Fall of Light (The Kharkanas Trilogy 2)

His dulled gaze now caught the scene he had been searching for. Lord Anomander, alone, stood watching the slow approach of Lord Urusander flanked by a dozen guards. The standard had been toppled, with nothing left but bitter formalities. Alone at the last. Not even Caladan Brood remaining. Or did you send him away, milord? Yes, I think you would have.

Kellaras sheathed his sword, its notched edge catching as he slid it into the scabbard, a thick welling of congealed blood rising up to gather below the hilt. Among Anomander’s Houseblades, but a handful remained. Of the Houseblades of House Dracons, he saw none standing.

Ah, Ivis. I did not see you fall, forced to turn away at the last moment. The wonder of your charge finds glory in its failure – we can look to little else, we of the Andii, when seeking solace from this day. Draconus and Ivis had led their forces deep into the enemy facing them. Their company had killed easily twice its number, and even the frantic flanking attacks from Urusander’s mounted cavalry had done little to slow its advance.

In the end, alas, they were too few, even when joined by Anomander’s own Houseblades.

Ivis, did your lord abandon you at the end? I fear he did.

Kellaras wiped the grime from his stinging eyes, no longer interested in seeing the official surrender, no longer wanting to witness his lord’s humiliation. The First Son deserves better than this. I shall look into the eyes of the highborn and await their flinch. But this is scant satisfaction.

What seemed a lifetime ago, he and the Consort had ridden hard upon the road, with a terrible storm breaking over the Valley of Tarns. At the first pounding of thunder, Draconus had cursed, low and heartfelt.

Neither lightning nor thunder. Magic. Unleashed. Kellaras had expected to come upon a scene of unnatural slaughter. Instead, they had arrived in time to see the last desperate defence of two priests. Light and Dark entwined like serpents, jaws locked upon the other above the valley’s floor. The final detonation that tore them apart sent both priests and even Hunn Raal to the ground.

But it was Hunn Raal who first regained himself.

Kellaras was not entirely certain who the surviving priest was. The man was covered in mud and streaming blood; his clothes were scorched and shredded. The path he made in his belly-crawl to his companion left a smear like the track of a slug. And the other priest … Cedorpul. None other. And now, that cheerful young man is dead. He must be. No one could survive that assault.

Where he and Draconus had drawn up their horses, Lord Anomander stood ringed in a rough circle of aides, messengers and standard-bearers. Yet these Andii maintained a distance, as if Anomander stood alone upon an island.

Draconus and Kellaras halted. The ground was muddy, their mounts uncertain of their footing. Overhead the sky still convulsed in a miasma of sickly clouds through which shadows flitted.

Eyes fixed upon the valley below, Anomander shook his head. ‘I must go down to that priest—’

‘Leave him for the moment, friend,’ Draconus said, dismounting. ‘Your guards are correct. If Hunn Raal sees you draw within range, he will strike at you with what he has left. On another day, I could have swatted him down. Instead, I am weakened here. Incomplete, if you will.’

Turning, Anomander studied the Consort, and then tilted his head. ‘Incomplete? No matter. Here you are.’

‘You have taken command. What would you have me do, friend?’

‘Do you censure me in her name, Consort?’

‘No. It is said you have named your sword Vengeance. How sure is your rectitude, Anomander? I would think, thus named, the blade will demand from you a purity of purpose. Of course,’ he added with a faint shrug, ‘you will need to surrender everything else.’

‘Will I? Draconus, have our vows gained veracity in this new, sorcerous age?’

‘I should think so, yes.’

‘Vengeance,’ Anomander said in a musing tone, his eyes narrowing upon the enemy forces opposite.

‘I have pondered,’ resumed Draconus, ‘the notion of a righteous blade. Not as would Lord Henarald and his Hust iron. I would value no opinion from my chosen weapon, merely a certain efficacy. Justice, should such a notion exist, must lie in the hand wielding the blade.’

‘And how would you name your new sword?’ Anomander asked.

‘There is something inherently chaotic in any weapon. Do you see this?’

‘If it lacks moral spine, then, yes, I see this well enough.’

Kellaras listened to these two men, their nonsensical, seemingly irrelevant discussion so at odds with the moment, with the ever-growing pressure of two armies about to clash. He wondered, for the first time, if both men were utterly mad.

‘Then,’ Draconus asked, ‘will you this day draw your sword in its name? More to the point, can you? I spoke of what must be surrendered, lest your weapon fail you.’

‘Friend,’ said Anomander, ‘your presence here is divisive.’

‘I know.’

‘We will lose the highborn. We will, in turn, lose this battle.’