Dark Forge

by Miles Cameron

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Miles Cameron

  Excerpt from Bright Steel copyright © 2019 by Miles Cameron

  Excerpt from The Red Knight copyright © 2012 by Miles Cameron

  Cover design by Lauren Panepinto

  Cover photograph by Allan Amato

  Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Map copyright © 2019 by Steven Sandford

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Orbit

  Hachette Book Group

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  Originally published in 2019 by Gollancz in Great Britain

  First U.S. Edition: September 2019

  Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group.

  The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019933445

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-39936-4 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-39934-0 (ebook)

  E3-20190807-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Map

  Prologue

  Book One Second Intention

  1 The Imperial Army of Expedition, Eastern Armea

  2 Eastern Armea

  3 Eastern Armea

  4 Safian Borderlands

  Book Two The Universal Parry

  1 Eastern Armea

  2 Southern Safi

  3 Masr

  4 Antioke

  5 Antioke

  6 Antioke

  Book Three Risposta

  1 Antioke

  2 Antioke

  3 Megara

  Discover More

  Extras

  A Preview of Bright Steel

  A Preview of The Red Knight

  By Miles Cameron

  Praise for Cold Iron

  Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

  Tap here to learn more.

  Just as the forge’s anvil is not shaken by the storm or the darkness, even so the wise are not affected by praise or blame

  Tirase, Questions on Metaphysiks

  Prologue

  As is usual in the life of a soldier, almost nothing was as Val al-Dun had been promised.

  He might have wished to spit in disgust, but the desert wind and the grit in his mouth made it unwise. Instead, he stood in his stirrups and looked back up his column.

  “Why have we stopped?” one of the Agha asked.

  The Agha were the Disciple’s inner circle: the Exalted Ones.

  The Agha were strange figures who never seemed to look with their eyes and always knew… things. Most, but not all of them, wore robes of scarlet. This one, masked in white, had robes so red that in the brilliant sun it appeared to have a life of their own, billowing and turning around the Agha like a living embodiment of light.

  In his head, Val al-Dun called them “they” because… they never seemed like single people, single souls. Even their voices betrayed some sort of alliance, fragile at best.

  They were terrifying in their harmony.

  Val al-Dun had learnt not to roll his eyes or give any appearance of insolence. Four days before, the Disciple had stopped in the middle of a salt flat and had not moved for hours; no explanation had been offered.

  The Disciple and its Agha never explained anything. The road from Stephion had cost the column three consecutive commanders who had failed to understand the Disciple’s needs.

  Val al-Dun hadn’t even been an officer when the Master summoned the militia, but half a dozen of his seniors stared without blinking into the void now, their heads removed for various failures. The road behind them was thick with corpses of the sowars who had disobeyed orders or simply failed to keep up. It had become worse since they reached the cursed Kuh Desert. Val al-Dun was a survivor; he’d watched the errors made by his predecessors and tried to learn; he was determined to survive this debacle if he could.

  “Exalted One,” he said carefully, “the Masran guides we were promised have not been provided. The horses and camels need water, Exalted One. I have my best people looking for water.”

  All around them, the Safian Tufenchis were sitting in the small shade of their saddle blankets, with their camels or horses crouched in the sun. The better troopers had put sunshades over their animals’ heads, but there was always some lazy bastard…

  Hussan, his havildar, approached.

  “People need a rest,” he said, very quietly.

  Val al-Dun never took his eyes off the Agha in front of him.

  “If it serves your will, Exalted One, we will have a two hour rest.”

  Hussan blanched under his heavy beard. Val al-Dun had a moment to reflect that the execution of six senior officers had its merits; discipline was improving. The Tufenchis were regular troops of the now-fallen Safian Empire, but they were really just expert militia; six hundred mile forays on camelback were not their usual fare.

  And Val al-Dun had to protect them. They were his neighbours and his kin—some his friends, some not, but very few of them were what the Pure called “True Believers”—and Val al-Dun was aware of just how expendable they were held to be. His Ghole had been chosen because they were not trusted. He understood that. The Master and his Disciples were not so very different from the run of other rulers: demanding, capricious, and probably fallible.

  “We do not have time to look for water,” the Agha said in its odd, high-pitched, flat voice.

  “Exalted One, if we do not find water, my people will die. Today; perhaps tomorrow morning.”

  Val al-Dun waited for the sword. The Agha were inhuman—so fast that they could not be faced in combat. He had seen his former chief, Nafir Khan, killed. It had been so fast that he hadn’t even seen the sword drawn.

  I probably won’t even know, Val al-Dun thought. I wonder if I’ll be able to see when my head hits the sand.

  And Nafir Khan had been a veteran bandit chief, Beglerbeg of five hundred sabres; a deadly man. He’d told the Agha what he thought…

  The Agha didn’t move.

