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‘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—
And Draconus? Nowhere to be seen. His body will never be found.
It is no easy thing to kill an Azathanai.
Herat brought his hands to his eyes, plunging the terrible scene into blessed darkness. And we have done this. Emral and I … Abyss take us.
The standard tilted, and then swept down.
Done. All done.
With a cry, he staggered through the chamber, colliding with statuary, his eyes still covered by his damning hands. He fell more than once, scrambling frantically back to his feet. Disoriented, bruised and bleeding, he set off again, only to find himself lost among the towering figures.
They crowded him. With hands smeared in his own blood, they reached for him. Shrieking, he lunged and staggered about.
The chamber echoed his cries, until a thousand voices wailed in pain and grief.
All in the name of one man.
* * *
‘She will see you now.’
High Priestess Emral Lanear flicked her gaze upward to see the Azathanai, Grizzin Farl, standing in the doorway. She lifted the mouthpiece to her lips and drew in another mouthful of smoke. She filled her lungs, feeling the familiar bite, the shock dulled to faint pleasure. Frowning at the huge, bearded man, she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Who will see me now?’
Almost shyly, Grizzin Farl edged into the room. ‘Mother Dark. Your goddess.’ After a moment, he shrugged and said, ‘The wounded heart contracts, like the closing of a fist. She will see you now, and you in turn will see her. Out from the darkness, a manifestation of flesh, blood and, perhaps, tears.’
Lanear sent out a stream of smoke, and then snorted. ‘A little late for that.’
‘Such things do not pass swiftly, High Priestess, even for a goddess.’
After a moment, Lanear set the mouthpiece down and then rose from her chair. ‘Has word come from Tarns?’
‘Not yet.’
