Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘But this is the struggle towards order,’ Errastas continued, frowning at a shattered tile. ‘The imperative of organization, which is both laudable and pathetic. We have all resisted dissolution, in our own ways, and thus make of our lives bold assertions to purpose and meaning.’ He flung the tile away, and then picked up another one. ‘This pose we insist upon, Setch, is substance constructed as argument. Our flesh, our blood, our bone, our selves. I for one am not impressed.’

Sechul returned to the mound of rubble. He tugged loose rocks and swept up handfuls of earth. He made the hole bigger.

‘You can argue with nature and of course you will lose. You can argue with someone else and unless the wager is one of life or death, then the exercise is meaningless. Nature awaits us all, with emphatic solidity. All that is won is an illusion. All that is lost, you were doomed to lose anyway, eventually. They call the houses the Azath, and from this the Tiste name us, but we are not all worshippers of stone, are we, Setch?’

‘It seems,’ said Sechul, leaning back and wiping dirt from his battered hands, ‘that you have won this particular argument, Errastas.’

Grunting as he rose, Errastas made his way over. ‘I knew as much,’ he said. ‘Not even a Jaghut tower could withstand half a hill of earth and rock descending on it.’

Sechul Lath thought back to the power of his companion’s conjuration. The sorcery was brutal, and the sound it had made — like a clap of thunder inside the skull — still reverberated through his bones. ‘This could begin a war,’ he said.

‘I have purpose,’ Errastas replied, dropping into a crouch to peer into the small cave dug into the mound. ‘This may seem madness — murder often does. But this table I set will see multitudes gathering to the feast, dear brother of mine.’

‘Half-brother,’ corrected Sechul Lath, feeling the need to assert the distinction. ‘Will they thank you?’

Errastas shrugged. ‘They will gorge, friend, and grow fat and think not once upon the farmer, or the herder, or the one crushing the grapes. Nor will they muse on the maker of the utensils they wield, or the hand that hammered out their pewter plates. They will sit upon chairs that creak to their weight, and give no thought to the carpenter, or indeed the tree. They will listen to the rain upon the roof, and give no thanks to the mason. I do not seek notoriety, friend. I do not yearn for adulation. But I will remain the bringer of feasts.’

Sechul Lath rose, arching to work out the aches in his body, and then stepped back as Errastas crawled partway into the hole. His companion emerged dragging out the crushed corpse of the unknown Jaghut who had lived in the tower. The splintered ends of bones jutted from bruised and bloody flesh, making the broken body and its limbs look like shredded sacks. Some falling chunk of masonry had crushed the skull almost flat.

Errastas pulled the corpse into full view and then straightened, anchoring his hands on his hips. ‘I felt his death,’ he said, face flushed, ‘like a hand on my cock.’

Turning, half in disgust, Sechul Lath scanned the sky. It looked wrong to his eyes, but in a way he could not fathom. ‘I see no searchers,’ he said.

‘We have time,’ Errastas agreed. ‘K’rul gropes. He has not yet seen our faces. He does not yet know his quarry.’

‘This is his gift you abuse,’ Sechul observed. ‘I will not welcome his ire when he discovers what we are about.’

‘I will be ready for him. Don’t worry. A man bled out is a man left weak and helpless.’

‘I am already weary of running.’

Errastas laughed. ‘Our flight is about to become frenzied and desperate, Setch. Draconus comprehended — there, at the very end, I am sure of it. And even now he travels to the Lord of Hate. Will he confess his role in that first murder? I wonder.’

‘If he chooses silence,’ said Sechul, ‘then he will make the Lord of Hate his enemy.’

‘Do you not relish the thought of those two locked in battle? Mountains would break asunder, and seas rise to inundate half the world.’ Errastas took hold of two broken limbs and resumed dragging the corpse towards the heap of tiles.

‘Just as likely,’ said Sechul, ‘they join in alliance, and seek out K’rul as well, and then all set themselves upon our trail!’

‘I doubt that,’ Errastas said. ‘Why would you even think the Lord of Hate feels any affinity for his murdered kin? I see him sitting across from Draconus, weathering the Suzerain’s furious tirade, only to then invite the fool to a cup of tea. Besides, Draconus must return to his precious woman, bearing his precious gift, and in exquisite ignorance will he give it to her.’ With the body now beside the stacks of tiles he had singled out, Errastas knelt. He selected the tile from the top of the stack nearest him and, finding a large enough wound on the body, pushed it inside. ‘There is no ritual beyond repetition and a chosen sequence, yet we deem ritual to be a vital component to sorcery. Well, this new sorcery, that is. Of course, ritual does not create magic — all we do with ritual is comfort ourselves.’

‘It is the habit that comforts,’ Sechul Lath said.

‘And from habit is order found. Just so. I see a future full of fools-’

‘No different from the past, then. Or the present.’

‘Untrue, brother. The fools of the past were ignorant, and those of the present are wilfully obtuse. But the future promises a delightful rush into breathtaking idiocy. I charge you to become a prophet in our times, Setch. Be consistent in your predictions of folly and you will grow rich beyond avarice.’

‘A fine prediction, Errastas.’

Errastas was busy covering tile fragments in gore, studding the torn corpse with the flat stones. ‘Nature mocks all certainty but the one it embraces.’

‘Can you keep hiding us, Errastas?’

‘I doubt it. We must truly flee the lands of the Azathanai and the Jaghut.’

‘Then do we travel to the Jheck? The Dog-Runners? Surely not the Thel Akai!’

‘None of those, for the borders they share with the Azathanai. No, we must cross the sea, I think.’

Sechul Lath started, and then scowled. ‘Whither fled Mael? He will not welcome us.’

‘Indeed not,’ Errastas agreed. ‘I think… beyond his realm, even.’

‘The High Kingdom? Those borders are closed to the Azathanai.’

‘Then we must bargain our way into the demesne, friend. There must be good reason why the King is so beloved among his people. Let us make this our next adventure, and discover all the hidden truths of the High Kingdom and its perfect liege.’

Sechul Lath looked down at his friend. Blood painted red the man’s hands, but upon the soaked tiles the same blood had etched arcane symbols. No two tiles were alike. The rank smell of outrage was thick in the air. ‘Errastas, I was wondering, where did all that earth and rock come from?’

Errastas shrugged. ‘No idea. Why?’

‘I don’t know. Nothing, I suppose.’

Korya could hear rain rushing down stone in a steady torrent. She opened her eyes. It was dark. She was lying on a floor of cold pavestones that felt greasy to the touch. There was a heavy animal smell to the air, reminding her of the Jheleck. Bewildered, struggling to find her memory, she sat up.

Varandas was seated at a table, hunched over something he was working on. The tower’s interior was a single chamber, with an old wooden ladder rising from the centre of the room, leading to the roof. Haut was nowhere to be seen.

She coughed, and then coughed again, and all at once she recalled sitting at the fire, setting an ember to the pipe bowl as Haut had instructed, and then drawing hot smoke into her mouth, and then down into her lungs. Beyond that moment, there was a void. She glared over at Varandas. ‘Where is he?’