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In the field of battle, our bodies fight with frenzy, but in every face can be seen that appalling tearing loose, disconnecting soul from body, self from flesh. In war, the terrible wonder cries out from a thousand voices. That we are brought to this. That we should lose all that we hold dearest – our compassion, our love, our respect.
If he thought, now, of those heroic tales, he looked upon the heroes and could find, nowhere within himself, a single shred of respect. Misguided children, every one of you. Slayers of innocents, in the slaying of whom you feel nothing but the cold fire of satisfaction. You play out the vengeance game and with every victory you lose everything.
And you poets, with the timbre of the awe-filled in your voices, look well to the crimes you commit, with every stirring tale you sing. Look well to the overgrown child you lift high and name hero, and consider, if you dare, the tyranny of their triumph.
Then, set your eyes upon your audience, to see for yourself the shining rapture in their faces, the glittering delight in their eyes. These are the awakened remnants of the child’s cruel mind, enlivened by your heedless words.
So tell me, dear poet, at evening’s end, the story told, the ashes drifting from the cold hearth, does the blood still drip from your hands? More to the point, does it ever stop?
Her hands, upon his flesh, were hard with calluses. The harsh soap scraped him with grit, and he could feel the weight of her, and her heat, and when she moved round to settle over him, guiding him inside, he pushed from his mind the memory of heroes, and reached instead for the reality of this moment shared, between two veterans of too many battles.
Here, then, were feelings. Beyond the tactile, beyond the sensual. Here, then, was the language that spoke against tyranny in all its guises. But the world he found, in her arms, was a world for adults, not children.
Though she had spoken of her hidden heart, he found his own easily enough, and gave it to her that night. Unexpectedly, wrapped in his own sense of wonder. He knew not what she would do with it, or even that she understood what he had done. There was the risk, so very real, that she would cast it aside, mocking him with harsh laughter, as a child lacking understanding discards the important things which, when offered, so often prove troubling.
He whispered no words, as the gift he gave seemed, for that moment, beyond language. And yet, in his mind, he reached out to close his hand about the throat of the nearest poet. Dragged the fool close, and hissed, ‘This, you bastard, is where you grow up. Now, sing to me of love, like one who knows it, and at last I will hear from you a true tale of heroes.’
Love lost, love denied, love misunderstood. Woman or man, few could claim a life lived without regrets. But such regrets dwelt in the realm of the adult, not the child. They were, in truth, the essential difference between the two.
Sing to us of true heroes, so that we may weep, for something no child will ever understand.
* * *
‘My uncle, Venes,’ said Hish Tulla, ‘commands my Houseblades. They wait in Kharkanas.’ Her eyes, so startling in their beauty, were now cold as coins. ‘But no word comes from the Citadel.’
Kellaras nodded, reaching for his wine. He paused when Pelk, leaning in to collect up his plate, brushed close. He could smell the soap on her still, sweet and soft as a kiss. Momentarily discomfited, he sipped the wine, and then said, ‘Silchas readies the Hust Legion, milady.’
‘He is with them, then?’
‘No. Following Commander Toras Redone’s incapacitation, Galar Baras now conducts the assembling and training of the new recruits.’ He glanced briefly at Gripp Galas, who was still picking at his meal. ‘I have made acquaintance with Galar Baras. We travelled together on a journey out to Henarald’s forge. Should Toras remain … sheltered, he will serve in her place, with honour and distinction.’
Hish Tulla leaned back slightly, her gaze remaining fixed and predatory as she studied Kellaras. ‘A messenger from Venes brought the tale. Prisoners from the mines? What manner of army does Silchas imagine from such a dubious harvest? Loyalty to Mother Dark? Filial duty towards those who happily and righteously imprisoned them? What of the victims of their crimes, those who mourn the ones lost?’ She collected a jug from the table and poured herself another goblet’s worth of the strong, tart wine. ‘Captain, Hust weapons in the hands of such men and women invites a third front to this wretched war.’
‘Prazek and Dathenar have been sent to assist Galar Baras,’ Kellaras said.
Gripp Galas pushed his plate aside, the food upon it barely touched. ‘He had no right, captain. Anomander’s Houseblades! What was so wrong with the officers of his own Houseblades?’
Hish Tulla set the goblet down and rubbed at her eyes, then looked up, blinking, and said, ‘I was there, upon the Estellian Field.’
Kellaras slowly nodded. ‘Would that I had seen it, milady—’
‘Oh, Gallan made decent shape of it, and to hear him tell the tale you would swear he was there, in the midst of that battle. And saw what I saw, what Kagamandra saw, and Scara Bandaris, too. Those two chattering fools, Prazek and Dathenar—’ She shook her head. ‘If ever legend’s heroes walked among us, then we can name them here and now.’
‘Silchas had no right,’ Gripp said again, and Kellaras saw the fists the man had made of his hands, heavy as stones on the table.
‘One hopes,’ Hish added, ‘Galar Baras sees to their proper use. Sees past their prattle, that is. When I think on them, captain, an image comes to my mind. The Dorssan Ryl in winter, so heavily sheathed in ice, and upon the ice the blandest snow from nights of gentle falling. Where, in this scene I describe, will we find Prazek and Dathenar? Why, they are the black current beneath, strong as iron, that courses on, hidden away from all our eyes. But listen well and you will hear …’ she suddenly smiled, ‘that prattle.’
‘By my order,’ Kellaras said, ‘did I send them from Kharkanas.’
‘You?’ Gripp demanded.
‘My order, but Silchas Ruin’s command. Lord Anomander is gone, Gripp, and if his shadow alone remains, it is white, not black.’
‘What of Draconus?’ Hish demanded. ‘If any should assume overall command in Anomander’s absence, it is the Consort.’
Kellaras eyed her, bemused. ‘Milady, he attends Mother Dark, and makes no appearance.’
‘Still? What madness indulgence has become! Upon your return, captain, pray pound upon that door. Awaken the warrior and, if need be, physically drag him from Mother Dark’s arms! He is needed!’
