Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) Page 31

  ‘Shit!’ he bellowed. ‘Move away, woman – quickly!’

  From the corpse’s mouth came a moaning sound.

  Terrified, the waves of pain from her belly fast fading, Feren pushed away from the body.

  Draconus bent down and levered the huge corpse back into the sarcophagus. It thumped in a cloud of dust and cracking bones.

  ‘That will have to do,’ he muttered. ‘Blessings on you, and begging forgiveness, O Queen. Crawl out now, Feren, and be quick about it.’

  She did as he commanded, and moments later clambered out through the chute and saw above her the swirl of stars, bright as a gift. Stumbling clear of the ramp, she fell to her knees, gasping, spitting out rank dust.

  Draconus joined her, brushing down his leggings. He drew off his gloves and tossed them to one side. ‘Collect your weapons, Bordersword.’

  ‘Lord—’

  ‘I saw you flinch. I felt you flinch.’

  Wondering, she nodded.

  ‘Death and life, in there, do not welcome each other’s touch. You are with child, Feren. The seed grows within you. Now, leave my son alone.’

  Fumbling to retrieve her gear, fighting a return of the unnatural lassitude, she looked up at Draconus. She felt sullied; he might as well have raped her. She could still feel the imprint of that dead hand upon her belly. Feren bared her teeth. ‘Take him then.’

  * * *

  Rint sat alone at the fire. The supper had burned. Not enough water in the stew, not enough attention from the man tending to it. He had no doubts as to what was happening out there in the darkness, and he prayed that words would be enough – but his sister was a hard woman, not easily bullied. Lord or no, Draconus might find himself facing a viper. With that thought came to him bone-deep fear.

  Should you hurt her, you will have war. With the Borderswords. With me. I will take you down, Consort, and to the Abyss with the consequences.

  He heard a shout from Arathan, but not well enough to make out the words. Easy to guess, however. The Lord’s son was far gone, pulled back from manhood into being a child once more. The way she wanted it. But it would not do. Draconus had not been blind to the twisting of his desires. While from beyond the ruins there was no sound at all.

  A few moments later Arathan emerged from the darkness, into the fire’s light. Seeing Rint he halted. Anger and shame seemed to roll from him in waves and he was shivering. For the briefest of instants their gazes locked, and then the son of Draconus looked away.

  Raskan appeared behind him, went to crouch down beside the cookpot. He leaned over, sniffed and then scowled.

  ‘My apologies, sergeant,’ Rint said. ‘Not enough water.’

  ‘It will have to do,’ Raskan said, reaching for a bowl.

  ‘Where are they?’ Arathan demanded.

  Rint said nothing, and Raskan busied himself ladling scorched stew into his bowl.

  ‘You won’t win. None of you will. She’s not afraid of my father, and neither am I.’

  This was taking too long. Rint struggled to keep from rising, from drawing his sword and setting out to find them. If he did that, Raskan would intervene, assert his authority, and things would break down. Two lovers in the night could unleash a war, take down an entire realm. They could not see past each other; they never did.

  ‘Arathan,’ he snapped as the young man made to leave the fire.

  ‘I have no reason to listen to you.’

  ‘Maybe not. But I was wondering, did your tutor ever speak to you about sacrifice? Yielding your wants in the name of peace? Did he speak of such things as he sought to guide you from childhood into adulthood?’ Rint nudged the fire with one foot, sending sparks fleeing skyward. ‘A man understands sacrifice. What needs surrendering.’

  ‘You say this because you have no woman.’

  ‘Arathan, I have a wife. She dwells in Riven Keep. When I return I will have a daughter or a son. I was late to it, you see, because I serve with the Borderswords, and we have known war.’

  These words seemed to have an effect. Arathan stood unmoving, as if drained of strength, emptied of will.

  ‘Had I known,’ Raskan said to Rint, looking up from his bowl, ‘I would have sent you back and found another among the Borderswords. You should have been with her, Rint.’

  ‘Had an uncle whose wife knifed him when she was in the heat of labour. Too many platitudes and assurances.’

  ‘She killed him?’

  ‘No, she took his caressing hand and pinned it to the ground.’ He hesitated, and then added, ‘The story goes, he pulled the knife from his hand and went back to stroking her hair. But not for long, as the midwives dragged him from the room. So, it ended well.’

