Forge of Darkness

by Steven Erikson

‘We will deliver our message,’ Finarra said, gathering up the reins. Then she paused and looked across to Faror. ‘Forgive me, Warden, I have made of this journey a tense one, unpleasant. The waters are muddy between us, and I regret that.’

  ‘As do I, sir.’

  ‘But such things diminish before the plight of those we see here on this road.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Finarra hesitated, and then said, ‘When you are done with the Hust Legion, Faror Hend, choose a place in which to wait.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘A place. Tell me of your choice before we part, and I will see to it that word will be sent to … to whomever you wish to know of it.’

  Faror Hend held her captain’s gaze. ‘Sir, I will not desert the Wardens.’

  ‘Name a place, and tell me by whom you will have it known.’

  ‘Sir, if word must reach someone, it must be my betrothed. But I say again, I will not desert the Wardens.’

  Finarra nodded. ‘I understand. Nevertheless, think of a place—’

  ‘A refuge.’

  ‘In the season to come, Faror Hend, love will need such refuges.’

  Faror studied her captain for a time, and then nodded. ‘I will give it some thought, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Now, we shall have to ride overland – I expect this road to be impassable at least as far as Yannis Monastery.’

  ‘Could you have made such a bargain, sir?’

  Finarra shot her a look. ‘I have never birthed a child, Warden, so I cannot say.’ Then she shook her head. ‘If they see no hope ahead, and yet are offered salvation for their children … well, what mother and what father would not sacrifice their own lives to save those of their children?’

  ‘The Shake well understood that, I think,’ Faror said. ‘Still. When I came upon one of their troops, in the wreckage of a bandit camp, it was said in passing that they had made a similar offer, only to have the mothers slit the throats of their own get.’

  Finarra blinked. ‘That seems a selfish act.’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, some hold freedom higher than life itself.’

  ‘Well enough if that life is your own. I doubt a single child welcomed the blade’s kiss.’

  Faror Hend fell silent, unable to argue against her captain’s words. But the recollection haunted her. They rode on for a time, slowly as the ground was uneven and stony. Then she said, ‘Sir, for nights afterwards, I dreamed of mothers and fathers killing their own children. But no bargains had been offered them, and no threat drew close to force their hands.’

  ‘A disturbing dream, Warden, if there was no cause to their deeds.’

  ‘But there was, sir, of sorts. With each child slain, I saw the slayer’s wealth grow, in coin stacks, in gems and silks, and slaves at their feet. I saw them grow fat, but through windows there was the flicker of flames, drawing ever nearer.’

  ‘Let us bend to our task here, Warden, and speak no more of ill dreams.’

  When Finarra Stone pushed her mount ahead, into a pace verging on reckless, Faror Hend followed. The day’s light was fading, and upon the track to their left, the stream of figures lost all colour, gave up no light, and soon were swallowed in the gloom.

  NINETEEN

  THE SOUNDS OF revelry filled the hust legion camp outside the command tent. Smiling, Hunn Raal studied the woman seated opposite him. ‘It seemed a modest gesture at the time,’ he said, ‘but I cannot refute the blessing of this outcome.’

  Toras Redone did not smile in return. Her expression remained unchanged, and this detail had begun to unnerve the captain. She held her tankard in her left hand and the jug of wine, from her private stores, in her right, resting both on her thighs. ‘If you think,’ she said, only slightly slurring her words, ‘gifts of wine and ale to my soldiers are sufficient to win everlasting accord between our legions, captain, then your drunken ways have led you astray.’

  Hunn Raal lifted his brows. ‘It ever pained me, commander, that we came to view each other as rivals—’

  ‘Your dislike of the Hust has nothing to do with rivalry. You fear our weapons and their songs of war. It is not my soldiers whom you need to ply with liquor to achieve peace between us, but perhaps such generosity applied to your own soldiers could improve matters.’

  ‘Songs of war? Abyss below, commander, we can list the many words available to describe the uncanny cries of your weapons, but surely not the language of music.’

