Ruin (The Faithful and the Fallen, #3)

by John Gwynne

‘You speak of things about which you have no understanding,’ Calidus snapped. ‘Kadoshim, Ben-Elim, they are just names given by those too ignorant to comprehend. Remember, history is written by the victors. It is not an unassailable truth, but a twisted, moulded thing, corrupted by the victor’s perspective. Elyon is not good; Asroth is not evil. That is a child’s view. The world is not scribed in black and white, but in shades of grey.’

He does not want to lead, and that is a good start. Only the vain and foolish crave such a responsibility.

War eternal between the Faithful and the Fallen, infinite wrath come to the world of men. Lightbearer seeking flesh from the cauldron, to break his chains and wage the war again. Two born of blood, dust and ashes shall champion the Choices the Darkness and Light. Black Sun will drown the earth in bloodshed, Bright Star with the Treasures must unite. By their names you shall know them – Kin-Slayer, Kin-Avenger, Giant-Friend, Draig-Rider, Dark Power ’gainst Lightbringer. One shall be the Tide, one the Rock in the swirling sea. Before one, storm and shield shall stand, before the other, True-Heart and Black-Heart. Beside one rides the Beloved, beside the other, the Avenging Hand. Behind one, the Sons of the Mighty, the fair Ben-Elim, gathered ’neath the Great Tree. Behind the other, the Unholy, dread Kadoshim, who seek to cross the bridge, force the world to bended knee.

Look for them when the high king calls, when the shadow warriors ride forth, when white-walled Telassar is emptied, when the book is found in the north. When the white wyrms spread from their nest, when the Firstborn take back what was lost, and the Treasures stir from their rest. Both earth and sky shall cry warning, shall herald this War of Sorrows. Tears of blood spilt from the earth’s bones, and at Midwinter’s height, bright day shall become full night.

I am both warrior and healer; I exist in a place where life and death cohabit; where they are bedfellows, only a breath apart. Life should be lived, and what is life without heart and passion?’

‘Keep a close watch on the path you follow, my friend, else one day you will look about you and not know where you are,’

We all choose the life we lead. We all know it’ll likely end in blood. Don’t see so many grey-haired warriors as you do smiths or tanners or fishermen.

Even the most skilled can be defeated by a well-timed ruse.

‘For a coward he can be ridiculously brave,’ Cywen observed. ‘Dath’s no coward,’ Corban said. ‘He just screams louder than the rest of us, that’s all.’

‘Fools worry, the wise do, as your old mam used to say.’

Nathair sucked in a deep breath. ‘History is a peculiar thing, is it not? Take the giants, for example. Our histories tell us that they are the enemy. That they were wicked–evil, even–and that our ancestors’ war against them was righteous. That right was on our side. Is that not what our histories say?’ ‘Aye,’ Veradis said, wondering where this was leading, ‘that is what our histories tell us.’ ‘What if it was a lie?’ ‘It isn’t,’ Veradis said without thinking. ‘How do you know that?’ Nathair asked him. ‘We were not there. No one whose word we value was there. We only have the ancient record, and that was written by our ancestors, the victors. The people that fought the giant clans and took their land.’ ‘What of it?’ Veradis asked. He had an unpleasant feeling in his gut, part sickness, part fear. ‘I do not think that all giants are evil. Alcyon, for example. You would consider him a friend, even.’ ‘I do,’ Veradis said. ‘So, perhaps those that wrote our histories were biased. Twisted the truth to suit their perspective, even.’

‘Then all that we have done, believed, fought for…’ He looked into Nathair’s eyes. ‘A lie?’ He felt dizzy suddenly, his legs weak. ‘No,’ Nathair hissed. ‘Think, man. Nothing has changed. Right and wrong, they are just ideas in our heads, meaning that we give to our actions. Our friendship is still the same, our oaths to one another still stand. That is what we must cling to. Our goals and our vision are still the same. Nothing of import has changed.’ ‘Nothing has changed,’ Veradis echoed. ‘Apart from the names,’ Nathair shrugged.

‘It is the truth.’ ‘Like as not, you are right. I have suspected the same. But to stand and point a finger when you are surrounded by what, six, eight thousand men sworn to him and Nathair?’ ‘Aye,’ Fidele muttered, ‘the timing could have been better, I’ll give you that.’

Cywen sat and watched it all go by, just enjoying being still and watching, when mostly life felt like one long rush of doing.

‘It is a serious thing,’ Laith said, ‘taking a life. A sad thing, I think, though better to take another’s than to lose your own. Many of my kin consider the thorns a badge of honour. I suppose it is that as well.’ ‘It is,’ Cywen said. ‘But something can be many things, or can mean many things, not just be confined to the one. Like us.’

Balur said to me that sometimes people can’t see things as plain as the end of their nose, but once it’s been pointed out to them they don’t know why they went so long without seeing a thing.’

‘What I do know is that I wrote it with my own hand. But not all of it. The core of it came from me, whispered to Halvor, the giant, voice of Skald, as he dream-walked the Otherworld. But it has grown, become many times what I planted in his mind. But that is common, is it not? A tale is told, it will travel a hundred holds and villages, and when you hear it next the hero who slew the giant has now slain a giant clan, and draigs as well.’ He shrugged. ‘It did not matter, as long as the core remained the same.’

‘I am not the Bright Star?’ ‘There is no Bright Star. No Black Sun,’ Meical whispered. ‘Apart from the ones of our own making.’

But in a way you are the Bright Star, as much as any man is anything. As real as any king. Because people have chosen to believe it.’ ‘That does not make it so,’ Corban snarled. You think not?’ Meical asked pleadingly. ‘We are what we choose to be. What makes a king a king? Is there something different about him? Does special, sacred blood run in his veins? No. He is chosen; he believes it, and the people believe. He rises to the task, or he fails it.’