  Raskan snorted.

  Footsteps announced the return of Feren. Draconus was nowhere in sight.

  The sergeant straightened. ‘Where is the Lord?’

  ‘He makes propitiations,’ Feren replied. ‘Rint, you burned it, damn you.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Propitiations?’ Raskan asked.

  ‘The barrow,’ she said distractedly, selecting a bowl.

  Arathan stood, his eyes upon her, but she paid him no heed as she filled the bowl, and Rint knew that his sister was done with the boy.

  * * *

  ‘No,’ said Feren in the dark, ‘it’s finished.’

  Arathan moved away, feeling lost. Tears blurred his vision. His father ruled everyone, and to rule meant to use. Everywhere he turned he saw his father’s heavy hand. Pushing away, dragging along, holding down – where it struck there were bruises, aching wounds. This was the meaning of power.

  He wanted to flee. Come the morning he could be gone. But Rint would track him down. Besides, some things he could not escape.

  He edged past his bedroll, came to the weights stacked in their perfect measures. One by one, he threw them out into the night.

  * * *

  A day’s travel west of Abara Delack, Grizzin Farl sat by the small fire he had made to roast the hare he had killed earlier that day. True hunters used slingstones, or arrows. Perhaps even a spear such as he carried in abundance. But Grizzin Farl was no hunter. He had run the creature down. Dogged it into panting submission. Even then, as he held the trembling thing in his arms, he had spent an inordinate amount of time stroking its soft fur, to calm its fear, and he had winced when he snapped its neck.

  Death was terrible power. The delivering of suffering never quite washed off. He had seen, among hunters and herders, an undeniable coldness of spirit that made of necessity a virtue. Grief did not touch them in the slaying of creatures, whether those creatures walked upon two legs or ran upon four; whether they possessed wings or slid smooth through water. Need was its own answer. One needs to eat, be it flesh or plant, and death was the currency.

  He did not like that truth and this night, as he gnawed on small bones, his title of Protector felt mocking and hollow.

  Earlier in the day he had seen two riders off to the north: the Borderswords who had taken the tutor to Abara Delack, presumably, now hastening to catch up with their companions. If they had in turn spied the Azathanai, they’d chewed and spat out their curiosity. The minds of some were shuttered things, singular of focus and thus narrow in their interests. They thrived as impediments to wonder. One day, he imagined, every place in every land might be filled with such men and women, each one busy draining colour from the world. He had no intention of living to see it. Rue the realm where bold laughter was met with disapproving frowns and sullen agitation! Serious people never stopped waging their war on joy and pleasure, and they were both relentless and tireless. In the making of his life he stood against them, and saw in his steadfastness a most worthy virtue. Protector indeed!

  The thought brought a low rumble of laughter to him.

  Alas, the hare had no reason to join in the amusement.

  Before dusk descended into night, he had seen a lone figure walking up from the east. While it was true that chance could not be measured, this meeting
to come was by no means accidental, and so in his mind he measured it out most carefully. Well to the west, a Thel Akai queen had been stirred from her eternal slumber, and her mood was still foul, no matter the efforts at placation.

  The old so disliked the young, and at the extremes of both, why, the dislike stretched into genuine distaste. Regard as foul the fresh-born; see as crêped the laggard ancients, with disgust the mutual regard and well earned, too.

  And now here, from the east, heavy footsteps drawing ever closer, came an old friend who would kneel to a child. These details did not so much balance out as wink at one another.

  ‘So much to muse on,’ he now said, loud enough to be heard by the one who approached. ‘Yet all the ale is gone. I was never one to ration my gifts, poor me.’

  ‘In words alone, Grizzin Farl, you could fill casks.’

  ‘Ah, but mine own fill never tastes as sweet. Join me, old friend. I would wring from you a thousand confessions this night, till I nod drunk on wisdom. If not yours, then mine.’

  His guest was nearly of matching bulk and girth. A cloak of silver fur rode his broad shoulders, shimmering in the starlight. ‘I have come from a place of tribulation and dire portent.’

  ‘In leaving did you, by chance, raid a wine cupboard?’

