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She held out to him her blackened hand. ‘Fear not,’ she said in a broken voice. ‘It is time. I vowed to greet you on this day, Rint, and I always keep my vows.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s time to go home. Supper’s ready.’
‘Rint of the Borderswords, Tiste-child of Night, I forgive you for what you did to me.’
He found that he was crying.
Her hand hovered, beckoning. ‘It is not hard, when you understand things, this forgiveness. The word itself blesses both sides. Come to me, then.’
‘Where is Feren?’
‘Not far.’
‘Where is her daughter?’
‘Not far.’
‘I want to go to them.’
‘Rint, it’s a big tree.’
He took that hand, felt it crumble to ash in his grip, but whatever remained was strong enough to hold on to.
I won’t fall. It’s all right then.
I won’t fall ever again.
The sounds of battle diminished slightly, and there was boiling motion coming through the dust. Sandalath saw scores of white shields appear on one side, and then black shields on the other flank, all drawing closer, and moments later those shields numbered in the hundreds. ‘Oh!’ cried Sandalath. ‘Is it over?’
‘Can’t say, hostage,’ Venth admitted. ‘Seemed awfully quick.’ He wiped again at his eyes.
‘Venth, I am sorry for the horses out there, on both sides.’
‘As am I, hostage. Abyss knows, they deserve better.’
Now the flags were being changed, as the Houseblades withdrew at a slow canter. She saw some reeling in their saddles, and a few riderless horses accompanied them. The troops began re-forming, wheeling round to present an even line, while a few rode on, back towards the keep — the wounded men and women who could fight no more on this day.
The wind was lifting the dust up and past the field of battle, and she saw now the hundreds of fallen strewn all the way back to the distant stone wall. Those shapes formed humps, some seething with wounded soldiers and wounded beasts, but even between the humps no ground was clear. Sudden nausea took Sandalath and she reached out to a merlon to steady herself.
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She held out to him her blackened hand. ‘Fear not,’ she said in a broken voice. ‘It is time. I vowed to greet you on this day, Rint, and I always keep my vows.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s time to go home. Supper’s ready.’
‘Rint of the Borderswords, Tiste-child of Night, I forgive you for what you did to me.’
He found that he was crying.
Her hand hovered, beckoning. ‘It is not hard, when you understand things, this forgiveness. The word itself blesses both sides. Come to me, then.’
‘Where is Feren?’
‘Not far.’
‘Where is her daughter?’
‘Not far.’
‘I want to go to them.’
‘Rint, it’s a big tree.’
He took that hand, felt it crumble to ash in his grip, but whatever remained was strong enough to hold on to.
I won’t fall. It’s all right then.
I won’t fall ever again.
The sounds of battle diminished slightly, and there was boiling motion coming through the dust. Sandalath saw scores of white shields appear on one side, and then black shields on the other flank, all drawing closer, and moments later those shields numbered in the hundreds. ‘Oh!’ cried Sandalath. ‘Is it over?’
‘Can’t say, hostage,’ Venth admitted. ‘Seemed awfully quick.’ He wiped again at his eyes.
‘Venth, I am sorry for the horses out there, on both sides.’
‘As am I, hostage. Abyss knows, they deserve better.’
Now the flags were being changed, as the Houseblades withdrew at a slow canter. She saw some reeling in their saddles, and a few riderless horses accompanied them. The troops began re-forming, wheeling round to present an even line, while a few rode on, back towards the keep — the wounded men and women who could fight no more on this day.
The wind was lifting the dust up and past the field of battle, and she saw now the hundreds of fallen strewn all the way back to the distant stone wall. Those shapes formed humps, some seething with wounded soldiers and wounded beasts, but even between the humps no ground was clear. Sudden nausea took Sandalath and she reached out to a merlon to steady herself.
‘Abyss take us,’ Venth muttered. ‘That was brutal. See, they chased off even the skirmishers. If not for that wall, none of them would have escaped.’
Perhaps three hundred or so riders had retreated past the wall and now milled on the nearest field of stubble. Sandalath shook her head. ‘Where are the rest of them?’ she asked.
‘Dead and dying, hostage.’
‘But… almost no time has passed!’
‘Longer than you might think,’ he said. ‘But less than you’d think reasonable, I’ll admit.’
‘Is it over?’
‘I think it might be. They’ve not enough to mount a second attack. I see but a score or so fallen Houseblades on that field.’ He pointed to the new flags. ‘The captain is recalling them all, and that higher flag is announcing a yielding of the field itself, meaning both sides can head out to recover the wounded.’
‘Won’t they fight each other all over again?’
‘Hostage, everyone who leaves a battlefield enters a land of bogs, a swamp that sinks them to their knees. They’ve not the will to fight on, nor the strength neither. In exhaustion and silence, they will scour the bodies of their fallen comrades, looking for friends and kin. I will wager the captain offers his healers and cutters as soon as our own are taken care of… perhaps tomorrow.’
‘And will the Borderswords accept them?’
He shrugged. ‘I cannot say, since we know not their grievance with us.’
She studied the field, and the few figures now staggering among the dead. ‘It seems such a waste, horse master.’
‘War is a shout against futility, hostage, but its echo never lasts long.’
She considered his words, and shivered against their chilling touch.
‘There will be wounded animals,’ said Venth.
‘Of course. Let us head down then.’
The horse master led the way down the ladder. Sandalath followed. As she joined him on the landing below she drew close to the locked door. A moment later she gasped. ‘Venth!’
‘Hostage?’
‘Someone paces behind this!’
He came close. Then he shook his head. ‘I hear nothing.’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Not now. But when I first came close — I heard footsteps. Heavy, shuffling.’
Venth hesitated, and then he reached for the latch. He tried lifting it and failed. Stepping back he shrugged. ‘I am sorry, hostage. Perhaps it was your imagination. Heavy, you say? Then not the girls.’
