Dust of Dreams (134 page)

‘And so,’ retorted Abrastal, ‘in serving only yourselves, you are prepared to deliver misery and suffering upon a broken people?’

‘While this is not our desire, Highness, it may well come to that.’

In the shocked silence that followed, Tanakalian saw the Queen’s eyes flatten, and then a frown slowly knot her brow. The skittering clouds of uncertainty edged into her expression. When she spoke it was a whisper. ‘You will not explain yourself to me, will you, Mortal Sword?’

‘You have the truth of that, Highness.’

‘You say you serve none but yourselves. The assertion rings false.’

‘I am sorry you think so,’ Krughava replied.

‘In fact,’ Abrastal went on, ‘I now begin to suspect the very opposite.’

The Mortal Sword said nothing.

You have the truth of it,
Tanakalian silently answered, mocking Krughava’s own words.
What we do is not in service to ourselves, but to all of you.

Can anything be more glorious? And if we must fall, if we must fail, as I believe we will, is no end sweeter than that? The grandest failure this world has ever seen.

Yes, we all know the tale of Coltaine’s Fall outside Aren. But what we shall find at the end of our days will beggar that tale. We seek to save the world, and the world will do all it can to stop us. Watch us lose. Watch us squeeze the blood from your stony heart!

But no. There shall be none to witness. If existence itself can be said to be poetic, we stand in that silence, unyielding servants to anonymity. None to see, none to even know. Not a single grave, nor stone lifted to cast shade upon our scattered bones. Neither hill nor tomb. We shall rest in emptiness, not forgotten—for forgetting follows remembrance, and there shall be no remembrance.

His heart thundered with the delicious beauty of it—all of it.
The perfect hero is one whose heroism none sees. The most precious glory is the glory lost on senseless winds. The highest virtue is the one that remains for ever hidden within oneself. Do you understand that, Mortal Sword? No, you do not.

He watched, flushed with satisfaction, as Queen Abrastal gathered her reins and pitched her horse about with a vicious twist. The entire entourage hastened
to follow. The gentle canter was gone, awkward jostling knotting the troop like a hand twisting cloth, stretching out confused behind their departing Queen.

‘Gift me with your wisdom, Shield Anvil.’

Her dry request made him start. The flush of heat in his face suddenly fed darker feelings. ‘They will leave us, Mortal Sword. The Bolkando are done with us.’

She snorted. ‘How long must I wait?’

‘For what, Mortal Sword?’

‘For wisdom in my Shield Anvil.’

They were as good as alone, the Perish camp settled behind them. ‘It seems I can say nothing that pleases you, Mortal Sword.’

‘Queen Abrastal needs to understand what we intend. She cannot let it go. Now, she will maintain her resolve, in the hope that the Adjunct Tavore will provide her with satisfaction.’

‘And will she?’

‘What do you think, Shield Anvil?’

‘I think Queen Abrastal will be a very frustrated woman.’

‘Finally. Yes.’

‘The Adjunct is selfish,’ said Tanakalian.

Krughava’s head snapped round. ‘Excuse me?’

‘She could invite others to share in this glory—this Evertine Legion of the Queen’s, it looks to be a formidable army. Well-trained, capable of marching in step with us—unlike the Conquestor Avalt’s soldiers. Were they to stand at our side in Kolanse—’

‘Sir,’ cut in the Mortal Sword, ‘if the Adjunct is selfish—for what you clearly imagine to be a glorious achievement—then it may serve you better to consider that selfishness as one of unprecedented mercy.’

‘I am aware of the likely outcome of this venture, Mortal Sword. Perhaps more than even you. I know the souls awaiting me—I see their mortal faces every day. I see the hope they settle upon me. Nor am I regretful that what we seek shall be unwitnessed, for with our brothers and sisters,
I
am their witness. When I spoke of the Adjunct’s selfishness, I did not mean it as a criticism; rather, I was indicating the privilege I feel in her permitting the Grey Helms to share her fate.’

Krughava’s bright blue eyes were fixed on him, calculating, thoughtful. ‘I understand, sir. You await the death of the Grey Helms. While you look upon them and see naught but their souls soon to be gifted to you, what do they see in the eyes of their Shield Anvil?’

