Fall of Light (26 page)

T
HE NAILS ON GOTHOS’S HAND, WHERE IT RESTED ON THE
stained tabletop, were amber-hued and long, more like talons, and as they tapped a slow syncopation, one falling after the other, Arathan was reminded of stones in the heat. The vast table had been dragged in from some other now abandoned abode. Devoid of accoutrements, it stretched out like a weathered plain, with the sunlight that played out across its surface making a slow crawl to day’s end.

Arathan stood near the entrance, leaning against the doorway’s warped frame, to gather as much of the courtyard’s chill air as he could. Within the chamber, braziers had been laid out, four in all, emanating a dry heat, caustic and enervating. Against one side of his body, he could feel winter’s breath, while upon the other, the brittle heat of a forge.

Gothos had said nothing. Beyond the clicking of his nails, and the almost mechanical rise and fall of his fingers as they tapped, he yielded nothing. Arathan was certain that Gothos was aware of his arrival, and by indifference alone offered invitation to join the Jaghut at one of the misshapen chairs crowding the table. But Arathan knew that no conversation would be forthcoming; this was not so much a mood afflicting Gothos, as yet another of those times characterized by obstinate silence, a belligerent refusal to engage with anyone.

One could, unfettering the imagination, conjure up a chorus of bridling emotions to fill such silences. Condescension, arrogance, contempt. In its company, it was easy to wince to the bloom of shame, with the sting of irrelevance at its heart. Arathan suspected that the Jaghut’s bitter title – Lord of Hate – was derived from these spells, as in frustration fellow Jaghut threw up walls of indignation, pocked with murder-holes from which they might let loose their own missiles, and make of the whole thing a clattering war, a feud raised up against a multiplying nest of imagined insults.

But whatever barriers the silence posed, there was nothing personal to them. They stood not in answer to any particular threat. They faced out upon every imaginable quarter, standing fast against both presence and absence. This was, Arathan had come to believe, not the silence of an embittered man. It accused no one, acknowledged not a single enemy, and because of this, it infuriated all.

A month had passed since Lord Draconus, his father, had left Arathan in the keeping of the Lord of Hate. A month spent struggling with the endless, impossible nuances in the Jaghut language – its written form, at least. A month spent in the strange, baffling dance he’d found himself in, with the hostage Korya Delath.

And what of this army camped beyond the ruined city, the gadflies to Hood, as Gothos called them? Each night, it seemed, another few figures marched in – Thel Akai from the north, Dog-Runners and Jheck from the south. Upon the strand of desolate beach two days to the west, long wooden boats had pulled up, disgorging blue-skinned strangers from some offshore strew of islands. There was a war among those islands, and the ships – Arathan had been told – were battered, fire-scarred, the wooden decks stained black with old blood. The men and women wading ashore were, many of them, wounded, flateyed and too exhausted to be wary. Their leather armour showed damage; their weapons were notched and blunted, and they walked like people who had forgotten the stolid certainty of unmoving earth beneath their feet.

A dozen Forulkan numbered among the thousand or so now crowding the camp, and here and there – startling to Arathan’s eyes – could be found Tiste. He had made no effort towards any of them and so knew nothing of their tale. Only one among them bore the inky stains of a Sworn Child to Mother Dark. The rest, he surmised, were Deniers, dwellers from the forests, or the hills bordering the realm.

Sorcery seethed through that sprawling camp. Foodstuffs were conjured from earth and clay. Boulders leaked sweet water without surcease. Fires burned without fuel. In the cold night, voices rose in song, bone pipes made hollow music and taut skins were drummed to raise up a surly chorus beneath the glittering stars. From atop the lord’s tower, in the lee of the looming Tower of Hate, Arathan could look out upon that glittering, red-hazed camp.
An island of life, its inhabitants eager to sail out from its safe shore. Dead is the sea they seek, its depth beyond comprehension.

The songs were dirges, the drumbeats the last thumps of a dying heart. The bone pipes gave voice to skulls and hollow ribcages.

‘They attend their own funeral,’
Korya had said, venting her frustration at Hood’s benighted gesture
. ‘They whet their swords and spear-points. Make new straps and stitches in armour. They game in their tents and take lovers to their furs, or just use one another as a herder his sheep. Look on them, Arathan, and divest yourself of all admiration. If this is all that life can offer in defiance of death, then we deserve the brevity of our fates.’

