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The low outer wall of Kharkanas had been raised long ago to defend against spears and the belligerent press of savages. It was born in a time when warfare was simpler, a clash of mere flesh and peacock displays, where warriors stood as heroes who knew their legends were coming. Originally, Ivis saw as he rode at the head of the column, alongside Lord Anomander, Gripp Galas and Pelk, the wall had been little more than a berm, a mounded, sloped embankment of soil and rocks. The trench of its excavation had made the moat surrounding it, but the steep sides were long gone, and the dressed stone now surmounting the bank had the appearance of a row of discoloured, uneven teeth.
The city might as well be an upturned skull, the bowl soon to take our clattering selves, like so many errant thoughts. ‘Milord,’ he said to Anomander, ‘it is my thought to halt the Houseblades here, to encamp beyond the city’s walls. I would think the streets crowded enough.’
The First Son of Darkness seemed to consider the suggestion for a moment, and then he nodded. ‘Settle the household staff as well, then, until such time as I can make arrangements.’
‘Or Lord Draconus makes a reappearance,’ Ivis said.
‘That would be ideal,’ Anomander replied. ‘I see many standards upon the walls. It is clear that the highborn have gathered their forces.’
Gripp Galas cleared his throat and said, ‘Lady Hish Tulla can be persuasive.’
When Anomander reined in, the others followed suit, and the column halted on the road. The First Son of Darkness said, ‘Captain, should the opportunity arise, I will speak to Draconus. I am to blame for the loss of his keep.’ He hesitated a moment, and then added, ‘The daughters are not dead. So I am informed.’ He glanced at Caladan Brood – whose attention seemed fixed upon the city ahead – and continued, ‘Resolutions prove bloody, even unto the breaking of stone. What will others make of the rubble left in our wake? I fear a toppling of these flimsy walls. I fear fire and smoke dressing the buildings within. I fear for the lives of the Tiste.’
‘Milord,’ interjected Gripp Galas, ‘you would drag to your feet a host of ills, few of which belong there.’
‘The First Son of Darkness,’ said Anomander. ‘Is this title an empty one? Is the honour a conceit of the one who bears it? What of responsibilities, old friend? Too easily does title invite indolence, or worse, the cynicism that comes from moral compromise. Advisers will urge necessity, expedience, the pragmatic surrender that settles like a callus upon the soul.’ He looked to Gripp Galas, and Ivis could see the indecision in the Son of Darkness. ‘Is my hide so hardened now? I see the future newly fated, a momentum fierce as a spring flood.’
Gripp Galas’s expression flattened. ‘Milord, she refused you any choice. She still does. Even as Urusander’s Legion descends upon us. What would we have you do?’
‘Now that is the question,’ Anomander replied with a nod. ‘And yet, consider this. I am denied drawing my weapon, but what has this prohibition yielded? Does Urusander honour my constraint? Does Hunn Raal yield to Mother Dark’s plea for peace? Does the Liosan High Priestess counsel a gesture in kind? And what of the Deniers, victims honed into slayers, enemy now to all who would dare their forest home? No, Gripp, denied one choice, there remained many others, a hundred paths to reconciliation, and none taken.’
Ivis spoke, finding his own voice harsh and jarring, ‘Then meet Lord Urusander on the field, milord. Keep your sword sheathed and ask the same of him.’
‘Hunn Raal will defy you both,’ Gripp Galas said in a harsh tone. ‘He wants this. I suspect the High Priestess does as well. They will see the black waters of Dorssan Ryl turn red, to announce their ascension.’
‘But downstream of the city, surely,’ Anomander said in a mutter, once more facing Kharkanas. Crowds were assembling, lining the sides of the Forest Track Road where it plunged like an arrow to the city’s heart. Faces were fixed upon the Son of Darkness and his ambiguous retinue. Others among the citizenry had climbed the bank to appear on the wall.
Ivis turned about and nodded Gate Sergeant Yalad forward. ‘Prepare a camp, among the trees. See to the needs of our hostage and the household staff – it may be we have one last night to spend under the cold stars.’
‘Yes, sir. Captain?’
‘What?’
‘The Houseblades, sir. They’re ready for this fight.’
Abyss knows, so am I. ‘Temper their zeal, Yalad. We serve the wishes of Lord Draconus.’
‘Yes sir. But … should he remain absent …’
‘We will deal with that when the time comes. Go on now, gate sergeant.’
When Ivis returned his attention to Anomander, Caladan Brood was speaking.
‘… on the day I am needed, Anomander Rake.’
‘And until then?’
Brood gestured to the forest. ‘This close to the city … there are many wounds in the earth. I will heal what I can.’
‘Why?’
The question seemed to surprise the Azathanai, and then he shrugged and said, ‘Anomander, ours remains a strained friendship. For all that we have travelled together, we know little of each other. Our minds, the paths our thoughts take. Yet you continue to intrigue me. I know your question was not meant to convey your indifference to such wounding. Rather, you but reveal a hint of your growing despair.’
‘You offered me peace.’
‘Peace, yes, but no peaceful path was promised.’
