PART I
Even the greatest lie Can be undone By the sharpest blade.
—SEORDAH POEM, AUTHOR UNKNOWN
OBVAR’S ACCOUNT
Luralyn once asked me, “What does it feel like to die?”
Sensing the desire for comfort that lay behind this question, I said, “Like falling. It’s as if the world shrinks to a single point of light far above whilst you descend into an eternal abyss. Then . . . it’s gone and there is nothing.”
But this somewhat poetic response was, I must confess, a lie. I can, of course, speak only for myself, and others may have enjoyed a death little more troubling than a gentle drift into endless slumber. But my death held no such comforts.
I knew the wound was mortal the instant I felt Al Sorna’s blade scrape across my spine to erupt from my back. The pain was everything you might imagine it to be. But I knew pain. For I was Obvar Nagerik, anointed champion to the Darkblade himself and second only to him in renown amongst the Stahlhast. Many were my battles, and it is no boast to say I could not and in truth still cannot recount the exact number of lives I had taken. Such a life breeds wounds, also too many to count, although some live larger in the memory than others. The arrow at the Battle of the Three Rivers that pierced my arm all the way to the bone. The slashing sword that laid my collarbone bare the day we slaughtered the first great host the Merchant King sent against us. But none hurt so much as this, nor dealt such a grievous blow to my pride. All these years later I remain uncertain as to which hurt more, the pain of being skewered from chest to back, or the certain knowledge that I was about to die at the hands of this condemned interloper, this Thief of Names. For his words had angered me, and in those days few who stirred my anger survived my response.
He is not a god. You are not part of a divine mission. All the slaughter you have done is worthless. You are a killer in service to a liar . . . His words. Infuriating, hateful words. Made worse by the truth they held, the truth revealed by the song of the Jade Princess, although I had known it in my heart for far longer.
I believe it was anger that kept me clinging to life then, even as the blood bubbled up into my throat, starving my lungs of air. Even as the pain wracked me from head to toe and my bowels began to loosen, leaving me no illusions that once-mighty Obvar would soon be rendered just another shit-stained corpse littering the indifferent face of the Iron Steppe. Even then my grip on the sabre never faltered and my arms retained enough strength to drag the blade clear of Al Sorna’s flesh. He remained upright as I took a wavering step back, gabbling something at him. The mingled rage and pain ensured that whatever I said in that moment made no purchase on my memory, but I prefer to think it was something suitably defiant, perhaps even noble. I could tell he was dying from the whitening pallor of his skin as he stared at me, face set in rigid, unflinching expectation. No fear, I recall thinking as I raised the sabre to finish him. There was some satisfaction in that, at least. Despite a well-won reputation for cruelty, I had in fact never enjoyed killing men who begged.
The stallion’s ironshod hoof slammed into my thigh first, snapping the bone as easily as dry kindling, sending me sprawling. There was no time to roll clear, had I possessed the strength to do so, for the beast’s blows fell like an iron rain, crushing bone and sundering flesh. I had imagined the pain of Al Sorna’s killing thrust would be the worst I might endure. I was wrong. There was no sensation of falling, no shrinking point of light to send me off to blessed oblivion, just the terror and agony of a man pounded to death by an enraged horse until, finally, there was an overwhelming sensation of being wrenched. It brought a new form of pain, deeper, more fundamental, a pain that seared its way into my very being rather than merely my body. Somehow I understood that the very essence of my soul was being stretched and torn like meat scraped from a carcass.
Soon the sensation gave way to a sickening, lacerating disorientation. Contrary to the lie I would tell Luralyn, I did not fall when I died, I tumbled. Images and emotions assailed me in a swarm that allowed no room for coherent thought. Although the agonies of my physical self had vanished, in many ways this was worse, for it brought the deepest of fears, a panicked, desperate realisation that what lay beyond life was naught but eternal confusion. However, the panic abated as the flurry of images gradually coalesced into discernable memory. Here was I staring up through a child’s eyes into my mother’s cold, angry glare. You eat more than the fucking horses, she muttered, shoving me away as I reached for the oatcakes she had baked. Other wombs are blessed by the Divine Blood, but I get a walking stomach. She threw a skillet at me, hounding me from the tent. Go take food from the other brats if you’re so hungry! Don’t come back until nightfall.
The memory fragmented, shifting into confusion before once again settling into something familiar. Luralyn’s face the day I fought Kehlbrand. I knew this one well, having revisited it so often, or at least I thought I knew it. In my conscious remembrance it was always the fight that dominated, the feel of fist on flesh, the iron taste of my own blood as Kehlbrand delivered the most complete beating I ever took. But this time it was different, for Luralyn’s face, bunched in impotent fury, tears streaming from her eyes, was all I saw and Kehlbrand’s blows merely a distraction. Her face changed then, taking on the fullness of womanhood and stirring a much-resented but persistent mingling of lust and longing.
What a disgusting animal you are, Obvar.
Her expression was scornful now, half-lit by the fading sun and the dim glow of the myriad fires from the camp that surrounded the Great Tor. I recall thinking how pleasing the shifting colours were on the smooth curves of her face. There was wine on my tongue, Cumbraelin wine, although in those days I had no notion of its origin nor did I care. Beyond her I could see the tall figure of her brother standing over the corpse on the altar. Tehlvar was denuded in death, as is typical, his long, muscular form a pale, limp thing stained by the drying blood that had gushed from the knife wound in his chest. The day the Great Priest asked Tehlvar the second question, I realised, watching Luralyn take a grudging sip from the wineskin my younger self handed to her. When it all began.
I felt it all again as the memory unfolded. Another lurch of anger and lust at Luralyn’s now-customary rejection, honed to a greater pitch when Kehlbrand summoned her to his side and dismissed me. Whatever would be said here was not for my ears. Why would it be? What sage counsel could I offer? I was to become the Darkblade’s champion, but never his advisor. The passage of years has allowed a keener appreciation for the true course leading to a point in history where the name Kehlbrand Reyerik is fast slipping into the realm of dark legend. I had imagined it to commence with the moment of my death, but I know now it had begun here as a hulking brute stomped away into the darkening camp intent on venting his frustrations through all manner of foul deeds. In his heart the brute knew himself to be no more than a valued dog, mighty and vicious to be sure, but still, just a dog.
Is this what death is? I wondered as the memory shifted again, the Great Tor and the camp whipped into swirling mist. Endlessly reliving the hurts suffered in life. If so, could I truly claim not to have deserved it?
When the vision coalesced again it seemed to confirm my suspicions, for this was another moment I would have preferred to forget. I stood alongside Kehlbrand in the chamber beneath the Sepulchre of the Unseen. The bodies of the priests we had slaughtered here were well rotted now, desiccated flesh crumbling away from dry bone in this arid and ancient cavern. The taint of death, however, still lingered in the air.