Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

Kellaras understood little of it. He felt as if the world had been jostled, throwing them all about, and balance underfoot remained uncertain, as if even nature’s laws were now unreliable. The priesthood was in chaos. Faith was becoming a battlefield and rumours delivered tales of blood spilled in the forests, Deniers murdered in their huts. And in this time, as far as Kellaras could tell, his lord had done nothing. Planning his brother’s wedding, as would a father, if the father still lived. Awaiting his new sword, which he seems disinclined to hold, much less use.

Prazek and Dathenar get drunk every night, taking whores and priestesses to their beds, and if their eyes are haunted — when caught in a moment of reverie — then in that private silence is where dwells the frightful cause, and nowhere else.

Kellaras now walked with his lord, with Henarald and Galar Baras behind them, and the corridors seemed damp and musty, the tapestries smelling of mould, the stone slick underfoot. Kellaras imagined a swamp rising to take Kharkanas, a siege of water against soil and every wall undermined beneath placid surfaces.

The rumours swirling round Urusander’s Legion were, to the captain’s mind, the most disturbing ones of them all. Entire companies had departed their garrisons, and the standards of disbanded companies had been seen above troops in the outlands. Hunn Raal had left Kharkanas in the night and his whereabouts were unknown.

When faiths take knife in hand, surely every god must turn away.

He had never given much thought to the Deniers. They were people of the forest and the river, of broken denuded hills. Their skin was the colour of whatever ground they squatted upon, their eyes the murky hue of streams and bogs. They were furtive and uneducated, bound to superstitions and arcane, secret rituals. He could not imagine them capable of the conspiracy of infiltration now being levelled against them.

They approached the Chamber of Night, where the air in the corridor was unseemly cold, smelling of clay.

‘She is indeed assailed,’ said Henarald behind them.

Anomander raised a hand and halted. He faced the Lord of Hust. ‘This is indifference, sir.’

‘No reverence given to stone and avenue, then? Even should they lead to her presence?’

‘None by her,’ the First Son replied, studying Henarald and the wrapped weapon cradled in the old man’s arms.

‘What of her temples?’

‘The priests and priestesses know them well, sir, and by their nightly moans and thrashing would sanctify by zeal alone. You will have to query them directly as to their measures of success.’

‘First Son, then it seems we are in tumult.’

‘Lord, where is to be found the Hust Legion?’

Henarald blinked, as if caught off guard by Anomander’s question. ‘Afield to the south, First Son.’

‘When last did you have word of them?’

‘The commander departed from Hust Forge some days back.’ He turned to Galar Baras. ‘Were you not present at her leaving, Galar?’

The young man looked suddenly uncomfortable, but he nodded. ‘I was, Lord. Toras Redone rides to the legion, but not in haste. At that time, there was nothing untoward upon the horizon.’

Anomander’s gaze settled on Galar Baras for a moment, and then he swung round and resumed walking.

Kellaras moved to catch up, hearing, behind them, Henarald address Galar Baras. ‘When we are done here, lieutenant, you will ride in haste to the Hust Legion.’

‘Yes sir. And what news shall I bring them?’

‘News? Has life in the city dulled you so, sir? Heed well my words if you choose to heed not the First Son’s. Civil war is upon us, lieutenant. Mother Dark calls upon the Hust Legion. Tell this to Commander Toras Redone: the scales are awry and Urusander steps blind, but each step remains one on the march. The weight of the Hust should give him pause, and perchance a moment of reflection and reconsideration.’

‘None of this is Urusander,’ pronounced Anomander without turning.

Henarald snorted. ‘Forgive me, First Son, but only the man who knows well his warhorse gives it freedom of rein.’

‘If Hunn Raal is a warhorse, Lord Hust,’ said Anomander, ‘then pray Urusander’s boots are firm on the stirrups, for indeed does he ride blind.’

They reached the doors and once more Anomander paused. ‘Lord Hust, it is as my brother Silchas said. Such is her power that you shall not leave the chamber the man who entered it.’

Henarald’s shrug did little to convey calm. ‘My hide is too long whetted on iron and age, sir, to have me regret new stains.’

‘I spoke nothing of stains, sir.’

The old man lifted his head sharply, as if affronted. ‘Shall I fear faith upon her threshold, First Son?’

‘This place above any other place, Lord Hust.’

‘Would I had never accepted,’ Henarald said in a frustrated rasp, his eyes glaring as they fell to the sword in his arms. ‘See how I hold this as if it were a child? Even unthinking, I betray a father’s terror, and you dare question my faith? I am unmanned too late to challenge this birth, and so must take every next step like a soul condemned. Galar Baras, will you bear the weight of an old man on this threshold?’

‘No sir, but I will bear the strength of my lord’s will and not easily yield.’

Henarald sighed. ‘As the future carries the past, so the son carries the father. Will it take a sword such as this one to sever that burden, I wonder?’

Anomander seemed shaken by these words, but he said nothing and turned, reaching for the latch.

When Silchas Ruin, coming upon the captain from behind, set a hand upon Scara Bandaris’s back, the man flinched and stepped quickly to one side. Seeing who stood behind him, he relaxed and smiled. ‘Ah, friend, forgive me. These pups have been snarling and squabbling all morning, and my nerves are fraught. Even worse, I must teach myself anew the cadence of the court, for I have been among soldiers for too long and have the bluntness of their manner upon me, like the dust of travel. Thus, you find me out of sorts.’

Silchas looked down into the courtyard. ‘I see well the cause of your skittishness, Scara, and now fear that fleas ride you and so regret I ever came close.’

Scara laughed. ‘Not as yet, Silchas, not as yet. But you see why I long to be quit of these rank charges. To make matters worse, none here in the Citadel will take the leashes.’

‘And so you importune my attendance on the matter. I understand your desperation.’

‘By any gauge, Silchas, my desperation cannot be measured in full. Tell me, did we ever expect the Jheleck to accede to our demand with these hostages?’

‘Some smug negotiator thought it a sharp retort, no doubt,’ Silchas mused, eyeing the score of filthy, snarling youths in the yard. ‘I would wager he rides an overburdened wagon into the hills even as we speak.’

Scara grunted, and then said, ‘Such betrayal warrants tracking hounds, I say, and let him beg on his knees the presumption of his suggestions, as if I will show mercy.’

‘The scribes will see the end to us sooner or later, Scara, with numbers in column and fates aligned in ordered lists, and on that day it shall be you and I on the run, with howls on our heels and nowhere civil in which to hide our sorry selves.’

Scara nodded agreement. ‘And under dark skies we shall fall, side by side.’

‘In companionship alone, I welcome such an end.’

‘And I, friend. But name yourself my salvation here, if you can, and I’ll know eternal gratitude.’

‘Careful, Scara. Eternity has teeth.’ He crossed his arms and leaned against one of the pillars forming the colonnade surrounding the keeper’s yard. ‘But I have for you a delicious solution, in which I hear echoes of old pranks and cruel jests from our days on the march and our nights before battle.’ He smiled when he saw his friend’s eyes alight in understanding, and then he nodded and continued, ‘It is said his familial estate is vast in expanse, feral upon the edges as befits its remote position, and given his pending marriage to a woman too beautiful and too young, why, I imagine dear Kagamandra Tulas will thrill to the challenge of taming these infernal whelps.’