  Her level gaze remained fixed on him. ‘Indeed? What stirring symphony would you wish for war, captain? Drums to quicken the heart? A rising crescendo to mark the momentous clash of two foes meeting in combat? Sorrowful dirges to settle like ashes upon the inevitable scene of slaughter to follow? Are you a romantic, captain? Do you dream of glory and virtue, of heroism and bravery? Are we all brothers and sisters under the armour, under the skin and down among our bones which, when at last laid bare, lose all provenance?’ She raised her tankard and swallowed down another mouthful. ‘Is this the man who has come among us? Sodden and sentimental, yet eager to raise a hand and point an accusing finger at unbelievers?’

  Hunn Raal bit back a savage retort. ‘The Hust Legion proclaims itself Mother Dark’s own—’

  ‘Does Urusander resent the claim? Do you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Commander, there are Deniers among you.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘They do not belong to Mother Dark.’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘Of course they don’t.’

  She refilled her tankard – something she did after every mouthful. ‘Too many things weaken your resolve, captain. Your self-doubt creates enemies and then raises them up like things of mud and straw. But whose flaws are so displayed? Many an old soldier has noted how one is measured by one’s enemies. Yet, here you are, refusing to respect your foe, even as you exaggerate the threat they pose. Are you too drunk, captain, to countenance the contradiction?’

  This night had begun in a contest of drinking, or so Hunn Raal had read the challenge in the commander’s eyes, when she had first invited him to sit with her. In the meantime, the wagons had trundled into the encampment, and the casks were unloaded to laughing soldiers, and Toras Redone had voiced no objection to the distribution of such bounty. He struggled to steady his thoughts. ‘I respect the threat they represent, commander. This is why I have come to you. Our legions must stand together, in Mother Dark’s defence.’

  ‘It is my understanding, captain, that she commands no such thing. Mother Dark does not compel anyone.’ Then Toras Redone suddenly snorted. ‘How could she, when the gifts of worship remain unknown? In what manner are we rewarded when we deem her a goddess? What cast this coinage of faith? The priestesses flounder in their beds and silken pillows. Mother Dark announces no laws and demands nothing from us. What kind of goddess is she, when she does not gauge her own power in terms of adherents? Worship her. Do not worship her. Either way, she remains unchanged.’

  ‘I am a simple soldier, commander, and I admit to avoiding the confusions of religious practice. I see the world as a soldier must see it. We all wear uniforms, be they girded for war or politics, or religion.’

  ‘Is there not room for all of us in Kurald Galain?’

  ‘We could encompass the world, commander, and still we would fight one another.’

  Toras Redone looked away, seeming to study one wall of her tent, where the silhouettes of insects made a silent audience to this exchange. ‘Perhaps,’ she said in a low voice, ‘this is what Mother Dark is telling us. She embodies a hollowness at the core of all of our beliefs. Some would bask in what they imagine to be fulfilment, when it is in truth absence.’ Her eyes slid back to Hunn Raal. ‘We crowd the rim of an empty bowl, captain, and jostle for footing, blessing those who slide in while voicing our delight at those who fall off and are for ever lost. When that pleasure proves insufficient, why, we begin pushing others off, flinging them away while telling ourselves that these victims lived lives of less worth …’ Her word
s trailed away, and she drank again, returning her gaze to the tent wall.

  ‘Commander, all I seek is peace.’

  She sighed and then said, ‘The truth of darkness is that it hides everything and reflects nothing. We stumble in blind ignorance and swing at everyone who draws near. Do you appreciate the irony in all this, captain? In our language we voice the Abyss as a curse, but I tell you, I have knelt before Mother Dark in the Chamber of Night, and I have felt the Abyss – when she touched my brow.’

  Shaken, Hunn Raal said nothing.

  Toras Redone offered him a loose shrug. ‘Yet she sits upon the Throne of Night, and we acknowledge her rule, such as it is. Of course,’ she added, ‘that throne was a gift from Lord Draconus. You would have thought – given his purported ambitions – that he would have offered up two thrones.’

