Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

by Steven Erikson

  Feeling uncomfortable, burdened by the armour and the heavy helm on his head, Arathan guided his horse after Sagander – until without warning the tutor reined in. Besra edged deftly around the sudden obstacle, only to draw up when Sagander reached out and took hold of the bridle. ‘Look back, student. Go on, do as I say.’

  The Borderswords were falling in behind Draconus and Raskan as they set out on the curving track that would lead them westward.

  Arathan twisted in his saddle and studied the gate and the wall of the estate.

  ‘Tell me what you see,’ Sagander demanded, his voice oddly rough.

  ‘The Great House of Lord Draconus,’ Arathan replied.

  ‘Your entire world, student. Until this day.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Over with now.’

  Arathan nodded.

  ‘Your sisters didn’t want to see you off. But your father commanded. Those girls despise you, Arathan.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  He thought for a moment, and then he nodded. ‘I was born to the wrong mother.’

  Sagander snorted. ‘Your life as you knew it is now over. You must look to yourself and none other, for all that awaits you. Even my own teaching is mostly done. Your half-sisters – they do not expect to ever see you again.’

  ‘They wore black, yes.’

  ‘Foolish boy, they always wear black. But yes, they wanted you to see.’ He released Besra’s bridle. ‘Come, let us catch up. You ride at my side, but I should tell you, your father was disappointed this morning – he did not expect to have to wait for you.’

  ‘I know, sir.’

  ‘Even more disappointing in his eyes, Arathan, was that you chose the gelding over the mare.’

  ‘But – I was told that I should not ride Hellar too much—’

  ‘When you leave the Great House, you ride your charger. Bastard son you may be, but in the eyes of the staff, you are still the Lord’s son. Do you understand me?’

  ‘I was not so instructed—’

  ‘Such instruction should not have been necessary! You have not just shamed your father, you have shamed me as well! I am your tutor who clearly has failed to teach you anything!’

  ‘I am sorry, sir.’

  ‘And you left behind the scales. What use the weights and measures without the scales?’

  Ahead, the track opened out, winding and dipping through low hills. Beyond that, according to the maps Arathan had perused, the path angled slightly south, leading to the settlement of Abara Delack. Past Abara Delack was the Bareth Solitude, and at the far end of that vast plain there waited the lands of the Azathanai and the Jaghut.

  ‘I trust you brought with you my gifts, including the special one for the Lord of Hate?’

  ‘I have, sir.’

  ‘Tell me what it is – no, do not bother. After all, it is too late to change it, isn’t it? I expect it is worthy.’

  ‘That is for the Lord of Hate to decide.’

  Sagander shot him a look. ‘I remain your tutor,’ he snapped. ‘You will speak to me with proper respect.’

  ‘Always, sir. My apologies.’

  ‘You are not particularly likeable, Arathan. That is your problem. No – both hands on the reins! Would you have your father look back to see you chewing your nails again? Sit straight in that saddle.’

  The day would be hot, and the way ahead promised no hope of shade. Arathan could feel sweat trickling down beneath his heavy clothing. It was hard to believe that only a short time ago he had been shivering, feeling lost in a courtyard he had known all his life. Now, the sky was lightening, unrelieved by any cloud, and it was the blue of ice and steel, and the new sun felt hot on his back.

  They continued on at a steady trot, suddenly amongst the denuded hills. A track cutting to the right looked vaguely familiar to Arathan. He pointed. ‘Where does that one lead, sir?’

  Sagander seemed to flinch. ‘The quarries. I am not surprised you remember it.’

  ‘I don’t, really.’

  ‘Just as well.’

  ‘It’s where I almost drowned, isn’t it? Down at the end of that trail, where the cattle are driven to slaughter.’

  ‘You are better to forget all that, Arathan.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Arathan fixed his attention on the back of his father – the shoulders wider than Sergeant Raskan’s, wider than those of any other man Arathan could recall seeing. A heavy cloak of tanned hide hung down to drape across the rump of Calaras. It had been dyed black but that was years past and now it was bleached with salty sweat and years in the sun, giving it a mottled, shadowy hue.