It was clear that she did not see what Arathan saw. All deeds could be seen as sordid, in the flipping of a stone, or the stripping away of hides. The proudest candle vanishes unseen into a raging house-fire, with none to recount the beauty of its delicate glow, or the dignity of its desire. This was nothing but one’s own bitter cast of mind, the well-set frown with every muscle bent to its will, to make a face eternal in its disapproval. Arathan wondered if he would one day see that twisted pattern upon Korya’s visage – when youth surrendered to decades of sour misery.

She saw nothing of the glory that, in the contemplation of Hood and his heartbreaking vow, so easily took away Arathan’s breath, and left him feeling humbled with wonder.

‘Madness. Pointless. The railing of a fool. The myths are not literal. There is no river to cross, no whirlpool to make a hole in a lake, or the sea. There are no thrones to mark the threshold of imaginary realms. It is all ignorance, Arathan! The superstitions of the Deniers, the dirt-eating of the Dog-Runners, the grinning rock-faces of the Thel Akai. Even the Jaghut – with all their talk of thrones, sceptres, crowns and orbs – allegory! Metaphor! The poet speaks what the imagination paints, but the language belongs to dreams, and every scene conjured up is but a chimera. You cannot declare war upon death!’

And yet he did. With hand made into fist, Hood hammered words from stone. Mountains were pounded into rubble. Dreams burned like cordwood in the forge, each one cast in like an offering. Warriors and soldiers collected up their gear, left behind their petty squabbles and the fools who would order them about, and set off on what all knew would be their final march.

Sacrifice, Korya. Dismantle the word, and see the sacred in giving. The blessing that is surrender. Hood’s army assembles. One after another, the warriors arrive, and pledge allegiance not in the name of victory, but in the name of surrender. Sacrifice. To win its war, this army must begin defeated.

He would not speak his thoughts on this, not to anyone. The details of his life thus far were his own to keep, and the scars they left in him were written in a secret language. His life was accidental, a discarded tailing to a few moments of desire. Unwanted, he’d been left to obsess over an endless and growing list of wants.

He met my eye and called me son. A want appeased, yes, only to be answered with abandonment. You gain by losing everything. Family, the love of a woman, the fathering of a child. The fashioning of a home, the mapping of private rooms in measured pace. The understanding of love itself, here with the Lord of Hate.

There is nothing confusing about Hood and his vow. Or this grim army yielding up songs every night. Loss is a gift. Surrender is victory. You will see, Korya, if you stay with me in this. You will see and at last, perhaps, you will understand.

The scuff of boots from across the square – Arathan glanced over to see Haut, Varandas, and another Jaghut approaching. They were heavy in their arcane armour, iron painted with frost. It was unusual to not see Korya at her master’s side, but something in Haut’s demeanour spoke of a bitter argument just left behind, and Arathan felt a pang of sympathy for the old warrior the others named captain.

Shifting round, Arathan fixed his gaze on Gothos, but nothing had changed there. The clawed fingers tapped, the sun’s light crawled, and the dull gleam of the lord’s eyes remained motionless, like dusted glass.

‘For Abyss’s sake, boy,’ Haut said as they drew nearer, ‘hunt her down, throw her into the hay, and put us all out of our misery.’

Arathan smiled. ‘I have seen her future, Haut, and surrender does not dwell there.’

‘He’s within?’ asked the huge Jaghut whom Arathan did not know. This warrior’s visage was flat, seamed with scars. He wore his dark hair in long, knotted braids, his tusks silver-tipped but otherwise stained deep amber.

Arathan shrugged. ‘For all the good it will do you.’

‘He calls us to join him,’ the stranger continued, scowling. ‘I see us freezing in chilled company … again.’

‘Now now, Burrugast,’ said Varandas, ‘he unmanned me long ago, so I will suffer no more in the frigidity of his obstinacy. Indeed, I find myself looking forward to the fury to come.’

‘Varandas claims a woman’s forbearance,’ said Haut, ‘so let us yield a moment of pity for the fool who tweaks his nipples.’ He raised a jug into view. ‘I have wine to thaw the lord’s surly repose.’

‘Beware the drunkard’s wisdom,’ Burrugast said in a growl.

