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Endest nodded. ‘True. But with armies, a higher body count, a more profoundly disturbing cost for those who fight, and for those who did not fight. We are all damaged by war. Even those who command. Those who insisted upon the necessity whilst remaining safe in their keeps and palaces. Even they pay a price, though few of that ilk have the courage to admit it.’
‘You reach for abstraction again, Silann, as is your predilection. Now is the time to be pragmatic. Even you must see that. But we are astray in this dialogue. You spoke of mysteries gleaned.’
‘Only this, then. I have my own cheats, Cedorpul. But they are without malice. Their strength, such as I understand it, lies in sustainment. Protection. Defence.’
‘Then you will attend the battle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you defend us against Hunn Raal?’
‘I believe that I can.’
‘Abyss take them, then! We shall win this war!’
‘Understand, Cedorpul, just as Hunn Raal’s sorcery can be negated, so too can yours.’
‘If so, then we’re back to swords and shields!’
Endest Silann nodded. ‘Yes. Most … inconvenient. But I see, upon both sides, no matter the outcome, a host of thankful husbands and wives, a multitude of delighted children. I see tears of joy and relief, and a welling of such love as to sear the sky above us.’
Cedorpul halted then, dropping the reins to bring his hands up to his face, and all at once he was weeping.
Endest Silann reined in his horse and clumsily dismounted. He strode up to his old friend and took him into an embrace. ‘Understand me,’ he whispered as the man in his arms sobbed, ‘I have confidence. But not certainty. I may be able to blunt him only, to save some, but not others. And so I beg you, brother, wring the malice from your power. Twist until the last venal drop falls away. Defend us. That and no more. Be the wall against the fury. Hate finds an easy path with this sorcery. We have reason to fear this new world of ours.’
Face pressed into Endest Silann’s shoulder, Cedorpul managed a nod.
They stood thus, in the dim afternoon light, while the two horses wandered down to crop the brittle grasses at the road’s edge.
* * *
Kellaras stood, girded for war. Around him the Houseblades of Lord Anomander’s company were readying their gear, the arms room crowded with silent men and women while the metal and leather murmured its wholly natural discord, blessedly senseless, yet no less ominous.
Word had come. Urusander’s Legion was but half a day away.
The Houseblades of other highborn families were arriving in Kharkanas, most of them taking up temporary residence in the city’s open squares and rounds, or in the walled compounds surrounding the many private estates.
In his youth, Kellaras had commanded his own fear, on the days leading up to a battle, and in the battle itself. Indeed, he had found a kind of joy in the simplicity of fighting, as if some arguments could only be waged when the last word was spoken, its echo long fading away, and all uncertainty could cleave to the edge of a sword. But rumours had reached them all of sorceries awaiting this clash, against which no shield or armour could defend. Surrounding him now, these Houseblades readied themselves, and their silence was thick with dread. That each of us should be now made obsolete, as useless as sticks against iron blades. Shall we line up only to be cut down from afar? Will Hunn Raal dispense with all honour, even as he calls the rally in that virtue’s name? Can one man kill us all?
A house steward entered the chamber and approached Kellaras. ‘Sir, Lord Silchas Ruin is returning to the Citadel.’
‘Alone?’
‘It seems so, sir.’
Kellaras adjusted his sword-belt, recalling the last time he met Silchas in a hallway of the Citadel while wearing his armour. The
man’s fury had been fierce. ‘Its display whispers of panic.’ This time, alas, he did not expect a reprimand. It seemed long ago, now. A thousand excuses uttered with each step they took, now lying discarded in their wake. Time, chewing up the future and spitting out the past. And each moment, trapped in its eternal and instantaneous present, stands helpless and aghast.
Silchas arrives alone. Historian, you dare not return to see all this? Then stand at a distance. We will be your players in this narrative, anonymous as pawns. Oh, do at the very least summarize us as the multitudes. Assign us our ancillary roles, and leave to us, if you will, the shadows.
Pelk, how I miss you now.
He followed the steward into the main chamber, with its vast inky Terondai on the floor and motes of dull dust drifting in the air. He could hear the outer gates being thrown open, their clank and squeal muted by the hall’s thick wooden doors. Silchas Ruin was moments from arriving. Fitted to bursting with commands, you come like a flung torch, scattering shadows everywhere with every lash of your flame.
Rise Herat, why this shying? You rode out with him, after all. Are you now too full to witness any more of this? Our leader returns alone to the Citadel, and would stand as an island in this calamitous storm. We are all on history’s churning tide, historian, and in the end – when every blazing torch has guttered out – we walk in shadow, we of the multitude, anonymous in our victimhood, and yet so very necessary.
Now do heed me, historian. Enough bodies in the flow will raise any river beyond its banks. And against this flood, none will be left standing.