  ‘The Tiste do well by wine, it’s true. So much, then, for gifts carried a great distance.’ With that he drew out from a satchel a fired jug.

  Grizzin Farl smiled. ‘Caladan Brood, I would kiss you if I were blind and only a smidgen more desperate than I am.’

  ‘Hold the sentiment until you are well and truly drunk, but think not of me.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘Why, your wife, of course. This wine was meant for her.’

  ‘Thief of her heart! I should have known not to trust you! Her sloven’d gratitude, which I easily envision here in my skull, has the rank stench of a distillery. Truly you know the secret path to her bed!’

  ‘Not so secret, Grizzin, but I shall say no more and thus protect your innocence.’

  ‘By title I was named Protector and in said cause I now stopper my ears and shut my eyes. Come then, pass me this bottle and let’s know the sting of portent.’

  ‘My freedom,’ Brood said, ‘has been wrested away from me.’

  Grizzin swallowed down three quick mouthfuls, and then gasped. ‘You fool – how much did you pay for this? Your firstborn? Never have I tasted better! Upon my wife’s tongue the shock of quality – she’ll know not what to make of it.’

  ‘So confesses her husband of centuries. Besides, I wager none of the three jugs I carry will last this night, so quality evades her yet again. My sympathy is unbounded, especially as I sit here looking upon you.’

  ‘Well said, since it is a night for sordid confession. Freedom is nothing more than life stripped of responsibility. Oh, we yearn for it with reckless lust, but the shudders are short-lived, and besides, in sotted state she’s a poor game in bed, and this I well know, since it’s the only way by which she relents to my bluff pawing.’

  ‘I grieve for your memories, Grizzin Farl. But more, I grieve in the hearing of them.’

  ‘Let us not weep just yet. Here, numb thy throat and so steal pain from every word we utter.’

  Caladan drank, handed the jug back. ‘The First Son of Darkness has bound me to an oath, as I did to him in the making of a marriage stone for his brother.’

  ‘It will never last.’

  ‘What, the marriage?’

  ‘The oath.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, I thought the lie would relieve you. Otherwise, could I even claim to be your friend? I think not. This bottle is done. Find us another, will you?’

  ‘You’ve run far for this hare, Grizzin.’

  ‘It was that or plucking weeds from around the house. Under critical eye, baleful and jaded. But now curiosity has me and I would see this dark woman’s dark garden, weeds or no.’

  ‘Think you not Draconus will stand in your way?’

  ‘Ah, but he is well behind me, and well ahead of you, even as we speak.’

  ‘He travels among the Azathanai? This surprises me, given the tensions in Kharkanas.’

  ‘He goes to hide a bastard son, I think.’

  ‘And for other reasons.’

  Grizzin Farl raised his thick brows. ‘You surmise from hidden knowledge. Here, drink more.’

  ‘The Tiste put much in gestures,’ Caladan said, taking back the jug. ‘They would make of every deed a symbol, until the world carries benighted weight. By this means many walls are raised, many doors barred, and in meaning the realm becomes a maze to all who dwell in it.’

  ‘No maze frightens me. I have run with hares.’

  ‘You would weed her garden, then? Has she no decision to make on the offer?’

  ‘Hah! Look upon me, friend, in the manner that would a true-blooded woman! See this golden hair? These bright dancing eyes? The grave assurance in my comportment? I am a mystery, a lure of well-hidden depths. To touch me is to brush jewels and gems; to stand too close is to swoon in heady spice – into my very arms. These gifts I have, friend, are not made of breadth or height; neither of weight nor robust presence. I could be a squirrel of a man and still women would fall in like bugs on a cup rim!’

  ‘A fine speech, Grizzin.’

  Grizzin nodded. ‘Much practised,’ he said, ‘but yet to convince. I would change my tack, were I not certain the course is true.’

  ‘I think it is time for the third jug.’

  ‘Yes. Despondency was beckoned and lo, herein it slides. So morose, so knowing. If my vision were clearer, if my thoughts sharper, if my wit truly honed, I might find cause to drink and forget.’

  ‘I know little of this Anomander Rake.’

  ‘Then I shall bestir him for you. All that is to be known, and so you will find out who stands at the other end of your chain, and if the links be few in number, or beyond count, this too I will discover.’