Arathan edged back into the room to allow the three Jaghut ingress. The heat swirled against them all, eliciting a grunt from Varandas. At once, their armour glistened as if with sweat. Haut moved forward to set the clay jug on the tabletop, and then dragged out a chair and sat. Varandas walked to a shelf and collected a host of pewter cups.

Gothos gave no indication of recognition that company had arrived. Arathan found a chair and pulled it back to a wall close to the entrance, hopeful for a cooling draught.

With the three guests now seated, Haut rubbed at his narrow face and then began pouring out the wine. ‘The great tome that is the Folly goes poorly, I assume. Even reasons for suicide can grow long in the tusk at times, one concludes. Meanwhile, death waits on the Throne of Ice.’

‘Ice,’ snorted Burrugast. ‘It has the patience of winter, and in our host’s bleak soul, that is a season without end.’

‘We are called here,’ said Varandas as he examined his ragged nails, ‘so that we might be disavowed of Hood’s madness. The arguments will be assembled, every blade honed sharp by wit and whatnot. Steel your shoulders to the weight of contempt, my friends. To the assault of derision, the salvos of ridicule. We invite the siege, like fools atop our hoard.’

‘The hoard means nothing to Gothos,’ said Burrugast, drinking deep from his tankard. ‘The Lord of Hate is known to shit coins and gems, and piss rivers of gold. There is no honest blood coursing through his veins. We are in the liar’s lair …’

Haut leaned forward, one hairless brow lifting to arch a mass of wrinkles on his forehead. ‘Oh dear,’ he muttered. ‘Leave off the allusions, Burrugast. Of all accusations one can level upon Gothos, and there are many to be sure, dishonesty is not one of them.’

Burrugast shook his head. ‘I’ll not divest myself of this chain, buckle and greaves. There are two armies assembled here. The one we have just left, and the one lounging at this table’s head. I am girded for war and will remain so.’

‘And will it serve you well on this day?’ Varandas asked. ‘Already you drip, Burrugast, to the drumming of his ink-stained fingers. We have locked our shields and await his reason, knowing well how it cut through us the day he slew civilization. With wine I assemble myself – praying that the grape serves me better today than armour and shield did yesterday.’

‘The drunk answers every assault with smirking equanimity,’ observed Haut, pouring his cup full again. ‘All reasoned words thud like pebbles in the sand. Made immune, I imbibe the nectar of the gods.’

‘Death is at the heart of this scene,’ Varandas said, punctuating his assertion with a belch. ‘There is no road to its border, he will tell us. No high walls to hammer against. The raids are always done by the time we arrive, the looters long gone, the rapists’ gift of pain and horror fled the sightless eyes of every victim. We pursue a wake we can never hope to catch, much less breach, the echo of riders leaving only dust, fires only charcoal and ash.’

‘Hood seeks a direction,’ Burrugast said, ‘but none offers itself with a righteous claim. Might as well war against the night sky, Gothos will tell us. Or the rising sun.’

‘We are chained to time,’ added Haut, ‘and yet, death lies beyond time. The running sands are all stopped in that unknown place. Nothing moves, neither to advance nor retreat, and the absence shows us no face, no enemy arrayed before us. Are we to carve blades through indifferent waves? Cursing the seas so deftly defying our pretensions? He will say this to us, knowing we have no answer.’

‘It is cause for fury!’ Burrugast shouted, a fist thumping the tabletop. ‘We have faced reason, and have stared it down! We have withstood every argument and seen it off! This lord here spoke against all progress, all hope, all ambition – I now accuse him as death’s own agent! Seeking to turn us away, fugged by defeat, despondent and bemused and thoroughly disarmed before we march a single step! He is Hood’s sworn enemy! Love’s scarred foe! The face of misery cursing every claim to delight! I will not yield to this despiser!’ And with that, he thrust out his cup and Haut refilled it from the jug that never seemed to empty.

Arathan leaned his chair back, tilted against the beaded stone wall. His eyes were half closed as he regarded Gothos, who sat as if still alone, still waiting – or not waiting at all, despite those tapping talons on the old wood. Tension made the hot air brittle.

A sound to his right made him twist round slightly, to see a blue-skinned woman standing in the threshold. She was squatter than a Tiste, her limbs solid, her face round, with eyes of brown so deep as to be almost black. A curved knife was tucked into her thin leather belt, over which bulged a belly that had known plenty of ale. Her accent strange, she said, ‘There was word of a gathering. Hood’s officers, I am told.’