Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

Osserc dismounted. He approached the man, and saw now, clearly, the welts and cuts on the man’s knuckles, the kind made by someone’s teeth.

‘You shouldn’t of done that, sir. She was sweet. She was pure.’

As Osserc continued advancing, the man’s eyes widened slightly, his nostrils flaring. When he began tugging free his knife Osserc leapt forward. He blocked the draw and closed one hand tightly on the wrist, forcing it down. His other hand found the man’s throat. He squeezed hard and continued squeezing, even as the man reached up and fought to pull free.

‘You beat her?’ Osserc asked. ‘That sweet, pure woman?’

The eyes before him were bulging, the face darkening. Osserc drew out the man’s knife and flung it away. The man’s legs gave out before him and his weight yanked at Osserc’s grip, so he brought up his other hand to join the first one. He saw the man’s tongue protrude, strangely black and thick.

His struggles weakened, and then ceased entirely.

Osserc studied the lifeless eyes. He was not sure if he had intended to kill the fool. But it was done now. He released his grip and watched as the body crumpled on to the dirt track.

I killed someone. Not in battle — no, it was in battle. Well, close enough. He went for his knife. He came to me, thinking to stab me. To murder me. And he beat Renarr — I saw the proof of that. He beat her like a coward. Might be he killed her — would I have heard? I stayed in my room, stayed away from the taverns. I know nothing of what’s happened in town.

He beat her to death, but justice was mine, mine to deliver.

He found himself back on his horse, riding clear of Neret Sorr, winding tracks, low stone walls and farmhouses before him. He was trembling and his left hand ached.

He had been counted strong, even by the soldiers he’d sparred with. And he had, with one hand, just crushed a man’s throat. A grip that had seemed filled with rage, with almost mindless fury — if only it had blinded him; if only he’d not been able to see the man’s face, his eyes, his open mouth and the jutting tongue. Somehow, even that ghastly mask had simply made him squeeze harder.

Osserc could not understand what had happened, how any of this had happened. He had meant to ride away unseen by anyone, setting forth on a new life. Instead, in his wake they would find a dead man, strangled, a parting gift of horror from the Lord’s son.

Thoughts of his father struck him then, like blows to the body that left him sickened. He urged Kyril into a fast canter, fighting to stifle a moan.

The night, so vast around him, seemed to mock him with its indifference. The world held no regard for his feelings, his fears; the mad cavort of all the things filling his head. It cared nothing for the ache in his left hand and how it felt as if it still grasped that throat — the throat with its hard muscles that slowly surrendered to the ever-tightening pressure of his grip, and the way the windpipe finally crumpled into something soft and ringed that moved too easily, too loosely. All these sensations roiled in his fingers, in the flattened throb of his palm, and though he dared not look down, he knew he would see murder’s own stain — a stain invisible to everyone else but unmistakable to his own eyes.

Hunched over, he rode on. And there came then a bleak thought, repeating in his mind amidst the thumping drums of horse hoofs.

The darkness is not enough.

Beneath bright morning light, Serap rode into Neret Sorr from the south track. Once on the high street, she swung her horse left and made for the keep road. But the way ahead was blocked by a flat-bed wagon, the ox rigged to it, and a small crowd. Three of the town’s constabulary were there, and Serap saw two young men approach from a lane opposite, carrying a body between them on a canvas tarp. They clutched the corners but kept losing their grip. Though other men walked with them none made a move to help.

Reining in, Serap looked to the nearest constable and saw that the man was studying her. After a moment he stepped forward.

‘Lieutenant Serap.’

She studied him. ‘Ex-Legion, yes? Ninth Company.’

‘Sergeant Yeld, sir. I was on Sharenas’s staff.’

‘What has happened here?’

‘Murder last night, sir. A local got strangled.’

‘If you’ve a mind to hunt down the killer,’ she said, ‘I have some experience at that. Has he run or he is holed up somewhere?’

All at once the sergeant looked uncomfortable. ‘Not sure, sir. No witnesses.’

‘Is there a seer in town?’

‘Old Stillhap up at the keep, sir. We haven’t sent for him yet.’

Serap dismounted. Her back was sore. She’d ridden hard from Kharkanas, bearing the latest news along with Hunn Raal’s usual exhortations to ensure that she spoke directly with Lord Urusander. Although the news she had been instructed to give him made her uneasy, since much of it was close to a lie, she was now committed. Still, a minor delay here in town might give her time to compose her thoughts, quell her misgivings, before seeing Urusander. ‘I will examine the body,’ she said, walking over to where the two men had finally reached the wagon with their burden.

The sergeant joined her. ‘Mason’s apprentice, though his master tells us he ain’t been showing for work up at the keep the past two days, and no one recalls seeing him in that time either. He was up to something, I suppose.’

The body was on the bed now and Serap climbed aboard the wagon. She drew the canvas to one side, revealing the corpse.

Yeld grunted. ‘Ugly way to die, sir.’

‘Not a rope or garrotte.’

‘No sir. Was hands that done that.’

‘Not hands, sergeant. One hand.’

Mutters sounded from the crowd now gathered round.

Serap straightened. ‘Takes a strong man to do that. I see a knife sheath at his belt but no knife.’

‘Found a dozen paces away, sir,’ said Yeld.

‘Blood on it?’

‘No. But look at his hands — seems he fought back.’

‘Anyone with a bruised face in this mob?’ Serap asked with a half-smile as she scanned the townsfolk. ‘No,’ she added. ‘That would be too easy.’

Someone spoke from the crowd. ‘Anyone seen Renarr?’

‘Who’s Renarr?’ Serap asked.

‘The woman he was courting,’ Yeld replied. ‘From what I gather.’

‘Millick was courtin’ and plannin’ t’marry,’ someone else said.

‘Where does this Renarr live?’

Yeld pointed to a solid stone house at the western end of the high street, close to the Tithe Gate.

‘Send anyone over there yet?’

‘Sir, she’s Gurren’s daughter. Gurren was married to Captain Shellas.’

‘And?’

‘And Gurren’s got no love for Legion. Or ex-Legion. I doubt we could get in the door.’

‘But she needs to be told, sergeant. Out of decency, she needs to know.’

‘I expect she knows, sir. It’s been on everyone’s tongue all morning, this whole mess.’

Serap returned to her horse. She gestured Yeld close and kept her voice low as she said, ‘Was this Gurren’s work? Did the boy — Millick — rape his daughter, you think? Knock her up?’

Yeld clawed at his beard, squinting at the ground. ‘Gurren’s got a temper. And he used to be a smith — still has a hand in, so long as it ain’t Vatha or Legion work. But sir, no one wants to lose a smith. This town’s only got the one who ain’t working day and night for Lord Urusander. I admit, living here now, I’m pretty reluctant to stir up a wasp nest-’

‘A mason’s apprentice was murdered in the street, sergeant.’

‘And no one’s looking at Old Smith Gurren. That’s the problem.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Meaning I heard from one of last night’s High Gate guards that Osserc rode out two bells past midnight, trailing a spare mount and kitted for a journey. He ain’t come back, and it gets worse.’