  ‘Commander, I have no complaint against the Consort. It is the highborn who obsess over that man’s ambitions. You raise an interesting question – have you voiced it among your fellow nobles?’

  Toras Redone blinked, and then shook her head. ‘He swims in the bowl and so we hate him. There is nothing complicated in that enmity.’

  ‘Do you know where he has gone, commander?’

  ‘No.’ She waved the hand that held the tankard, spilling some wine in the process. ‘West.’

  ‘Soldiers should not be the objects of resentment in times of peace,’ said Hunn Raal. ‘When that peace was won by our blood and sweat, well, are you not stung by this?’

  ‘It is not resentment, captain, it is indifference. And I welcome it.’

  ‘How can you say that? We deserve to be rewarded for the sacrifices we have made!’

  ‘What sacrifices, captain? You are still alive. So am I. Neither of us lost limbs.’

  ‘I speak not just for myself! I have friends who have been left crippled, blinded, or who cannot sleep through the night—’

  ‘While others drink or smoke themselves into oblivion. Because the truths of war broke us inside, and broken we remain. Reparation, then? For the dead, why, let us raise high bold mausoleums. For the maimed, let us entrench our pity and suckle guilt’s bloated tit until we grow fat on remorse. And for the drunks like you and me, captain, why, a bounty of riches to keep our cellars well stocked, and a high seat in every tavern from which we can weave our tales of past glory. Or is it a title you wish? Very well, I proclaim you the Lord of War, and will seek for you a proper estate. In addition, I give you fields of horror to harvest nightly, and granaries filled with wretched memories, which you can daily grind to dust on this millstone you call your life.’

  Hunn Raal stared at her for a long time, and then he reached into the sack he had brought into the tent with him, and drew out a jug. ‘My gift to you, commander. A fine vintage I am sure you will enjoy.’

  ‘I have my own, captain, but thank you anyway.’

  ‘You refuse my offering?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Shall I refill your tankard, then?’

  She shook her head. ‘I am done drinking this night, captain. I must walk the pickets, lest your friends tempted the Nightwatch in their eager, if somewhat forced, generosity.’

  ‘If they did, commander, it was well meaning.’

  ‘Your gesture is appreciated and you have given me much to think about, captain, but my rules of conduct are explicit, and if I find even one guard with alcohol riding the breath, there will be the public lash. Discipline is a necessity, even in times of peace.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ Hunn Raal said. ‘I am impressed.’

  ‘Are you? Good. Perhaps it will give you something to think about.’

  ‘Commander, the Hust Legion is not our enemy.’

  ‘Barring the Deniers in my ranks.’

  ‘They are your concern, not mine.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear you say that, captain. Now, feel free to use the spare cot in this tent. I doubt I will return before dawn.’

  ‘Have you quit sleep, too, commander?’

  ‘I save that for my staff meetings. Now, if you will excuse me.’

  He rose when she did. ‘It has been a fascinating evening,’ he said.

  Toras Redone studied him. ‘You never drink as much as you pretend to, captain. Why is that?’ Without awaiting an answer, she marched from the tent.

  Hunn Raal stared at the tent flap, watching it settle following her departure. He sat back down. Well, why should I be surprised? When it comes to drinking, you can’t fool a drunk. The insects had all scattered with the rustling of the canvas, but now they returned. He stared at them. An audience with low expectations, one presumes. Better than that canny bitch of a commander.

  His gaze travelled to the jug he had given her, and then away again. Sighing, he collected his cup and filled his mouth with the tart liquid. A soldier needs no excuses to drink. You can’t just walk away from dancing with death, after all, and no wall holds you up for long.

  There was a sound at the tent entrance and he looked up to see Sevegg peering in. He gestured her to enter.

  ‘I saw her march out,’ she said.

  Hunn Raal nodded. ‘We’re leaving soon. Inform the others. Have them depart quietly and singly. Leave the wagons and animals.’

  ‘Our horses, cousin?’

  ‘That’s “sir” to you, lieutenant.’

  ‘Yes sir. Your pardon.’

  ‘They remain hobbled well outside the pickets?’

  ‘As instructed, sir.’

