Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘They will seek to twist you with their words,’ Draconus said. ‘Be wary of their sharp wits.’

‘I know them,’ she repeated. Then she straightened and shook herself. Facing Arathan she said, ‘Son of Draconus, let not your longing blind you to what you own.’ She gathered up her sodden furs and turned to the doorway, and was motionless for a moment, staring out into the hissing torrent of rain. Her hands became fists. ‘Like the rain, I will weep my way across the valley,’ she said. ‘Grief and rage will guide my fists with thunder, with lightning, as befits the goddess of love. All must flee before my path.’

‘Be careful,’ said Draconus. ‘Not every tower is empty.’

She looked back at him. ‘Suzerain, forgive my harsh words. Your path ahead is no less treacherous.’

He shrugged. ‘We are ever wounded by truths, Kilmandaros.’

She sighed. ‘Easier to fend off lies. But none comfort me now.’

‘Nor me,’ Draconus replied.

She slung her furs about her, and then set out into the gloom beyond.

‘I wish,’ said Arathan into the heavy silence that followed the fading thud of her footsteps, ‘that you had left me at home.’

‘Grief is a powerful weapon, Arathan, but all too often it breaks the wielder.’

‘Is it better, then, to armour oneself in regrets?’ He glanced up to see his father’s dark eyes studying him intently. ‘Perhaps I am easily understood,’ Arathan continued, ‘and to you I can offer no advice. But your words of caution which you offered her, well, I think she gave them in return. You can’t fix everything, Father. Is it enough to be seen to try? I don’t know how you would answer that question. I wish I did.’

From somewhere in the distance sounded the rumble of thunder.

Arathan began preparing their evening meal.

Moments later a thought struck him, and it left him cold. He glanced over to see his father standing in the doorway, staring out into the rain. ‘Father? Have Azathanai moved and lived among the Tiste?’

Draconus turned.

‘And if so,’ Arathan continued, ‘are they somehow able to disguise themselves?’

‘Azathanai,’ said his father, ‘dwell wherever they choose, in any guise they wish.’

‘Is Mother Dark an Azathanai?’

‘No. She is Tiste, Arathan.’

He returned to his cooking, adding more chips to the fire, but the chill would not leave him. If a goddess of love had cruel children, he wondered, by what names would they be known?

The morning broke clear. Still wearing his armour and shouldering his axe, Haut led Korya down into the valley, and the Abandoned City of the Jaghut. Varandas had departed in the night, whilst Korya slept and dreamed of dolls clawing the insides of the wooden trunk, as she wept and told them again and again that she would not bury them alive — but for all her cries she could find no means of opening the trunk, and her fingers bled at the nails, and when she lifted her head she discovered that she too was trapped inside a box. Panic had then startled her awake, to see her master sitting beside the makeshift hearth Varandas had made in the night.

‘The wood is wet,’ he had told her as she sat up, as if she had been responsible for the rain.

Trembling in the aftermath of the dream, she had set about preparing a cold breakfast. The chamber stank of the smoke that had filled the tower the night before, since there had been no aperture to draw it away except for the entrance, where the rain had formed a seemingly impenetrable wall. As they chewed the dried meat and hard bread, Korya had glared across at her master and said, ‘I have no desire to visit anyone known as the Lord of Hate.’

‘I share the sentiment, hostage, but visit him we must.’

‘Why?’

Haut flung the crust of the bread he had been gnawing on into the hearth, but as there was no fire the crust simply fell among the wet sticks and soaked logs. The Jaghut frowned. ‘With your vicious and incessant assault upon my natural equanimity, you force upon me the necessity of a tale, and I so dislike telling a tale. Now, hostage, why should that be so?’

‘I thought I was the one asking questions.’

Haut waved a hand in dismissal. ‘If that conceit comforts you, so be it. I am not altered in my resolve. Now tell me, why do I dislike tales?’

‘Because they imply a unity that does not exist. Only rarely does a life have a theme, and even then such themes exist in confusion and uncertainty, and are only described by others once that life has come to an end. A tale is the binding of themes to a past, because no tale can be told as it is happening.’

‘Just so,’ Haut nodded. ‘Yet what I would speak of this morning is but the beginning of a tale. It is without borders, and its players are far from dead, and the story is far from finished. To make matters even worse, word by word I weave truths and untruths. I posit a goal to events, when such goals were not understood at the time, nor even considered. I am expected to offer a resolution, to ease the conscience of the listener, or earn a moment or two of false comfort, with the belief that proper sense is to be made of living. Just as in a tale.’

Korya shrugged. ‘By this you mean to tell me that you are a poor teller of tales. Fine, now please get on with it.’

‘It may surprise you, but your impertinence pleases me. To an extent. The young seek quick appeasement and would flit like hummingbirds from one gaudy flower to the next, and so long as the pace remains torrid, why, they deem theirs a worthy life. Adventure and excitement, yes? But I have seen raindrops rush down a pane of glass with similar wit and zeal. And I accord their crooked adventure a value to match.’

She nodded. ‘The young are eager for experience, yes, and seek it in mindless escapade. I grasp your point. Only a fool would bemoan an audience with someone called the Lord of Hate, if only to boldly survive the enticement of his regard.’

‘I pity all the future victims in your path, hostage. Now then, the tale, which I will endeavour to make succinct. What are the Azathanai? Observe the brevity of my answer: none know. Whence did they come? Even they cannot make answer. What is their purpose? Must they have one? Do we, after all? Do you see how the seduction of the tale invites such simplistic notions? Purpose — bah! Never mind. These things you must know: the Azathanai are powerful, in ways not even the Jaghut understand. They are contrary and ill-inclined to society. They are subtle in their proclamations, so that often what they claim to be is in fact the antithesis of what they are. Or seem to be, or not.’

Korya rubbed at her face. ‘A moment, master. Is this the tale?’

‘It is, wretched girl. I seek to give you knowledge.’

‘Useful knowledge?’

‘That depends.’

‘Oh.’

‘Now. The Azathanai. Even that name is in error, as it implies a culture, a unity of form if not purpose. But the Azathanai do not wear flesh as we do, trapped as we are within what was given us and what we can make of it. No, they can choose any form they wish.’

‘Master, you describe gods, or demons, or spirits.’

Haut nodded. ‘All of your descriptions are apt.’

‘Can they be killed?’

‘I do not know. Some are known to have disappeared, but that is all that can be said of that.’

‘Go on, master. I am intrigued in spite of myself.’

‘Yes, the hint of power is always seductive. So. Among the Azathanai there was one who now names himself K’rul.’

‘Now? By what name was he known before?’

‘Keruli. The transformation lies at the heart of this tale. Among the Dog-Runners, the name of Keruli is understood to be living, of the present, as it were. But in passing, in turning about and striding into the past, Keruli must become K’rul.’