  “We must be at the Black Pyramid,” it said. “Tonight.”

  Val al-Dun looked at the stones and gravel at his feet, so different from the high, arid desert of his home. This was a disgusting desert, all dirty stone and grit. Not clean.

  It is difficult to debate with a being that does not look at you and has no facial expression.

  “Exalted One, I beg of you one hour in which to find water.”

  “No,” the Agha said. “We march.”

  It inclined its head slightly, to indicate that the interview was at an end. The Agha turned fluidly, red robes swirling, and walked back to the covered palanquin carried by four camels.


  “Hussan!” Val al-Dun called.

  Hussan was helping one of the youngest and most inexperienced of their Tufenchis to arrange her sun-screen. The havildar shrugged and came back, his riding boots raising small puffs of the deadly grit.

  “Great Khan?” he asked with mock reverence.

  “We ride. It is an order.”

  “Blessings be on the Exalted One,” Hussan took a very small sip of water and held it in his mouth, then swallowed. Then he roared, “On your feet! Ready to ride in two minutes! Listen for the drum!”

  Mikal, the kettle drummer, was an old man—a true veteran, with the scars of a life of violence on his face, his arms, and his soul. He stripped his sunshade, stowed it expertly, and had his camel on its feet in three motions. He was already mounted, his sticks in his hand. Mikal had a foreign barbarian’s face and a badly set nose that seemed to go diagonally across his scarred face. His blue eyes were like a burning reprimand for the incompetence of others.

  Kati, the youngest, was serving in place of an older brother who was necessary to push a plough. She was too small to mount a camel easily, she didn’t know how to live off the land, and every time she stopped, she scattered her kit over the entire desert. She looked ridiculous with a jezzail that seemed twice as tall as she. On the other hand, she was Hussan’s third cousin, and everyone liked her. She was a cheerful mite, and smart, and Hussan said she had training in the Ruhani, the world beyond. Ferenhu training in foreign magik.

  They had lost one hundred and twenty-six men and women crossing the lower Stai, the gritty desert that divided Safi from Masr. Val al-Dun had been a bandit most of his life, and he wondered to himself why he had decided to try and keep the rest alive. Something had changed in him.

  He shrugged.

  “March,” he said to Mikal, and the old man slammed his sticks into the huge drums on either side of the camel: bam-bam. Bam-bam.

  The people might have cursed, if their mouths hadn’t been so dry.

  They moved off.

  “We don’t know where we’re going,” Hussan said quietly.

  “That’s right,” Val al-Dun said.

  He stayed at the head of the column, setting the slow pace he thought would keep everyone, people and animals, alive. They crossed a sparkling gravel flat full of some sort of jewel-like stone, and his troopers were too tired to behave like children and investigate. Then they came to dunes—the first decent, clean desert they’d seen in days—and Val al-Dun, whose scouts were all somewhere, had to ride ahead himself. He found them a track along the back of two great dunes and then cut back, the whole column, six hundred animals, following like a great snake.

  His mare was flagging. Thera was the best horse in the column, and when she was failing, that meant other horses were near death.

  He was running out of choices, and the line of dunes was going to cut them off from his scouts. He was too tired to waste time on curses, although it did occur to him to speak his mind to the Agha and die with a clear conscience.

  “Fuck it,” he said to Hussan. “Keep going.”

  He turned his horse’s head and put her at the back of the dune.

  Thera was brave, and she wove her way up the back to the great dune, her hooves almost silent, quick and sure. When she crested the top he reined her in and she stood, trembling slightly but apparently unmoved by her exertion, and he loved her.

  Below him, the long snake of the column turned again, almost backtracking to pass along the back of yet another great dune.

  But he had chosen well, and from the top of his dune he could see a line of hills, perhaps a parasang to the south and west. And he could see that the line of dunes was not so wide; indeed, they’d chosen a reasonable place to cross the dune belt. He nodded, and took a sip from his canteen.

  “Come, best beloved, and let us see if we can live to the ending of this day,” he said to his mare.

  He dismounted, and together they slid down the front face of the dune. They were cautious, and still they spilled a dozen sand-slides as they went. Val al-Dun stood in a pool of hot sand at the base of the dune, with more tumbling down. He had to mount ignominiously and Thera had to leap clear to save them.

  Before they rejoined the column, he gave her the rest of his canteen.

  Then he led his people off to the left.

  Hussan raised an eyebrow.

  “I know what I’m doing,” Val al-Dun said.

  “I’ve heard that before,” Hussan said.

  Late afternoon. The heat was dissipating quickly, and the range of low hills was fully visible as they moved across a parasang-wide salt flat. The salt was thickly crusted and made for easy travelling, but it got into everything—eyes and mouths parched from six days without water.