  ‘Take four soldiers with you. Saddle up our mounts and then lead them to the east track. We will all rendezvous there. I want us riding before dawn.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ She saluted and left.

  He looked down at the tankard in his hand, and then tilted the cup, spilling the contents to the dirt floor, and set it upside down on the centre of the commander’s small map table.

  All I wanted, Toras Redone, was peace.

  * * *

  Captain Ivis climbed the ladder and emerged on to the parapet of the northwest tower. He came up alongside Corporal Yalad. ‘Well, what is it I need to see?’

  The man pointed to the ridge of hills to the west. ‘Another army, sir. But this one is not passing through – see them? I’d swear they were presenting for battle.’

  Ivis squinted. He could make out riders working into position along the centre hill, arraying in ranks. With the rising dust behind them, it was impossible to tell how many there were. To either side, more soldiers had dismounted and were forming up in skirmish order. ‘Can you make out that banner, corporal?’

  ‘No sir.’

  Ivis rubbed at the back of his neck. His eyes felt full of sand. He’d not slept well since his journey into the wild forest – since his visit to that cursed goddess. At times, he managed to convince himself that he had but dreamed the whole ordeal, but then, he had not the imagination to conjure such horrors. What few nightmares he experienced in his life were all singular and banal in their obsessions. The loss of teeth, walking naked into a crowded hall, the maddening inability to find the stirrups on a panicked horse rushing for a cliff edge, a broken sword in the midst of battle. There were no sharpened stakes rising from a glade’s matted grasses, and no woman lying impaled upon them and regarding him with calm eyes.

  ‘What should we do, sir?’

  Blinking, Ivis shook himself. ‘Call to arms, corporal. With luck, we’ll have the time to assemble. I see nothing in the way of siege weapons.’

  ‘No sir. We could let them circle the walls until their horses drop from exhaustion.’

  Ivis turned to study the eastern sky. The pall of smoke seemed unending. He faced the unknown enemy again, watched their ragged preparations. ‘No, I have had my fill with this. It is time to test our lord’s heavy cavalry. Whoever they are, we’ll bloody their noses and send them away, and if word races to the ears of every highborn in Kurald Galain, all the better.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  He glanced across at the corporal and scowled. ‘You’re looking pa
llid enough to faint. Steady yourself before tackling the ladder, corporal.’

  ‘Yes sir. I will.’

  ‘But not if the effort takes all morning. Get moving!’

  The young soldier scrambled for the trap.

  Ivis returned his attention to the unknown forces arraying against them. More than half a thousand to be sure. But he saw nothing of heraldic banners among the ranks, nor any sign of company standards. The single thin flag waving was still too distant to make out, and then it was suddenly lowered, vanishing from sight.

  As he watched, hearing the first barked shouts from the keep’s compound at his back, he saw a troop of a dozen or so riders emerge from the ranks and canter down the hill’s slope. Reaching its base, they set out, their mounts taking a low stone wall in smooth leaps, crossing through the dusty stubble of a harvested field, taking another wall and out across another field, drawing ever closer.

  There was a broad ring of level, unbroken land surrounding the keep’s hill, enough room for charging cavalry, and when the strangers reached the outer edge of this one rode forward and lifted the banner once more. The figure then reined in and drove the pole into the earth.

  The troop wheeled round and set off back to the main force.

  Ivis stared at the banner they had left behind.

  Abyss take me. They’re Borderswords.

  * * *

  Returning from the killing field, Feren’s horse stumbled after clearing the last wall and coming up against the slope. She fought to right the animal and a moment later regained control. She glared across at her brother. ‘Rint! We need to rest!’

  He made no reply, pushing to force his mount back up the hillside.

  Looking up, she studied the foremost row of Borderswords lining the crest above her. Their beasts were lathered, heads drooping, and the men and women sitting silent in their saddles were in no better shape. Anger and horror could speak in one tongue, but it was a language ignorant of reason. She had listened to its ceaseless clamouring in her skull for days and nights now, and for most of that time, there had been something of a blessing in that senseless cacophony.