  Raskan kept his horse a step behind his lord, positioned on the left. Arathan did not think they were speaking. It suddenly struck Arathan that Ivis had not made it back in time to see them all off. His father had sent the master-at-arms away the day before, along with a troop of Houseblades. Arathan regretted that: he would have liked to say goodbye.

  By mid-morning they had ridden clear of the hills and before them stretched land that had once been forested, perhaps a hundred or more years ago. Now it was covered in gorse and bracken, deceptively deep in places where uprooted trees had left pits. The track that crossed it was narrow, forcing the riders into single file. The land sweeping out to either side swarmed with butterflies, bees and tinier insects, all feeding on the small yellow, purple and white flowers studding every bush. Birds dipped and dived low overhead.

  They met no one else and the horizons seemed too far away. The forest that had once stood here must have been vast. An entire city could have been built of the wood harvested here. Where had it gone?

  Sagander had begun complaining of aches, groaning with every jolt in the saddle as the pace quickened slightly. He’d fallen silent shortly after passing the quarries and now that he rode ahead, the prospect of twisting round in his saddle to address Arathan was clearly too much, though once or twice he did glance back, if only to confirm that his student remained behind him.

  Arathan welcomed the relative silence, although he too felt worn out. He hoped that for the rest of this journey he would be ignored by everyone. Life was easier that way. With attention came expectation, and with expectation there was pressure, and he did not do well with pressure. If he could slide through the rest of his life, unnoticed, unremarkable in any way, he would be content enough.

  The sun was directly overhead when they reached an area roughly cleared of bracken, where the ground had been pounded level and two long stone troughs flanked the trail’s resumption at the far end. One contained burlap sacks of feed for the horses and the other was brimming with water. This was the nominal edge of the Lord’s land, and riders had been out the day before to supply the station. A halt was called, and at last Arathan was able to dismount, his legs weak as he stepped away from the gelding. He stood for a moment, watching the others, until a faint tug from his mount’s reins awakened him to the fact that he needed to lead his horses to the troughs.

  Draconus had already done so, but the others had all waited – oh, they’re waiting for me.

  Sagander’s savage hiss was unnecessary but it stung him like a switch to the back as he hurried forward, both horses thumping after him.

  His father had leaned forward to splash water into his face beside Calaras’s muzzle as the warhorse drank, and then he drew the animal over to the second trough. Raskan held his lord’s second mount off to one side, making it clear that Arathan should precede him, but as Arathan made to guide Besra to the water he caught a sudden shake of the head from the gate sergeant.

  The boy hesitated. He had ridden Besra all morning; surely it was right to let the beast drink before the warhorse. After a moment, he decided to ignore Raskan, and drew Besra up to the trough. If his father even took note of this, he made no sign.

  When Arathan reached down to cup some water, however, the gate sergeant said, ‘No, Arathan. You share with your warhorse and none other. That will have to wait.
’

  ‘I will share with the beast on whose back I have ridden, sergeant.’

  Sudden quiet, and Arathan could feel himself wilting, yet he managed to hold Raskan’s hard gaze for a moment longer, before bending down to dip his hand into the cool water.

  Standing near the other trough, Draconus spoke. ‘Sergeant Raskan, Hellar is now in your care, until such time as the boy awakens to his responsibilities.’

  ‘Yes, milord,’ Raskan replied. ‘I would that he still ride the charger this afternoon, for a time.’

  ‘Very well.’ Draconus led Calaras from the second trough, and beckoned the Bordersword, Feren. ‘I will speak with you,’ he said to her, ‘in private.’

  ‘Of course, Lord.’

  Her brother took the reins from her, and she set off after Draconus as he strode to the far end of the clearing.

  Raskan’s tone was rough and low as he moved up alongside Arathan. ‘I warned you clear enough on this.’

  ‘My error was in choosing the wrong horse this morning, sergeant.’

  ‘That’s true enough. You showed your fear of Hellar – to everyone. I feel a fool and I tell you, I do not appreciate that.’