‘I shall honour them all,’ Tanakalian replied.

‘Will you?’

‘Of course. I am Shield Anvil—’

‘Will you embrace the soul of every brother and sister? Free of judgement? Unsullied in your love for each and every one of them? And what of our enemies, sir? Will you take them into your arms as well? Will you accept that suffering defies boundaries and that pain carves no line in the sand?’

He was silent. How could he answer her? She would see the lie. Tanakalian looked away. ‘I am Shield Anvil to the Perish Grey Helms. I serve the Wolves of Winter. I am the mortal flesh of war, not the sword in its hand.’ He glanced back at her. ‘Do I crowd your throne, Mortal Sword? Is that what all this is about?’

Her eyes widened. ‘You have given me much to consider, Shield Anvil. Leave me now.’

As he walked back into the camp, he drew a deep breath and shakily let it out. She was dangerous, but then he’d always known that.
She actually thinks we can win. Well, I suppose that is the role of the Mortal Sword. She is welcome to the delusion—no doubt it will serve well our brothers and sisters when the Wolves howl. As for me, I cannot be so blind, so wilfully defiant of the truth.

We can manage this between us, Mortal Sword. I will follow your will in not choosing a Destriant. Why share the glory? Why muddle things at all?

A difficult, searing conversation, but he’d survived it yet.
Yes, now we understand each other.

It is well.

After the Shield Anvil was gone, the Mortal Sword stood for a time, eyes on the gloom rising skyward in the east. Then she turned and gestured with one gauntleted hand. A runner quickly joined her.

‘Send word to Warleader Gall, I will visit him this evening, one bell after supper.’

The soldier bowed and departed.

She studied the eastern horizon once more. The mountains surrounding the kingdom of Saphinand formed a jagged wall to the north, but there in the place of dark’s birth, there was no hint of anything but level plain. The Wastelands.

She would suggest to Gall that they march hard now, taking up stores from the Saphii traders as they went. It was imperative that they link up with the Adjunct as soon as possible. This was one of the matters she wished to discuss with Gall. There were others.

A long, sleepless night awaited her.

The Gilk Warchief grinned as he watched Queen Abrastal ride back into the camp. Firehair indeed. Flames were ready to spit out from her, from every place an imaginative man might imagine, and of course he was a most imaginative man. But a woman like that, well, far beyond his reach and more’s the pity as far as he was concerned.

Spultatha had emerged from his tent behind him and now edged up on his right. Her eyes, so like her mother’s, narrowed as they tracked the woman’s approach. ‘Trouble,’ she said. ‘Stay away from her, Spax, for this night at least.’

His grin broadened. ‘Afraid I can’t do that, wildcat.’

‘Then you’re a fool.’

‘Keep the furs warm,’ he said, setting out for the Queen’s pavilion. Soldiers of
the Evertine Legion watched him stride past their posts, and he was reminded of a pet lion he’d once seen in the camp of another clan. It had had the freedom of the camp and was in the habit of sauntering back and forth in front of the cages crowded with hunting dogs. Those beasts were driven into a frenzy, flinging themselves bloody and stupid against the iron bars. He’d always admired that lion, its perfect insouciant strut, its lolling tongue and the itch that always made it pause directly opposite the cages, for a leisurely scratch and then a broad yawn.

Let the eyes track him, let them glitter beneath the rims of their helms. He knew these soldiers so wanted to test themselves against the White Face Barghast. Against the Gilk, who were the match of any civilized heavy infantry unit anywhere in the world. But they had little chance of ever doing so. The next best thing was to stand beside them, and that was a competition the Gilk well understood.

Now we shall see what will come to pass. Do we all march to a place of battle against an enemy? Who will stand fastest? Evertine, Grey Helms, Khundryl, or the Gilk? Hah.
Spax reached the inner cordon and grunted a nod when the last bodyguard outside the pavilion stepped to one side. He strode into the silk-walled corridor with all its pale tones backlit by lanterns, and as always felt he was walking through colour itself, soft and dry and strangely cool, one flavour after another.

