. Rancept had been already resolved to follow orders, as expected, until such time as a command threatened his honour, at which moment he would do what needed doing.

He’d lived long enough to find the weight of a crime – even one of murder – a burden he would willingly carry. There was little that could be done to him that would not, in truth, prove a salvation. His bones ached incessantly. Drawing breath was like drinking draughts of pain, without surcease. He’d seen enough of life to know he wouldn’t miss it much. His only regret was the grief his death would level upon those who cared for him.

Venes Turayd was a man inclined to abuse the honour of others, as if needing to despoil what he himself lacked. But he would not have Rancept’s last surviving virtue, and in the moment of its challenge the castellan would give answer. And Pelk would guard his back.

Deep in his twisted body, he knew that betrayal was coming.

The heavy, long-handled axe at his hip was a comforting weight. The armour wrapped tight about his shoulders clattered as he rocked in the saddle. The surrounding gloom did little to diminish the acuity of his eyes as he looked out upon stubbled fields, and, glancing back over his sloped shoulder, upon the ranks of Houseblades, each House bearing its proud standard.

Sleeping Goddess, hear my prayer. Your earth will drink deep this day. Nothing will change this. But this surface here, these shallow thoughts and quick deceits, they are where I will find myself. Grant me a clear path, and I will leave you the severed head of Venes Turayd, raper of children, betrayer of the Sons and Daughters of Mother Dark.

Today is our day of accounting. Sleeping Goddess, walk with me and dream of death.

Sukul Ankhadu, forgive me.

‘One day,’ said Sekarrow, ‘I will learn to play the damned thing.’

Her brother snorted. ‘But not today.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ she replied. ‘I am told, however, it makes a sorrowful sound.’

‘Not today,’ Horult Chiv repeated in a growl.

‘No, not today.’

* * *

The afternoon was drawing to a close. They were late readying horses, and Endest Silann stood watching as Cedorpul harangued the grooms. In a few moments, the two of them would set out again, upon the track they had but just traversed, well in the wake of the Houseblades and the Hust Legion. Should they then return to Kharkanas, one more time, everything would have changed.

His hands were cold, but not numb. This was something that made his blood into ice, and that ice burned as it leaked out from the wounds in his palms. He thought, idly, that it might be an indication of Mother Dark’s fury.

Moments earlier they had seen Lord Draconus and Captain Kellaras ride out, their horses’ hoofs hammering the stones of the courtyard and then the bridge, the sound discordant, as if some madman was working an anvil. Haste and anger, hurts ill disguised. Iron and stone made for bitter music.

The pilgrim makes a path. But no longer is he followed. Miracles pall in the disapproval of authority, and what was once a gift is now suspect. And so, yet again, we crush the blossom in our hand, lift our gaze from the tumbling petals, and ask the world, ‘Where, then, is this beauty you promised?’

But beauty could be a terrible thing, a force to cut the eye and leave wounded the witness. Even perfection, if such a thing could be said to exist, could arrive like an affront. Endest Silann lifted his gaze to the sky, studied its fierce contradiction of afternoon light and enervating gloom, and wondered if, on this day, dragons would take to the air, with eyes eager to feast on the slaughter below.

There is this, you see. They are drawn to sorcery. Reasons unknown, my knowledge itself a mystery. I know what I know, but know not how I know it.

Cedorpul shouted him over to where he waited with the two now saddled horses. Nodding, Endest Silann joined him, and a short time later they rode out across the first bridge, leaving the looming hulk of the Citadel in their wake.

With renewed energy, Cedorpul grinned across at him. ‘Today, my friend, we shall see the power of magic! The power to withstand, to defy, to refuse!’