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‘Who attacked us, Traj? The Legion?’
‘She saw standards, Ville! House Dracons! We ride to it now. We ride to war!’
Blackened, scorched and in ruins, the village surrounding Riven Hill was beneath a shroud of smoke. He looked for his house, but the scene was jarring up and down, wheeling as vertigo took hold of him. He pitched to one side but was quickly brought up by a firm hand. Wild-eyed he looked across to see his sister — her face was wet with tears and the tears were black with dirt.
She’s had her fill of those. But it’s over now. At least she saw her baby, and held it in her arms. A living thing, nestled in her arms. That’s why I led her away — no, the wrong face, the wrong woman. Where is my wife? Why can’t I remember her face?
Then they were riding through the remains of the village, riding past bloated bodies. Feren’s fist, still holding him upright in the saddle — her knee stabbing into his thigh as she forced her horse to remain close — now tightened around a handful of cloak. If not for that grip, he would have fallen. He would have plunged down into the ashes, down among the dead.
Where she waits for me. And the child. And my child. My family, of which I will never again speak.
We ride to war -
EIGHTEEN
Calat Hustain paced through the bars of light that shot through the slats of the window’s shutters, and such was the frown on his angular features that Finarra Stone remained silent, reluctant to speak. From the main hall outside the room and from the compound through the window behind the commander, there was a seemingly endless clamour of shouting and the thump of footsteps, as if chaos had arrived like a fever among the Wardens.
‘You will not be accompanying us,’ Calat said suddenly.
‘Sir?’
‘I will take Spinnock with me, but I want you and Faror Hend to ride to Yannis Monastery.’
Finarra said nothing.
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‘Who attacked us, Traj? The Legion?’
‘She saw standards, Ville! House Dracons! We ride to it now. We ride to war!’
Blackened, scorched and in ruins, the village surrounding Riven Hill was beneath a shroud of smoke. He looked for his house, but the scene was jarring up and down, wheeling as vertigo took hold of him. He pitched to one side but was quickly brought up by a firm hand. Wild-eyed he looked across to see his sister — her face was wet with tears and the tears were black with dirt.
She’s had her fill of those. But it’s over now. At least she saw her baby, and held it in her arms. A living thing, nestled in her arms. That’s why I led her away — no, the wrong face, the wrong woman. Where is my wife? Why can’t I remember her face?
Then they were riding through the remains of the village, riding past bloated bodies. Feren’s fist, still holding him upright in the saddle — her knee stabbing into his thigh as she forced her horse to remain close — now tightened around a handful of cloak. If not for that grip, he would have fallen. He would have plunged down into the ashes, down among the dead.
Where she waits for me. And the child. And my child. My family, of which I will never again speak.
We ride to war -
EIGHTEEN
Calat Hustain paced through the bars of light that shot through the slats of the window’s shutters, and such was the frown on his angular features that Finarra Stone remained silent, reluctant to speak. From the main hall outside the room and from the compound through the window behind the commander, there was a seemingly endless clamour of shouting and the thump of footsteps, as if chaos had arrived like a fever among the Wardens.
‘You will not be accompanying us,’ Calat said suddenly.
‘Sir?’
‘I will take Spinnock with me, but I want you and Faror Hend to ride to Yannis Monastery.’
Finarra said nothing.
Her commander continued pacing for a few moments longer, and then he halted and turned to face her. ‘Captain, if I were a man who was plagued by night terrors, the worst nightmare I could imagine befalling the Tiste is a descent into a war of clashing religions. Faith is a personal accord between a lone soul and that in which it chooses to believe. In any other guise it is nothing more than a thin coat of sacred paint slapped over politics and the secular lust for power. We each choose with whom to have our dialogue. Who dares frame it in fear, or shackle it in invented proscriptions? Is a faith to be so weak that its only definition of strength lies in raw numbers and avowals of fidelity; in words made into laws and pronouncements, all of which need to be backed by an executioner’s sword?’
He shook his head. ‘Such a faith reveals in its violence of flesh and spirit a fundamental weakness at its core. If strength must show itself in a closed fist then it is no strength at all.’ He lifted a hand, made as if to punch the shutters of the window behind him, and then lowered it again. ‘You will deliver from me a message to Sheccanto. The Wardens defy the call to pogrom. Furthermore, if the brothers and sisters of the old orders should find need for assistance, they need only request it and we shall answer.’
Finarra blinked. ‘Sir, does that include military assistance?’
‘It does.’
‘Commander, we hear word now that the Legion has assembled against the Deniers and their ilk. Indeed, that Urusander himself has taken to the field.’
Calat Hustain resumed pacing. ‘Once you have delivered my message, captain, you are to send Faror Hend south. She is to ride to the Hust Legion, but avoid Kharkanas.’
‘And her message to Toras Redone, sir?’
‘I will give that to her myself, captain. I cannot risk you knowing the details, since once you have completed your mission at the monastery, you will ride north to intercept Lord Urusander. You will demand an audience with him.’
‘Sir, if they deem us their enemy then I may well be arrested.’
‘This is possible, captain, if all military propriety is dispensed with, and I admit I am no longer as confident in the upholding of such rules as I once was.’ He eyed her. ‘I understand the risk to you, captain.’
‘What do you wish me to ask Lord Urusander?’
His mouth twisted slightly at the honorific. ‘Ask him: what in the name of the Abyss does he want?’
‘Sir?’
‘For all his flaws,’ Calat said, ‘Urusander is not a religious man. His obsessions are secular. Has he lost control of his Legion? I begin to wonder. Thus. I will know from him his intentions.’
‘When do you wish us to leave, sir?’
