Turning, Threadbare’s gaze followed the dragons as they sailed southward into the storm. Her mouth was dry, her chest tight. She shot T’riss a wild, frantic look. ‘What in the Abyss are we riding into?’
‘Do you hear laughing?’ the Azathanai asked, her brows lifting. ‘The dead are laughing even as they weep. Why is that, I wonder?’
‘You wonder? You fucking wonder? What is all this, damn you?’
T’riss shrugged. ‘Oh, Light and Dark never liked each other. Worse than Sky and Earth. But, as must be obvious to anyone who cares to consider such matters, Life and Death rule us all. Unless, of course, Death forgets itself. I fear that has occurred. Death had forgotten itself. The ghosts are here and still here, because they can’t find the gate.’ She shook her head, as if exasperated. ‘What a mess.’
‘What’s happening at the Valley of Tarns?’
‘A battle. A battle is happening. The one everyone expected, but few wanted. Or so they claimed. But the truth is, bloodlust is a plague, and it has found your people. Oh well.’
Swearing, Threadbare yanked her mount around and, eyes narrowing to slits, glared into the sleet and the roiling clouds of the south. Driving her heels into the flanks of the golem snapped twigs and branches, but the creature surged forward, and in moments reached a gallop.
A short time later T’riss caught up with her, and swung a bright face to Threadbare. ‘I had no idea they could go so fast!’ she shouted, and then yelped with laughter.
‘Get away from me, you lying witch!’
Surprise flashed in the Azathanai’s face. ‘I never lied, my dear, I but confused. There is a difference, you know!’
‘Why, damn you?’
‘Well, to keep you alive, I suppose. I like you, Threadbare. I like you a lot.’
Abyss below, she’s fallen for me! Stupid woman!
T’riss angled her horse closer, until almost within reach, and said, ‘But I admit to wondering, with not a little trepidation.’
‘What?’ Threadbare snapped.
‘Those Eleint, of course. Worse than vultures, those things.’
What? ‘They weren’t summoned?’
‘Summoned? Dear me, I certainly hope not!’
‘Then what the fuck do they want? A field of corpses to feed on?’
‘Not corpses, Threadbare. Magic. They feed on magic. Alas, there’s far too much of it about, these days.’
‘And whose fault is that?’
T’riss blinked. ‘Why, mine, I suppose.’
‘I should kill you!’
‘Oh, don’t think that – you break my heart! Besides, if it all gets out of control, you’ll want me there.’
Threadbare glared ahead to the storm-wracked clouds, the incessant flash of lightning, and the now endless drum roll of thunder. If it gets out of control?
‘Either way,’ T’riss continued, ‘let us hope that no more dragons come to the fray.’
‘Meaning you can handle three of them?’
‘Of course not, but if others come, there will be a storm like none other, and that wouldn’t be good. No, never mind, my dear. Rather, let’s think more pleasant thoughts, shall we?’
‘Oh I am, T’riss. Believe me, I am!’
‘Your expression breaks my heart!’
* * *
His body filled with agony, bruised and battered bloody, Endest Silann crawled towards the motionless form of Cedorpul. Steam rose from the deep furrows gouged into the slope of the valley side. Overhead the sky convulsed, the black clouds splitting apart to flashes of blinding light. The darkness itself was rent with strange slashes, through which the afternoon’s setting sun cut without obstruction. Whatever sorcery had been cast upon the land by Mother Dark was now wounded.
The distance between them seemed vast, as if Endest had set upon himself the task of crawling across an entire world. The pain rolled through him in waves, still echoing the barrage of assaults he had just weathered. Upon the opposite slope, Hunn Raal was down on one knee, head hanging. He had flung wave upon wave of Light-filled, coruscating magic, tumbling it down the slope, tearing up the ground as it crossed the valley’s basin, until it rolled up the slope in a surge to hammer into the two priests.
But they had held.
Until now.
The armies lining the crest upon either side had yet to move. Endest wondered what they had just witnessed. The sorcery, when at last it struck him, had at times lifted him from the ground, until he hung in the air, tendrils of actinic light tearing at him as an enraged child would savage a rag doll.
But for all that, nothing slipped past. Dark and Light swirled in deadly embrace, spiralling skyward to convulse in the clouds overhead. Flung back to the earth, Endest Silann had fought on, and a hundred paces to the west, Cedorpul had done the same.
Until the latest waves had crashed into them. Endest Silann had heard Cedorpul’s scream, the sound like an iron blade scoring slate. He had caught flashes, amidst his own torment of defence, of Cedorpul’s suspended body spraying out horrifying volumes of blood, and when at last he fell back to the ground he was limp, broken.
Still, Endest crawled towards his old friend, watched by thousands.
He could excuse it. Shock was a terrible force. Horror stole all strength from flesh and mind. Nothing was left. Every choice seemed impossible. The world had just tilted, and every soul upon it struggled to regain balance.
This is the death of innocence. The child’s world is gone. Torn to pieces. What follows? None can say. But see me here, squirming like a broken-backed snake. See me here, in your stead, my friends. Such power as you witnessed has brought us low. Every one of us.
His grasping hands leaked thick, sluggish blood. His palms pressed down upon the broken, steaming mud and stones. He blinded her with every reach, but even that no longer mattered. Endest felt himself to be dying, and a dying man should be left alone.
‘My lords, we have failed you. Soldiers of the Hust, Houseblades, we have failed you. Forgive us.
‘But no! Disregard this self-pity. We fail from a crisis of faith. Violent defence revealed the truth of that, just as Hunn Raal impugns the glory of Light. Ah, such weak vessels …’
He crawled onward, as strange shadows swept over him. Head twisting, he peered up at the heavy clouds, squinted as he saw massive dark shapes wheeling through them. My love, are you there? Turn away now, please. Do not look down.
Simple truths are often the hardest ones to bear. Dying alone is the only real way of dying, after all. The most personal act, the most private battle. Leave me to it, and if my strength holds I will reach my friend’s side. I ask for nothing more. I seek no other solace.
Death punctuates this pilgrim’s path. He should have known that all along.
* * *
‘Dissension among the commanders!’ cried the ancient lord, his knees now stained with mud, his hands strangely blue with the cold. He’d placed a number of the lead soldiers in a circle behind the ranks. ‘Dismay has stolen the First Son’s heart. Others hold him back – he would rush down to that dying man, the only one left. Sleet and fierce winds buffet them! Winter freezes their tears! He strains, fearless against the terrible sorcery!’
Wreneck stared down at the small figures to either side of the ditch. The advance had involved scant few of the soldiers, as the lord had insisted that champions must magically duel first. In the midst of frantic rolls of the knucklebones and triumphant cries from the old man, the sky lowered, and frozen rain began to pummel them. Shivering and miserable, Wreneck sat hunched beneath the torrent. Again and again he glanced to where he’d set down the spear, watched the ice growing upon its iron point, water trickling across the wooden shaft. In the meantime, the old man continued his tale.