Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

It was a woman, stripped naked. She was lying horizontally above a score of shafts; her head level as if it too had been pierced by a stake. He did not know why she had not simply slid down.

There was no obvious path to her. A stables cat might wend its way through but no grown man could. Ivis edged closer — he could see no one else about. With one boot he kicked at the nearest stake. His foot rebounded from it, proof that it had been driven deep.

‘I am not for you,’ the woman said.

Cursing in disbelief, Ivis stepped back. He drew out his sword.

‘Iron and wood,’ she said. ‘But iron never has anything good to say to wood, does it? It delivers the shout of wounding, and then it promises fire. Before iron, wood can only surrender, and so it does, each time, every time.’

‘What sorcery is this?’ Ivis demanded. ‘You cannot remain alive.’

‘How big do you imagine the world, Tiste? Tell me, how vast is darkness? How far does light reach? How much will shadow swallow? Is it all that your imagination promised? Is it less than you hoped for, more than you feared? Where will you stand? When will you stand? List for me your enemies, Tiste, in the name of friendship.’

‘You are no friend of mine,’ he growled. He had seen her breath in her words, pluming up into the night, and he could just make out the spike buried in the base of her skull. If that stake was the same height as all the others, then its tip pressed against the bone of her forehead, driven straight through her brain. She could not be alive.

‘It is, I think,’ she said, ‘the other way round. But then, I did not invite you. You are the intruder here, Tiste. You are the unwelcome guest. But I am here and that cannot be denied, and so I am bound to answer your questions.’

He shook his head.

‘The others are done with me,’ she said.

‘What are you?’

‘I am you when you sleep. When your thoughts drift and time is lost. I am there in each blink of your eyes — so swift, so brief. In that blink is the faith that all will remain as it was before, and the fear that it won’t. I lie with you when you’re drunk, when you are senseless, and your flesh meets mine and I rut with you all unknown, and take from you one more sliver of your life, for ever gone. And so you awaken less than what you were, each time, every time. I am-’

‘Stop!’

She fell silent.

He saw runnels of blood flow down the shafts beneath her, saw the gleaming pool those runnels flowed into. But none of this could be real. ‘Tell me your name.’

‘The Tiste have no name for me.’

‘Are you a goddess of the forest?’

‘The forest knows no goddess. The trees are too busy singing. Even as they die, they sing. They have no time for gods in the face of all this death.’

‘Who did this to you?’

‘Did what?’

He slashed with his sword, hacked through a broad sweep of the stakes. Splinters flew. He kicked at the stubs, pushed them aside, and stepped into the maze.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

He did not reply. Some things could not be countenanced. No decent man or woman could withstand the brutality of this apparition. Ivis no longer believed his own eyes. He did not think this night was his own. He did not think he was still in the world he knew. Something had happened; something had stolen his soul, or guided it astray. He was lost.

His blade scythed through stakes. He drew closer to her.

‘Iron and wood,’ she said.

Limbs aching, sweat sheathing his face, he reached her side. He looked down at her face and met the woman’s eyes.

She was not Tiste. He did not know what she was. Her eyes were slits, tilted upward at the outer corners. Her skin was white with blood loss. The tip of the stake piercing her skull had pushed through her forehead just above the eyes, breaking the skin. She smiled.

Ivis stood, chest heaving from his frenzied attack on the forest of stakes. He bled from splinters driven into his hands and forearms. This woman should be dead, but she wasn’t. He knew that he could not move her.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ he whispered.

‘There is nothing you can do,’ she said. ‘The forest is dying. The world comes to an end. All that you know will break apart. Fragments will spin away. There is no need to weep.’

‘Can you not — can you not stop it?’

‘No. Neither can you. Every world must die. The only question is: will it be you who wields the knife that slays it? I see an iron blade in your hand. I smell the smoke of woodfires upon your clothes. You are of the people of the forge, and you have beaten your world to death. I have no interest in saving you, even if I could.’

Suddenly he wanted to strike her. He wanted her to feel pain — his pain. And all at once he realized, with a shock, that he was not the first one to feel as he did. The anger collapsed inside him. ‘You tell me nothing I do not already know,’ he said, face twisting at the bitterness he heard in his own words.

‘This is my gift,’ she said, and smiled again.

‘And in receiving that gift, all we can do is hurt you.’

‘It is not me whom you hurt, Captain Ivis.’

‘Then you feel no pain?’

‘Only yours.’

He turned away then. A long walk awaited him, back to the keep; a walk from one world to another. It would take the rest of the night. He wanted to believe the best of people, even the Deniers. But what they had done appalled him. He could make no sense of the sorcery they had awakened, or what ghastly rites they had conducted in this secret place. He did not know how they had found her; if they had conjured her up out of the earth, or from the blood of sacrifices.

He reached the edge of the clearing, made his way up the avenue of deformed trees, feeling as if he was being spat out, flung back into a colourless, lifeless world. The forest was suddenly dull around him, and he thought, if he dared halt, if he dared pause and draw a breath, he would hear the trees singing. Singing as they died.

Malice sat with her sisters in the bolt-hole they had found under the kitchen. Directly overhead was the bakery, and the stone foundation of the huge oven formed the back wall of the tiny room. Where they crouched now, milled flour sifted down from the floorboards each time someone thumped past overhead, and in the low light from the small lantern set on a ledge, it seemed the air was filled with snow.

‘If only she wasn’t a hostage,’ Envy said. ‘I’d cut her face.’

‘Drop coals on it when she’s sleeping,’ Spite said.

‘Make her ugly,’ Malice added, enjoying the game even though they played it all the time, hiding in the secret rooms of the house, drawing close together like witches, or crows, while people walked above them all unknowing and stupid besides.

‘Poison would be perfect,’ Spite began but Envy shook her head and said, ‘Not poison. Malice is right. Make her ugly. Make her have to live with it for the rest of her life.’

Weeks past, they had hidden in the corner tower opposite the one Arathan used to hide in, and had watched the arrival of the new hostage. Envy had been furious when Malice had commented on how pretty the woman was, and this had begun things: the plans to ruin that beauty. So far, of course, nothing had been done — just words — since it was as Envy had said. Sandalath Drukorlat was a hostage and that meant she couldn’t be touched.

But it was still fun planning, and if accidents happened, well, they just happened, didn’t they?

‘She’s too old to be a hostage,’ Spite said. ‘She’s ancient. We were supposed to get a proper hostage, not her.’

‘A boy would have been best,’ said Envy. ‘Like Arathan, only younger. Someone we could hunt down and corner. Someone too weak to stop us doing anything we wanted to him.’