  ‘There is a surety about him, that much was clear,’ said Brood. ‘Beyond the gift of the title given him; and his closeness to Mother Dark. He possesses something deliberate and yet of great depth. He is, I think, a violent man, yet is not at ease with the violence in him.’

  ‘A flagellant, then. I see before me the demise of my enthusiasm.’

  ‘He avowed he would not drag me into their civil war.’

  ‘That war is certain?’

  Caladan Brood shrugged. ‘They are a generation that has tasted blood, and where horror fades, nostalgia seeps in. In war all is simple, and there is appeal in this. Who among us is comforted by confusion, uncertainty?’

  Grizzin Farl mulled on this for a time, and then shook his head. ‘Is it as the Jaghut assert, then? In society we find the seeds of its own destruction?’

  ‘Perhaps, but they miss the point. It is the absence of society that leads to destruction. When concord is lost, when arguments cease and in opposition neither side sees the other as kin, as brother and sister, then all manner of atrocity is possible.’

  ‘You strew sharp stones upon my path of thought, old friend. Does Mother Dark will this dissolution?’

  ‘I should think not, but in darkness she dwells.’

  ‘The wine is gone. Only sour fumes remain. Drunkenness pretends to resolution. I would sigh and revel in lazy pondering. Do you return home, Caladan? Ah, I thought not. K’rul has begotten a child and the earth itself holds the memory of its birth-cry. Will you drink of K’rul’s blood?’

  Brood grunted, eyes on the failing fire. ‘There is no need for that. As you say, the child is born, and will in turn beget many others before too long.’

  ‘Did you not judge him precipitous?’

  ‘That judgement is no longer relevant, Grizzin. It is done.’

  ‘It was a thought of mine,’ Grizzin Farl said, ‘that Draconus journeyed in fevered rage.’

  Brood looked up, eyes sharp. ‘And?’

  ‘Bloodied my feet for a time
on that path. But in our night of meeting, which I revisit from all angles, I now conclude that my fears are unfounded. He is indifferent to K’rul. What drives him now is far more desperate.’

  Brood nodded. ‘Love will do that.’

  ‘It may seem to you, by your comment and all its sharp edges, that I am fleeing from my beloved wife and our wastrel of a son. This gives great offence and I am of a mind to draw weapons and have at you.’

  ‘Then you are even drunker than I had thought.’

  ‘I am, and am also most hateful of truths that rear up ugly of countenance.’

  ‘Most truths have that face, friend. But I was speaking of Draconus.’

  Grizzin sighed. ‘Guilt shouts loud at the most inopportune moment. Drunk and a fool – already the wine knocks about inside my skull, and I curse how you plied me with that Tiste poison.’

  ‘Better you than your wife.’

  ‘All my friends say that. I will be hungry come the dawn – have you spare food?’

  ‘You brought none with you, Grizzin Farl?’ Caladan Brood sighed.

  ‘I have a pot,’ Grizzin countered.

  ‘Followed you out of the house, did it?’

  ‘Eager to replace the head on my shoulders, yes. Long ago she swore to carry no blade, no cudgel, no iron-tipped spear. Yet made of her hands the deadliest of weapons, second only to her temper, but on occasion even they will deign to reach for something that will serve the instant. I have learned her ways, you see, and so was appropriately wary in my retreat.’

  ‘And the argument this time?’

  Grizzin sank his head into his hands. ‘I went too far. I threw the boy out.’

  ‘I am sure he gave cause.’

  ‘He has fallen under the influence of my first progeny, Errastas.’

  ‘There was always something of the follower in Sechul Lath,’ said Brood. ‘Errastas is ambitious and would be the master of the litter.’

  ‘Setch is weak, is what he is. To have them both come from my loins shrinks my sack with shame.’

  ‘Amend that defect before you stand naked before Mother Dark.’

  ‘In so many ways I will give thanks to the darkness surrounding her. Now, my words remain bold as weapons, but my thoughts shy from reason. I am drunk and unmanned and the only retreat awaiting me is senseless slumber. Good night to you, old friend. When next we meet, it shall be Thel Akai ale and the gifting shall be from my hand to yours.’