  ‘Should we not honour each and every beast that serves us?’

  Raskan scowled. ‘Who put such nonsense into your skull? That damned tutor? Look at him – it’ll be a miracle if he survives the trek.’

  ‘The thought was my own, sergeant.’

  ‘Be rid of it. And if you come up with any more of your own thoughts, Arathan, keep them to yourself. Better yet, crush them. You are not the one to challenge Tiste ways.’

  Arathan almost heard the added words: leave that to men like your father.

  But he would be free of all this soon enough. He had seen the last of the High House, and the way to the west stretched before him. Leading Besra to the second trough, he glanced over at the remaining Borderswords. If he had expected to meet their hard eyes, he was spared that, as Rint, Ville and Galak were all busy preparing the midday meal. Their mounts stood motionless, reins looped over the saddle horns – not ten paces from the long trough of water, and yet not one animal moved. Arathan looked for hobbles about their ankles but found none.

  I think I understand. Before there can be disdain, there must be pride.

  One day I will find something to be proud of, and then I will find this taste of disdain, and see if it suits me. Should I not think this, being my father’s son?

  And yet, I do not. Pride needs no claws, no scaled armour about itself. Not every virtue must be a weapon.

  These thoughts are my own. I will not crush them.

  Sagander hissed behind him, ‘When next you turn to me, student, I will see the face of my own humiliation. I wish he had left you behind. You’re useless. Hands from the mouth!’

  * * *

  Rint hunched down over the embers, watching as the first flames licked the tinder alight. He fed in a few sticks and then nodded over to Galak, who began breaking up a brick of dried dung. Grunting, Rint straightened.

  ‘What do you think?’ Ville asked, standing close.

  Rint shrugged, forcing himself from looking over to where Lord Draconus stood speaking with his sister. ‘She’s her own mind, as if you don’t know that.’

  ‘He wants a soft body for the cold nights, is my guess.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ muttered Rint in reply, and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from cracking at the thought. ‘He is a High Lord, after all.’

  ‘But he ain’t our High Lord, Rint.’

  He glared across at Ville. ‘This ain’t none of your business. None of mine, neither. Feren decides and whatever she decides, we stand behind it.’

  Galak grunted from where he crouched over the small fire. ‘Goes without saying, Rint.’

  Ville scowled. ‘Still don’t like it. Consorts – what are they, anyway? Crotch-boys. Even worse than the damned priestesses in Kharkanas. Y’think he knows a damned thing about being honourable?’

  Rint stepped close. ‘Keep it down, Ville. Any more of that and we’ll do without you, understand?’

  In the tense silence following the low exchange, Galak rose. ‘Back in the courtyard,’ he said under his breath, ‘when I saw him standing there, holding out those scales. A shiver took my spine, that’s all. A shiver like the breath of the Abyss.’

  Ville grinned at Galak. ‘You and your damned omens.’

  ‘Get the pot out,’ Rint said to Ville. ‘All this jabbering is wasting time.’

  Leaving his two companions, he walked over to Sergeant Raskan and the old man, Sagander. Beyond them, the boy was sitting on the ground at the edge of the clearing, his back to them all. Both men were looking that way and if they’d been talking, it had been under their breaths and they ceased at Rint’s approach.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Rint when he joined them. ‘This is the first meal of the journey. In the days that follow, our midday repast will of course make use of food that requires no cooking.’

  Raskan nodded. ‘The Lord is well aware of your traditions, Bordersword.’

  ‘I assumed as much,’ Rint replied, ‘but I just wanted to make certain.’

  ‘Seems a ridiculous tradition,’ Sagander said, his expression sour. ‘Barely half a day out and we halt to gorge ourselves, when we should be hastening onwards.’

  Rint regarded Sagander. ‘The first day of any overland journey, tutor, is always a difficult one, even for hardened travellers. Rhythms need finding, bones need shaking out, and not just for us but for our mounts as well. More injuries take horses on the first day than on any other. The early morning start, the cold muscles … these things pose risks.’

