Steven Erikson - Fall of Light

And yet, nothing they say speaks of that. Indeed, I know enough to claim that such notions do not occur to them at all. Not at this time, not at any other.

‘Consort.’

‘Lord Anomander,’ Draconus replies, tilting his head in deference. The gesture is minimal, and yet for all that, Anomander’s brows lift. The respect they have known for one another has ever precluded such formal gestures. Anomander is indifferent to his noble blood. Draconus knows that, and knows as well that this is no mere affectation on the part of the First Son of Darkness. Nor is Anomander inclined to disparage privilege. The man simply dismisses the entire charade. For this reason, these two men are friends.

But now, here, something has changed.

‘I see, milord,’ Draconus continues, ‘that my Houseblades are positioned upon your east flank. I see Ivis at the ready, wearing the mask of war.’

But Anomander knows nothing of the Consort’s return to the world, or what bargains, if any, were made between him and Silchas Ruin. ‘Indeed, Draconus. They present a most powerful fist, as Urusander’s Legion is about to discover. And the gap between them and the Hust Legion is held by Silchas Ruin and my Houseblades.’

At that, Draconus turns, his gaze now fixing upon the far western flank, where foment now stirs the highborn command. His face tightens, but only for a moment, as his attention returns to Anomander. ‘Milord, your brother came to me, as this day’s commander.’

Anomander’s gaze grows more acute now. ‘I have drawn my sword,’ he replies. ‘I have taken my rightful place.’

‘Then it follows, milord, that I must take mine.’

There is silence then, between these two men.

Is this how it was? As simple as that? The Consort rides to take command of his Houseblades, hard upon Anomander’s eastern flank. The gathered nobles burst apart in mock fury. Stung by the offence, the western flank dissolves. Companies wheel, withdraw, march away in high dudgeon. And all at once, the outcome of the battle is no longer in doubt.

Rise Herat turned away from the tapestry. He lifted his head, as would a drowning man breaking the surface, and looked round. Bronze and marble statuary surrounded him, the hues a sharp contrast. Great leaders, heroic soldiers, even a few scholars and figures of state. There was no order to the press, and as Herat studied them, he heard in his mind the rising clamour of battle. Amidst the flattened shadows of the chamber, his imagination woke to life every statue, as weapons were drawn, as the killing commenced.

He drew a sharp breath, silencing the tumult, freezing every figure in its tracks.

Unless the sorcery was unleashed. Yet negated, made useless as Light locked jaws with Dark. Any other possibility obviates the necessity of any portentous moment. Anomander, Draconus, Kellaras, all of them shattered by infernal magic. And Hunn Raal strides across a field made into a charnel house. Even the victorious legion is silent, aghast at the carnage.

No. Instead, let us set sorcery aside. Every weapon will be met, by sword or shield. Fear and defiance, failure and triumph, the miserable dance is all played out. But even that is yet to come. Return us to Draconus and Anomander. The priests have answered Hunn Raal. Nothing has changed.

‘I despise sorcery,’ the First Son says in a faint, brittle tone. ‘Is this what awaits us? Will Hunn Raal and his kind make mockery of battle?’

Lord Draconus glances across at Kellaras, his expression unreadable. He walks to Anomander’s side, and Kellaras edges his mount closer to the two men.

The two lords face the valley, where sleet is gathering in ribbons of dull white across the ravaged basin. Here and there, steam or smoke still rises from ruptured earth.

Draconus speaks. ‘Will you deny me, friend? Have we not fought side by side before?’

Anomander seems to tremble a moment, before turning to the Consort. ‘You seek my leave, Draconus? To what end?’

‘If you command me to withdraw, I shall. But understand me, Anomander. I will have Ivis and my Houseblades.’

‘You would break his heart, then.’

Draconus turns, slightly, to squint at Ivis in the distance where he remains at the head of his mounted company – and the captain’s gaze is fixed upon his lord, as if but awaiting the summons. ‘I see it. The fever has taken him. I should not be surprised at that.’

Anomander nods. ‘Urusander’s Legion prepares to advance.’ He studies the enemy ranks, and then asks a most fateful question. ‘How fares Mother Dark?’

Draconus seems to flinch at Anomander’s simple question. ‘She refuses my presence. I fear she knows my mind, and what lies between us is now wounded.’

‘Fatally so?’

‘I cannot say. Would you have it so?’

Anomander shakes his head. ‘No, never that, Draconus.’

A few moments pass, while both armies hesitate, while the sky loses its will and the sleet falls away to nothing, and a strange, exhausted silence takes hold of the dusk. Then Draconus says, ‘I can make it right.’

Something passes over Anomander’s face, as if he has just weathered a slap, but he slowly nods and then says, ‘Draconus, I must name this love, this courage of yours.’

‘I shall make it right,’ Draconus says again.

‘Take command of your flank, then, sir. Ivis and Silchas Ruin await you.’

‘I shall lead my Houseblades,’ Draconus says. ‘Your own I leave to your brother, of course.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Anomander?’

‘Yes?’

‘We shall not yield.’

‘No, Draconus, I expect not.’

‘She will see that, won’t she?’

Anomander makes no reply.

Draconus passes a hand over his face, and then adds, ‘There is the matter of your brother, Silchas Ruin.’

‘Draconus?’

‘I rode here, friend, wondering if you had commandeered my Houseblades. If you had simply taken them from me.’

‘Ah, I see. And if I had?’

‘I will speak to Ivis on the matter. Anomander, I chose to believe otherwise.’

‘Thank you,’ Anomander replies.

‘Your brother-’

‘Later, perhaps,’ Anomander says in a tone of peculiar finality.

Draconus studies his friend for a moment longer, his expression flattening with something like resignation, and then he turns to where his lathered horse still stands. He mounts up, and then rides out to the left flank to take command of Ivis and his Houseblades.

Rise Herat blinked, and then wiped at his eyes. It was the briefest of pauses, and now the sounds of battle resumed, the jarring discord of blackened bronze and bleached marble, the statues trapped in their hopeless war. Mere flesh betrays the armour and raging swords of the Hust. Prisoners, criminals, dying in the name of a civilization that has cast them out. Too ill fitted to thrive, and now they die by the score.

Ivis falls, fighting for his lord. Silchas Ruin rages, weeping as his sword flails at all who would draw near. Lord Anomander stands soaked in blood. He has carved a space around him, and sees at last the inevitable end to this carnage. He strides from the field, climbs the mud-streaked slope. Upon the ridge the standard of the Tiste Andii appears before him. He reaches the youth who stands holding it upright. Gently takes the tall, wavering pole from the boy’s hand-