Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

But there were bodies lying on the sward, and a beaten retreat was marked out in dead Houseblades and matted grasses, straight to the house, and there, upon the steps Behind him someone cried out, but he did not recognize the voice.

The world was impossibly sharp around him, yet shaking as if jarred by repeated blows — but those sounded in his chest, and each beat was a fist against the cage of his ribs. The wound on his back bled anew. If a heart could have tears, then surely they were red.

He rode to the house and was down from his horse before it had stopped its frantic skid in the gore-flattened grasses. Limping past the body of Lord Jaen, through the doorway. The splash of blood on the walls, thick as mud on the tiled floor. Stumbling into the room, eyes struggling to fight the gloom, the brutal plunge from light into dark. One last fallen Houseblade — no, that was the Enes hostage, Cryl Durav, his chest broken open by sword-thrusts, one leg caked in blood, one hand mangled as it seemed to reach back towards the centre of the house. His face was twisted and almost unrecognizable, swollen and lined as an old man’s. Gripp stepped past him.

‘No further, I beg you,’ said a deep voice from the shadows of the main chamber.

Gripp reached for his sword.

‘I have kin to the fallen,’ continued the stranger. ‘Sadly injured. Asleep, or perhaps unconscious — I dare not test the gauge between the two.’

Behind Gripp, boots sounded at the entranceway.

‘I am come late to this scene,’ the voice said, ‘but not as late as you, friend.’

Gripp realized that he had sunk down to his knees. His injured leg threatened to give way entirely and he set a hand down to steady himself. He heard his own breathing, too harsh, too dry, riding grief and fighting horror.

A dog trotted out from the shadows of one corner, where Gripp could now make out huddled forms. The half-starved creature halted before him, and then sat with ears laid back. Gripp frowned. He knew this dog.

‘Ribs,’ he heard himself say. ‘I missed you at the Hold. You and Rancept both.’

A scrabbling sounded from the corner and a moment later a figure staggered into view, both hands held out and groping in the air. ‘ Who comes? ’ the figure shrieked. The cry echoed in the chamber and Gripp flinched. No question could sound more plaintive; no need could sound so helpless, and yet none answered.

Behind Gripp stood Anomander — a presence sensed but not seen, but Gripp did not doubt. His lord spoke. ‘Kadaspala-’

The blind man lunged towards Anomander, and only then did Gripp see the dagger in Kadaspala’s hand.

He rose swiftly and grasped hold of Kadaspala’s wrist, and twisted hard.

Another shriek rang through the room, and the knife clattered on the stones. Gripp forced Kadaspala to the floor and held him there as he would a raging child.

Straining against the hold, Kadaspala lifted his head, and blood-crusted sockets seemed to fix unerringly upon Anomander. The mouth opened and then closed, and then opened once more, like a wound. Red teeth offered up a ghastly smile. ‘Anomander? I have been expecting you. We all have. We have a question, you see. Just one, and we all ask it — all of us here. Anomander, where were you? ’

Someone began howling at the hearthstone, a braying, hoarse howl that erupted again and again.

Kadaspala struggled and tried to reach for his knife on the floor. Gripp dragged him back and threw him down on to the pavestones. He set the weight of one knee on the man’s chest and then leaned close. ‘Another move like that,’ he said, ‘and I’ll cut you down. Understand me, sir?’

But Kadaspala’s mouth was gaping, as if he could not breathe. Gripp drew his knee away. Still the man gaped, those horrid sockets bleeding anew. All at once, Gripp understood what he was seeing. He cries. Without sound, without tears, he cries.

Another figure stood in the gloom. Huge, brooding. Gripp looked up and his voice was a rasp, ‘Who is that? In the shadows? Come forth!’

‘It is only Grizzin Farl,’ the stranger replied, stepping closer. Though tears glistened in his red beard, he somehow smiled. ‘I am known as the Protector.’

Gripp stared up at the giant, unable to speak. Shattered by that smile, he tore his gaze away and looked across to his lord.

Anomander stood with his head turned, his eyes fixed upon the prostrate form of Andarist. He was motionless, as if carved from onyx. His brother’s howls continued unabated.

Silchas appeared, halted a half-dozen paces back from the hearthstone. He stared down at Enesdia’s body, lying motionless and ruined beside Andarist. Behind him came others. None spoke.

Beneath Gripp, Kadaspala continued his silent, horrifying weeping. The fingers of his right hand made small scribing patterns against the floor. Shudders rippled through the man, as if fevers burned in his skull.

When Anomander drew the sword from the scabbard at his side, Andarist lifted his head, his howls cutting off abruptly, although the echo of the last lingered for what seemed an impossibly long time.

Anomander walked towards Andarist, his strides uneven — as if he was drunk — and halted near the hearthstone. Before he could speak, Andarist shook his head and said, ‘I will name it.’

Anomander stiffened at his brother’s cold pronouncement.

Silchas spoke. ‘Andarist, the weapon is not yours-’

‘The wound is mine and I will name it!’

Beneath Gripp, Kadaspala cackled softly, and held his head cocked, to better hear the words being spoken now by these three brothers.

Anomander said, ‘And if I name my future, Andarist, will you doubt me? Will you challenge me?’

‘Not now,’ whispered Silchas to Andarist. ‘Not on this day, I beg you.’

‘Where were you?’ Kadaspala asked again, in a broken voice. ‘Blind in the darkness — I warned you all but you refused to heed me! I warned you! Now see what she has made!’

On his knees, Andarist moved up alongside Enesdia’s body. With tenderness that was aching to witness, he gathered her up in his arms and held her head against his breast. He did all this without once breaking his gaze upon Anomander. ‘I will name it,’ he said.

‘The sword is drawn, brother, as you can see. I am awakened to vengeance, and so shall this weapon be named. Vengeance.’

But Andarist shook his head, one hand stroking Enesdia’s hair. ‘Anger blinds you, Anomander. You take hold of vengeance and you believe it to be pure. Remember Henarald’s words!’

‘The road is true,’ Anomander said.

‘No,’ said Andarist, and tears glistened in streams down his cheeks. ‘Vengeance deceives. When you see its road to be narrow it is in truth wide. When you see it wide the path is less than a thread. Name your sword Vengeance, brother, and it will ever claim the wrong blood. In this blade’s wake, I see the death of a thousand innocents.’ He paused, looked round woodenly, as if not even seeing what met his eyes. ‘Who is to blame for this? The slayers who came to this house? Those who commanded them? The lust of battle itself? Or was it a father’s cruelty to his child a dozen years ago? A stolen meal, a dead mother? An old wound? An imagined one? Vengeance, Anomander, is the slayer of righteousness.’

‘I need not reach to a childhood’s tragedy, brother, to know who has made himself my enemy on this day.’

‘Then you shall fail,’ Andarist said. ‘Vengeance is not pure. It rewards with a bitter aftertaste. It is a thirst that cannot be assuaged. Leave me to name your sword, Anomander. I beg you.’

‘Brother-’

‘Leave me to name it!’

‘Then do so,’ Anomander said.

‘Grief.’

The word hung forlorn in the chamber, amidst breaths drawn and then surrendered, and it stung like smoke.