  In response, Sagander shrugged and looked away.

  Rint returned his attention to Raskan. ‘Sergeant. Two days to Abara Delack. When we are a few leagues out from the village, I will send Galak ahead—’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Raskan interrupted. ‘My lord has instructed me that we shall be riding around Abara Delack. We shall not be staying in the village, nor will we be guests of any of the resident highborn families.’

  Rint considered that for a moment, and then he said, ‘None are to know of this journey.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Such secrets, sergeant, are very difficult to keep.’

  ‘That is understood, Rint, but we shall try nevertheless.’

  ‘Very well, I will inform the others.’

  ‘One other thing,’ Raskan said as Rint turned away.

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘It would be best if you Borderswords did not keep to yourselves so much. This is a small party, after all, and we have many days ahead of us. We saw some disagreement among you at the campfire. If there are matters that need discussing, bring them to me.’

  ‘Of course, sergeant.’

  Rint walked back to where he’d left Ville and Galak, and saw that his sister had returned from her meeting with Lord Draconus. Oddly enough, it seemed that no one was speaking. Feren looked over as Rint arrived and shook her head.

  Suspicion flooded through Rint, and from it swirled fury, thick and vile. He struggled to give nothing away, and said, ‘The sergeant wants us to be sociable.’

  Ville grunted. ‘We take orders from two of ’em and the other two amount to an old man of letters and a rabbit in a boy’s skin. What kind of socializing is he expecting?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’ Rint said under his breath.

  To his relief all three laughed, although Rint saw a glint of something in his sister’s eyes, something walled off from any pleasure. But then, he reminded himself, there was nothing new in that.

  ‘Rabbit in a boy’s skin,’ said Galak to Ville. ‘I like that one.’

  ‘Now forget you ever heard it,’ Rint warned.

  ‘Sure, but still, it fits—’

  ‘And how do you know that?’ demanded Feren, startling the others. ‘I like what he did with the horses. Traditions are all very well, but they started for good reaso
ns. These days, it seems everybody’s so caught up in the forms they forget those reasons. The boy was right – you share with the beast that served you. That’s how you give thanks.’

  ‘You give thanks to the beast you ride into battle with,’ Ville retorted.

  ‘Give thanks to them all. That’s how it started, Ville. Back when it meant something.’

  Rint studied his sister. He’d not seen such fire from her in years. He should have welcomed it; he should have found hope from it. Instead, he felt vaguely disturbed, as if he was missing some hidden significance to this outburst.

  ‘Meat’s soft enough for chewing,’ said Galak.

  ‘I’ll call the others,’ Rint said.

  * * *

  Arathan sat on the ground, studying the gorse and the clouds of busy insects. The heat was making him sleepy. His spirits sank when he heard the scrape of feet behind him.

  ‘Arathan, my name is Feren.’

  Startled, he clambered to his feet and faced the Bordersword. Wiping wet fingers on his thigh, he stood uncertainly.

  ‘We have a ritual,’ she said. Her eyes were level with his, and their steadiness unnerved him as she continued, ‘The first meal of the journey. Meat is shared. With everyone.’

  He nodded.

  She moved slightly closer and suddenly Arathan felt cornered. She smelled of tanned leather and something like blossoms, but spicier. She was twice his age, but the lines in the corners of her dark eyes made him think of passion, and then she gave him a half-smile. ‘In my eyes,’ she said, ‘you did right with your horse. There are ways that people think must be followed, and then there are ways of the heart. If two paths await you, one cold and the other warm, which would you choose?’

  He thought about this for a moment, and then asked, ‘And if there are no paths?’

  ‘Then make your own, Arathan.’ She gestured. ‘Come along, the first taste must be your father’s. The next must be yours.’ She set out and he fell in behind her.

  ‘I am a bastard son.’

  She halted and turned. ‘You are about to come of age,’ she said in a low tone. ‘From that day forward, you are your own man. We all had fathers and mothers, but when we come of age we stand in our own shadow and none other’s. If you are called a bastard then the failing is your father’s, not yours.’