Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

Rint straightened. Ville and Galak had saddled the mount and were heaving the corpse over it. They took up leather strings to tie Raskan’s hands to his feet, one man to either side of the animal as they passed the string ends under the horse’s belly. They tied the strings to the laces from the moccasins — Lord Draconus’s own — and cinched tight the knots.

Rint stared at the heels, at how the thick hide was unevenly worn. Just like his boots.

‘Feren,’ he said, ‘lead them down the hill.’

‘Rint?’

‘Take them, sister. I won’t be long.’

But she drew close, her eyes wide with fear. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Something meaningless.’

Whatever she saw in his face seemed to answer her needs and after a moment she turned away, hurrying back to her horse.

Rint went to his own horse and rummaged in the saddle bags. As his friends mounted up and rode away, Ville leading Raskan’s horse with its lifeless burden, Rint drew out a flask of oil. They would have dry whetstones for the rest of this journey and would have to be mindful of rust and dulled edges, but there was nothing to be done about it.

He walked up to the tree, collecting wood, grasses and dried leaves along the way.

‘I know,’ he said as he built up the tinder round the base of the tree. ‘I know I but send you back into the flames. And in fire there is doubtless no pain for one such as you.’ He splashed oil against the bole of the tree, emptied the flask. ‘Unless… the desire behind the fire has power. I think it does. I think that is why a raider’s firing a house is a crime, an affront. Burning to death — malicious hands touching the flame to life — I think this has meaning. I think it stains the fire itself.’

He drew out his tinder box and found the embers he had this very morning collected from the cookfire. ‘I do this wanting to hurt you, Olar Ethil. And I want that to matter.’

He set the embers down beneath a thick twisted bundle of grasses, watched as the smoke rose, and then, as flames licked to life, Rint stepped back.

The fire spread, and then found the oil. Like serpents the flames climbed the trunk of the tree. The lowest branches, with their nests of black lichen, burst alight.

Rint backed away from the heat. He watched as the flames surged from branch to branch, climbing ever higher. He watched as branches from the trees to either side caught, and the sound was a building roar.

When he heard her begin screaming, he walked back to his horse, climbed into the saddle, and rode away.

Her shrieks followed him down the hill.

Feren stared up at the burning trees. She could hear the witch’s frantic screams and they made her smile.

When Rint re-joined them they turned as one and made their way back through the village.

This time Azathanai were emerging from their homes, to stare up at the wall of flames commanding the hilltop, and the grey smoke rising from them. Then they turned to watch the Borderswords riding past, and said nothing.

Feren held her smile, and offered it to every face turned her way.

Father and son rode side by side through the morning, saying little. Shortly after noon Draconus reined in suddenly and twisted in the saddle. He peered eastward, in the direction they had come. Arathan did the same, but could see nothing untoward.

‘Father?’

Draconus seemed to hunch slightly. ‘Raskan is dead.’

Arathan said nothing. He did not want to believe his father’s words, but he did not doubt the truth of them.

‘She saw it as mercy,’ Draconus continued after a moment. ‘Does that make a difference?’

The witch killed him? He thought of the clay figurine in his saddle bag. He had not wanted to take it from his father’s hands. He wished now that he had refused him. When your love is too much to bear. For the fire, boy, for the fire.

‘They found the body,’ Draconus said. ‘It is their rage that I now feel. I was careless. Unmindful, my thoughts elsewhere. But I made plain my protection. Olar Ethil mocks me. Too often we strike at one another. From the ashes of our past, Arathan, you will find sparks that refuse to die. Be careful what memories you stir.’ He drew a deep breath then, and let it out in something like a shudder. ‘I admire them,’ he said.

‘Who?’ Arathan asked.

‘The Borderswords. I admire them deeply. They have struck back at her, not in my name, but because it was right to do so. Olar Ethil will be scarred by this. Terribly scarred. Arathan,’ he added, taking up the reins once more, ‘she who bears your child is a remarkable woman. You are right to love her.’

Arathan shook his head. ‘I do not love her, Father. I no longer believe in love.’

Draconus looked across at him.

‘But,’ Arathan allowed, ‘she will be a good mother.’

They resumed riding. He wanted to think about Raskan but could not. He was leaving a world behind, and the faces that he saw in that world remained alive in his mind. It seemed to be enough. The day ahead stretched before Arathan, as if it would never end.

‘Do you know who I am?’

The young woman stood on the roadside, looking up at him.

She was old enough to have had her first night of blood, and there was a looseness about her that invited lust. At his question she nodded and said, ‘You are Lord Urusander’s son.’

By any measure, her respect was less than satisfying, verging on insult. Osserc felt his face reddening, a trait of his that he despised. ‘I am riding to my father,’ he said. ‘I deliver words of great import. From this day,’ he continued, ‘you will see changes come to the world. And you will remember this chance meeting on this morning. Tell me your name.’

‘Renarr.’

‘My father awaits me with impatience,’ Osserc said, ‘but for you I will make him wait.’

‘Not too long, I should think,’ she replied.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Only, milord, that I am sure the world is eager to change.’

He stood in the stirrups and scanned their surroundings. He had just crossed the ford of the nameless stream that half encircled Neret Sorr, although from here the settlement remained hidden behind the low hills directly ahead. Scrub flanked the stream’s basin, growing over the stumps of cut trees. The bushes seemed filled with birds, chattering in a thousand voices.

By the wet upon her leggings Osserc surmised that she too had been down at the stream, although she carried no skins or buckets. But he saw that she held something in one closed fist, and could guess at what it was. That alone made him feel ugly inside. ‘Are you from the village, then? I’ve not seen you.’

‘I don’t spend my evenings in the taverns, milord.’

‘Of course you don’t. But it seems that you know that I do.’

‘It’s known.’

‘Women fight to sit in my lap.’

‘I am happy for you, milord.’

‘What you are is insolent.’

Her expression faltered slightly and she looked down. ‘I am sorry that you think so, milord. Forgive me.’

‘It’s not your forgiveness that I want.’

And he saw then how his words frightened her, and that was the last thing he desired. ‘What do you hide in your hand?’

‘I–I do not hide it, milord. But it is personal.’

‘A stone from the stream.’

Eyes still downcast, she nodded.

‘A boy in the village?’

‘He is past being a boy, milord.’

‘Of course he is, to have earned your affection.’ Osserc drew up his spare horse. ‘You can ride? I will escort you back to the village. The day is hot and the road dusty, and I see that you wear no shoes.’

‘That is a warhorse, milord-’

‘Oh, Kyril is gentle enough, and most protective.’