  Val al-Dun became a brutal bully. He didn’t bother to cajole—he struck, he cursed, and he pushed. Now he rode at the rear of his column while Hussan led them to a gap in the distant hills. The salt flat was like a frying pan; the sun beat down and reflected back up.

  Kati’s camel had stopped moving. Val al-Dun turned Thera under him and his katir sank two inches into the haunch of the stricken camel. The beast leapt forward with an indignant roar.

  “Keep moving, little witch,” he spat.

  Kati hunched, miserable and very small, but her beast continued to move across the salt.

  Less than an hour later, two of his best men, old criminals like himself, cantered back to the column. They had big sacks of water on their horses and they shared them.

  Draivash looked his part; a greasy velvet khaftan and a pair of silver puffers couldn’t hide his small stature and fox-like face.

  “Water,” he said. “Maybe an hour. Good water. Best thing in this fucking wasteland.”

  “But our Masran guides?” Val al-Dun asked.

  Draivash shook his head. “Bethuin tracks at the well. Days old.”

  Bethuin were the old nomad tribes of the south. They had no particular allegiances and it was unwise to provoke them. There were Bethuin throughout Safi, but they spoke another language and they tended to stay in the remotest wilderness. “As secret as a Bethuin” was a Safian saying.

  Val al-Dun shrugged. “Fuck,” seemed an appropriate reply.

  He gave his mare two cups of water and then left her to take a breath or two while he walked back to the palanquin. Four white camels carried a litter as big as a small castle.

  All four of the Agha were there, as usual. Val al-Dun had never seen who—or what—was in the litter.

  “Exalted One,” Val al-Dun called out.

  The scarlet-clad inhuman stalked across the sand towards him. The same one? A different one?

  “Speak,” it said.

  “Exalted One, our scouts have found water. However, we have no contact with anyone from Masr.”

  Again, Val al-Dun waited for the sword.

  The Agha was, as usual, completely unmoving, shaven, beardless head bare in the late-afternoon sun.

  “We must be at the Black Pyramid tonight,” the Agha said. Again.

  “Exalted One, I need more information. What time tonight? Can you guide us?”

  Val al-Dun almost cringed. He’d never asked one of them a direct question.

  A few heartbeats passed.

  “Do you not feel the Black Pyramid, Val al-Dun?” it asked.

  It knew his name.

  “No,” he said. It was the simple truth.

  A few heartbeats, and then a few more. A breeze touched them; some grit flew like a small banner of smoke.

  “Ahh,” it said. A simple nod. “Go to your water, and we will guide you to the Pyramid.”

  Val al-Dun walked up his column, trying not to think.

  Midnight, or close enough. A full moon hung out over the desert, but the column was cresting the line of barren hills. They’d had an hour’s rest and their fill of water.

  The full moon lit the valley at their feet.

  A long, sparkling, spilt-ink ribbon of river ran from far in the east tow
ards the west. They rode through blasted stone hills, as if fire and lightning had formed them, but at their feet were green fields and pastures of late-summer grass. Trees lined the distant riverbank; the black water was wider than any river that Val al-Dun had ever seen. The Azurnil. The Great River—the Mother of Rivers.

  On their side, the north bank, stood a city. Even at midnight, it was well enough lit to seem to glow along the river, and brilliant boats and illuminated barges cruised on the inky waters of the river. Val al-Dun assumed it was Al-Khaire, the great city of Masr. Its vastness made the size of his raiding force a joke. The city seemed to fill the plain at their feet; he could smell the smoke from a parasang away.

  A single bridge crossed the river, a needle of stone across the black ink ribbon.

  And there, on the other side, placed like a jewel of jet in the moonlit darkness, was the Black Pyramid. It rested in a setting of four pale pyramids around it, and beyond them, on the south side of the river, the fertile plain was covered in pyramids—perhaps twenty of them, or more, their shapes lost in the darkness. The four guardians of the Black Pyramid were ancient; so ancient that three of them had lost most of their brilliant marble cladding, and they appeared as pale blobs in the moonlight. The fourth was like a beacon, and Val al-Dun looked away and back, twice, to see if it was lit from within, and still he could not decide.

  The Black Pyramid itself appeared like a primal form; the outline, in as much as it could be seen in moonlight, appeared perfect and smooth, and reflected no light.

  Then the column passed over the crest, and low, scrubby trees began to obscure the magnificent view. The scarlet Agha led them down the steep, rocky slope. It seemed unconcerned by mortal concerns like tracks or trails. The whole column passed down a slope of broken shale, losing two horses and a middle-aged woman in the process. Val al-Dun bit his lip until it bled, but then they were through the shale and moving on a track that turned into a road.

  Somewhere off to the left, a fire was lit, and a high-pitched gong began to sound.

  “Exalted One, that is an alarm,” Val al-Dun said.

  It said nothing, but continued to stride into the darkness, red robes flowing like moving blood.