One of her trusted lieutenants stood at the last portal. As Spax approached, the lieutenant shook his head. ‘Can it not wait, Warchief?’

‘No, Gaedis. Why, is she bathing?’

‘If she is, the water’s long since boiled away.’

What did that iron woman say to Abrastal?
‘Brave enough to announce me, Gaedis?’

‘It’s not bravery that makes me say yes, Warchief, but then stupidity’s gotten me this far and I’m a conservative man.’

‘The offer still stands,’ Spax said.

‘I doubt my Queen would take kindly to one of her court lieutenants shucking all this to wear turtle shells and dance naked under the moon.’

Spax smiled. ‘Saw that, did you?’

Gaedis nodded.

‘It was a show, you understand. Don’t you?’

‘Warchief?’

‘The Queen’s clutch of scholars—we made something up to give them something to write about and then ponder its meaning for the rest of their dull, useless lives. Spirits below, a man’s grapes get tiny in the cold night—why’d you think we kept jumping over the fire?’

After a moment’s gimlet regard, Gaedis turned and slipped through the drapery.

Spax hummed softly to himself.

Gaedis’s muffled voice invited him to enter the Royal Presence.
Naked in the bowl?
wondered Spax.
Bah, the gods are never so kind.

She stood in her underquilting, armour discarded, her long hair still tousled
from the ride. The quilting was tight against her curves. ‘If eyes were paint,’ Abrastal said, ‘I’d be dripping right now. Barbaric bastard. What’s so important you’d dare my ill humour?’

‘Just this, Highness,’ Spax replied. ‘She struck sparks from you and I want to know how, and why.’

‘Ah, you’re curious, then.’

‘That’s it, Firehair.’

‘If it wasn’t that your rabid warriors might complain, I’d see you strangled with your own entrails and perhaps—just perhaps—that would satisfy my desire in this moment. Arrogance is a strange thing, Spax. It amuses when it cannot reach, then stings to rage when it can. What in the Errant’s empty skull convinced you that I’d yield to your shit-fouled curiosity?’

Spax glanced across at Gaedis, saw the man’s face and the expression that seemed carved from stone.
Coward.
‘Highness, I am Warchief of the Gilk. Each day I am under siege from the clan leaders, not to mention the bolder of the young warriors—who’d wage war on the wind if they had any chance of winning. They don’t complain of the coin, Highness. But they want a fight.’

‘Bolkando is at peace,’ Abrastal replied. ‘At least, it was when you were first hired, and now it is so again. If it was war you wanted, Spax, you should have stayed with the other White Faces, since they went and jumped with both feet on to a hornet’s nest.’ She faced him and he saw all the places he could put his hands, given the chance. Her expression darkened. ‘You are Warchief, as you say. A proud title, one with responsibility, one assumes. You are under siege, Spax? Deal with it.’

‘Not many arrows left in my quiver, Highness.’

‘Do I look like a fletcher?’

‘You look like someone with something on her mind.’ Spax spread his broad, scarred hands. ‘I don’t know these Perish Grey Helms, but I know of the order, Highness—’

‘What order?’

‘The warrior cult of the Wolves. A chapter of that cult defended at the siege of Capustan. The Grey Swords, they were called.’

Abrastal studied him for a time, and then she sighed. ‘Gaedis, open us a jug of wine—but don’t even think of pouring yourself one. I’m still annoyed with you for letting this cattle-dog whine his way into my presence.’

The lieutenant saluted and walked to the ornate wooden frame bearing a dozen or so amphorae, drawing a small knife as he scanned the stamps on the dusty necks.

‘Cults, Mortal Swords, Shield Anvils and wolf gods,’ Abrastal said in a mutter, shaking her head. ‘This has the stink of fanaticism—and that well matches my assessment after this evening’s parley. Is it simply war they seek, Spax? One where any face will do?’

The Warchief watched as Gaedis selected a jug and then, with an expert hook and twist of his knife, deftly removed the cork. ‘Impressive, Lieutenant—you learn that between off-handed swordsmanship and riding backwards?’