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Another battlefield, this one, with the scars of slaughter upon all sides.
He yearned for the return of Lord Draconus. Or even a simple word – a missive sent from the Citadel. He had fashioned a report of the battle with the Borderswords, dispatching it to Kharkanas. It had elicited no response. He had reported in detail the murders within the house. Even this was met with silence.
Milord, what would you have me do? Two daughters are left to you, their hands red. We found the charred remains of the third – Malice, we think – in an oven. Envy and Spite, milord, hide in the bones of the house. But it’s a flimsy refuge. With a word the walls can be breached. With a word, Lord Draconus, I can have the horrid creatures in chains.
But this led Ivis into a realm in which he did not belong, and responsibilities he would rather do without. Was this cowardice? Was there not the necessity of justice in the matter of slain men and women? But milord, they are your daughters. Your charge. For you to deal with, not me, not a master-at-arms, who by every law imaginable would see the two of them skinned alive.
Return to us, I beg you, and make right this crime. Their blood protects them from me. But not from you.
More to the point, milord, what if they seek to strike again? We have our hostage to think of, the sanctity of her life – Abyss take me, the sanctity of what remains of her innocence!
I will defend her, milord, even against your daughters.
He was among black spruce now, passing between boles that had bled sap now frozen into obsidian-hued beads, as if the trees were bleeding black glass. It was said that in the far north, such trees could explode in the depth of winter. When the air grew cold enough to pain the lungs with each breath drawn. It would not surprise him: this wood made for a foul fire, and its habit of growing up from sunken and rotted ground gave the trees a deathly feel.
At least they reared straight, and seemed to know a youthful span before their sudden death, when all life fled them in a seeming instant. Then, straight or not, they would become skeletal, home to spiders and not much else.
He paused at a faint smell upon the cold wind. Woodsmoke. Shallow, and shallow again. Even you, smoke, now taint my memory. It is fire’s light that is brittle, not its heat. Quench one and still flinch from the other. I’ll take the glow as a promise and leave it be. Deniers, if indeed you have returned to this forest, play out your rituals in private, and know well my aversion. The stench suffices.
He swung about, set off back to the keep. It seemed that no matter which direction he chose, it was not a day for wandering.
Winter had cooled Kurald Galain’s rage, surely. The civil war slept restless as a hungry bear in its cave, but he would with relief call it sleep nonetheless. Swords sipped the oil in their scabbards, whilst other weapons were plied, to keep banked what the season’s turn promised.
He would lead the Houseblades out then, Ivis believed. Into the new warmth and lengthening days. Even in the absence of his lord, he would fight on behalf of the Great Houses. As the beast shook itself awake, lumbering into the bright spring air, he would wield Draconus’s soldiers like a sharp talon in the First Son’s reach. We’ll take to the blood as well as any other, and make of Urusander’s Legion a field of meat. Lord Anomander, do set us where you will, but pray it is in the heart of the fight. I have deceits to answer, in the name of the Borderswords.
The stolid, grey walls of the keep stretched out before him, beyond the track’s single ditch. He carried with him that tendril of woodsmoke. No, Ivis, say it plain. Stay where you are, Draconus. Leave it to me to fold us into Anomander’s army. By this single act, your enemies are plucked. If instead you take the vanguard … ah, forgive me, I see us standing alone on that fell day. At our backs, not the host of noble allies, but bared teeth and rank indignation.
Stay, milord, and make your Houseblades a gift to the Son of Darkness. In the name of the woman you love, make us a gift.
A few paces clear of the trees, as he crossed the wagon trail, a sound behind him made him turn, to see three figures at the edge of the treeline. They wore skins, two of them wearing the ragged heads of ektral. For an instant, riding a thrill of fear, Ivis had thought them demonic – some blend of Tiste and beast – but of course, he then realized, the antlered ektral were but headdresses.
Deniers. Torturers of goddesses. The night before the summoning, you sat together, sharpening stakes at the edge of the glade. You invented a ritual, and filled it with power, and then you did something terrible.
Teeth bared, Ivis drew out his sword.
The three drew back, beneath the shadows.
Ivis saw that they were unarmed. Even so, the gloom of the forest behind them could be hiding any number of warriors. I’ll not take a step. If you would speak to me, come forward. But such boldness belonged to his mind, the words left unspoken. The truth was, fear gripped his throat. The thought of sorcery had unmanned him.
After a moment, one of the shamans stepped forward. As the figure drew closer, he saw that it was a woman, her face ritually scarred to make ragged streaks running down her cheeks. Unlike the two who wore ektral headdresses, the hood covering her head was furred, the fur black but silver-tipped. It hung down to cover her shoulders and was drawn together at the front by a single toggle. Her pale eyes were bleak as they fixed upon his face, and then the sword he held in his hand.
Ivis hesitated, and after a moment he slowly returned the weapon to its scabbard.
She drew nearer.
At last he found his voice. ‘What do you want? I saw her. The goddess in the glade. Nothing you can say will wash the blood from your hands.’
She received his harsh words without expression, and when she spoke her tone was flat. ‘We have come to tell you, Keep-Soldier, what has birthed this war.’
Ivis scowled.
‘You would not bow before Mother Dark—’
‘She never asked us to.’
‘And if she had?’
After a moment, the woman shrugged. ‘When the animals are gone. When hunting ends, and the ways of living change. When one must look to tamed animals, and the planting of crops. When all the old ways of bravery and prowess are done away with, the hunters will turn upon one another. Honour becomes a weapon, but it pursues no wild beast. Instead, it pursues your neighbour.’ She pointed to the keep behind him. ‘The birth of walls.’
