Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

He saw no one about, none upon whom he could call for help — although of late they had been less inclined to give it. Their hearts were hardening to him, as he knew they would. Sympathy surrendered to pity and pity gave way to contempt and disgust. He would have to leave here soon. They might well decide to stop feeding him, or bathing him, or carrying him about. People were the same everywhere, no matter what lofty vows they proclaimed. Help was given only in the hope of its being reciprocated. Expectations of reward lurked behind every act of altruism. But he had nothing to offer them, nothing but more need, more weakness, more misery.

They saw his body and thought his mind crippled. And they were fools to think that way.

He intended to use that in bringing down House Dracons, and then his rival scholars in their rich homes and crowded lecture halls, and then, if he could, Mother Dark herself.

Yes, everything has changed. There is a virtue to imperfection, a place of hidden strength and will. The broken find cunning in the confession. The wounded unveil their wounds and sup well on the pity. See this hitching gait. Follow me down into death.

He reached the front doors and paused. Red blushes filled his head in pulsing waves. He was layered in sweat and its smell was wretched. His remaining leg quivered under him. None to carry me. They will pay for that. He struggled with the latch. Nothing was easy any more. They should have given him a servant.

I’ve fallen through the ice.

The thought made him scowl. He finally managed to open the door. Beyond, in radiating heat, the packed white dust of the compound was blinding, making Sagander flinch. He waited for his eyes to adjust, but it seemed that he could not slow his breathing, which remained fast and tight.

Thirty paces opposite him was the main gate. A small grilled window was at head-height and the mistress stood at it, with armed monks flanking her. More of the brothers lined the wooden walkways near the top of the defensive wall. On the crenellated roofs of the corner towers, the arbalests were loose on their swivels, bolts loaded and the heavy weapons held at the ready by watchful crews. The raw belligerence of the scene shocked him.

He made his way out, angling slightly sideways to take the steps. He saw a brother standing nearby. The young man was rethreading a strap on his left vambrace. Sagander lurched over to him. ‘Are we at war, brother?’

The man glanced up. ‘Tutor. You have made quite a journey to come out here. I commend you, sir.’

Sagander fought back a sneer. ‘Next you’ll be expecting me to join you hoeing the rows.’ The answering smile was simply irritating. ‘You did not answer my question, brother.’

‘Our faith is being tested,’ he replied, shrugging.

‘With whom does the mistress treat?’

‘An officer of the Legion company, I would imagine.’

‘Urusander’s Legion — yes, I know that. But which company? Who commands? Is this one of the disbanded companies or a garrison gone astray?’

The man shrugged a second time. ‘If you will excuse me, sir, we’re to make a showing along the wall.’ He set off at a jog.

Sagander reached up and wiped sweat from his brow. The sun and heat were making him feel ill.

The window’s door thudded shut at the gate and he looked over to see the mistress wheel about and march back towards the abbey. She comes straight to me. I could have stayed in the doorway, in the shade. Watching her approach, he saw fury in her dark visage and almost quailed before it.

Before he could speak, she said, ‘Get under cover, tutor. This could get messy.’ And then she was past him, up the steps and inside.

Sagander glared after her, feeling a fool. He’d thought she was coming to speak to him, but the truth was, he’d simply been in her path. Another slight. One of many. These things add up. Ignoring her command, he set out across the compound, towards the gate.

Horses thundered briefly on the other side, but the sound quickly drew away. The delegation was retreating back to Abara Delack. He cursed under his breath and then reconsidered. No. Better this way.

Only one monk remained at the gate itself and he regarded Sagander curiously. ‘Nothing to see any more, sir,’ he said.

‘I’m leaving.’

‘Sir?’

‘You have all been most gracious to me. Do convey my appreciation to the mistress and to all of your brothers. But I have no desire to be trapped in a siege. This is not my battle and I am needed in Kharkanas.’

‘I see that you have none of your possessions, sir-’

‘Send them on when you next have the opportunity. Is it safe beyond this gate — there is no risk in lifting the bar for me?’

‘None, sir. They have left for the moment. Tutor, I feel I should perhaps speak with the mistress first.’

‘I just did, brother — did you not see? She has given me leave. Now, you must understand, the walk into the town will be arduous enough for me. I would venture it now, while I still have the strength, for I tire greatly once dusk arrives.’

‘Then fare you well, sir. I regret we cannot take you down in a wagon.’

‘I fully understand, brother. Do you not all insist I take as much exercise as possible?’

‘But you refused more often than not, sir. I wonder if you are ready.’

‘I eschew exercise for its own sake, brother. Necessity is all I need to become fit.’

The monk lifted the latch and pushed open one of the gate doors.

His smile fixing against all the aches and the misery, Sagander made his way past the man, hobbling through with as much haste as possible. He feared at any moment a shout from the compound, and then hands dragging him back. Instead, he heard the door shut behind him, followed by the heavy settling of the bar.

As easy as that. Mistress, your children are fools.

If servants of Mother Dark were eager to spill Denier blood, they were welcome to it. They could spill all they wanted here, until the blood ran in rivers down this treacherous cobbled road. But the river god was old, appallingly old. It had power and it would understand rage, and vengeance. I have read enough to know. The old cults are blood cults. They thrive on it. They feed on savagery and violence. The god’s river will hold ten thousand bloated corpses on its bosom, and still yearn for more.

Mother Dark, strike your first blows. Kill the brothers and sisters. Slay the mistress here, it’s all she deserves. But this war’s last blow will not be yours.

River god, I will deliver the blood you need. This I promise.

He would find the commander of this company. Crippled though Sagander’s body might be, his mind was not.

There were hidden ways into the monastery, and he knew them all.

A blood bargain, in the name of vengeance. The river god understood. The river god blessed him in this betrayal.

Every step was torture. The commander would feed him, offer him wine. Find him a comfortable chair and a bed and a woman or two — why not? He would earn such rewards. A religious war, when what we had feared was something different, something more confused. Instead, we get this. Simple, the lines sharply drawn and mutual slaughter the only way through.

He imagined himself, at the end, emerging from the smoke and ashes, on a road like this one, with naught but charred bones left in his wake. His rivals dead, their opinions meaningless, their judgements a wasted breath. Draconus: Consort to a corpse. Arathan, gutted, with his entrails wrapped round the shaft of a spear. Raskan — so gentle in pouring hot blood down Sagander’s throat — well, he would drown in the same. And as for the Borderswords… Ville and Galak had been kindly enough, though misers with their commiseration. In return, he would spare them little when their time came.