Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

Insects spun through the dusk. Behind him he heard Ville muttering something to Galak, and the smoke from the cookfire drifted past him, like serpents escaping another realm, fleeing off into the gathering darkness. He looked across to where he had left Raskan’s cloth-wrapped body. The hands were stretched out, bruised and swollen, and where the leather strings were tied round the wrists they now bit deep. Beyond them were the moccasins, lying on the grass. Draconus was free with his gifts indeed.

Urusander would find a way. He would crush the madness and force peace upon Kurald Galain. But blood would flow and the struggle would be arduous. If only the guilty died, then such deaths could be deemed just, and so make of each unfortunate murder an act of execution. Justice was at the heart of retribution, after all.

For too long had the highborn lounged, smug and complacent with the privileges that came with the wielding of power. But nothing of worth was given for free. Privilege was a bright weed growing on the spilled blood of the enslaved, and Rint saw nothing precious in such bitter flowers. When he looked ahead, he could think of nothing but smoke and flames, the only answers he had left.

It was Draconus’s noble blood that had yoked them all, dragging them through misery and unfeeling abuse. Without his title, he was no different from any of them. And yet they had bowed before him. They had knelt in deference, and by each and every such act they but served to confirm the Lord’s own sense of superiority. These were the rituals of inequity, and everyone knew their role.

He thought back to Tutor Sagander’s nonsense — the appalling lessons the old man had thrust upon Arathan on the first days out. The self-righteous could argue unto their last breath, so certain were they of their stance, and yet with outrage would they view any accusation of being self-serving. But smugness filled the silence after every pronouncement they made, as if condescension were virtue’s reward.

The Borderswords were men and women who had rejected the stilted rigidity of Kharkanas and sought out a rawer truth in the wild lands upon the very edge of civilization. They claimed to live under older laws, the kind that bound all forms of life, but Rint wondered now if the very sentiment had been forged on an anvil of lies. Innocence withered before knowing eyes just as it had once withered behind them. The first foot set upon virgin ground despoiled; the first touch stained; the first embrace broke the bones of the wild.

Outside House Dracons, it had been Ville — or was it Galak — who had bemoaned the slaughter of the beasts, and yet dreamed of taking the last creature by spear or arrow, if only to bring an end to its loneliness. That was a sentiment breathless in its stupidity and tragedy. It arrived as punctuation, and only idiotic silence could follow. And yet Rint knew the truth of it, and felt its heavy reverberation, like a curse to haunt his kind down the ages.

He would fight for justice. And, if need be, he would expose to the Borderswords the sordid delusion of their so-called neutrality. Life was a war against a thousand enemies, from the sustenance carved from nature to the insanity of a people’s will to do wrong in the name of right. His hands trembled, he now knew, from the blood they had spilled, and their eagerness to spill yet more.

There was a truth that came with standing as would a god, with eyes fixed upon the destruction his malign will had wrought. To be a god was to know utter loneliness, and yet find comfort in isolation. When one stood alone with nothing but power in one’s hands, violence was a seductive lure.

And now, dear Ville, I long for a spear to the back, an arrow to the throat.

Give me war, then. I have walked from complex truth to simple lie, and I cannot go back.

It is no crime to end a life that sees what it has lost.

The sun was a red smear to the west. Behind him, Galak announced that supper was ready, and Rint climbed to his feet. He looked across to his sister, but she had not turned at the invitation. He thought of the child growing within her, and felt only sadness. Another stranger. Blinking and then wailing to a new world. Only innocent before the first breath drawn. Only innocent until the birth of need and its desperate voice. A sound we all hear and will hear for the rest of our lives.

What god would not flee that?

‘We have company,’ said Ville, and, straightening, he drew out his sword.

Five beasts were approaching from the west. Tall as horses, but heavier in the way of predators. Black-furred with heads slung low, bearing collars of iron blades. Insects swarmed in clouds around them.

‘Sheathe your weapon,’ Rint told Ville. ‘Jheleck.’

‘I know what they are,’ snapped Ville.

‘And we are at peace.’

‘What we are, Rint, is four Borderswords alone on the plain.’

One of the huge wolves held the carcass of an antelope in its massive jaws. The antelope seemed small, like a hare in the mouth of a hunting dog. Rint shook his head. ‘Put the weapon away, Ville. If they wanted to kill us, they would have rushed in. The war is over. They were vanquished, and like any beaten dog they will yield to our command.’ But his mouth was dry, and the horses shifted uneasily as the Soletaken drew closer.

He felt something come to his eyes, stinging, and saw the five forms blur, as if melting into the dusk, only to reappear as fur-clad savages. They paused to remove their collars, the one bearing the carcass now throwing it over a shoulder. The cloud of flies lifted briefly, and then swept down once again.

During the wars, there had been few opportunities to look upon the Jheleck in their upright, sembled form. Even when a village was attacked, the fleeing non-combatants had quickly veered to aid their escape, and Rint recalled riding down many of them, pinning them to the earth with his lance and hearing their cries of pain amidst the snapping of their jaws. There had been much to admire and respect in the wolves they fought and killed. Individually, they were far more formidable than a Forulkan. Massed as armies, however, they had been next to useless. Jheleck were at their deadliest in small packs, such as the one that now drew to within a dozen paces of their camp.

Looking upon them now, however, Rint saw five savages, rank with filth and mostly naked under loose fur skins. The one bearing the antelope stepped closer and set the carcass down. Showing filthy teeth in a smile, he spoke in guttural Tiste. ‘Meat for your fire, Bordersword.’ Dark eyes shifted over to Ville. ‘We saw the flash of your blade and it amused us. But where is your memory? Our war is done, is it not?’ He waved a hand. ‘You cross Jheleck land and we permit it. We come to you as hosts, with food. But if you would rather fight, why, we will happily accept the challenge. Indeed, we even agree to stand against you on two legs, as you see us, to more even the odds.’

Rint said, ‘You offered us meat for our fire. Will you join us in the repast, Jhelarkan?’

The man laughed. ‘Just so. Peace and hostages, like jaws around the throat. We’ll not twitch, until it is time for the slave to turn on the master, and that time is not now.’ He looked back to his companions and they came forward. Eyes fixing on Rint once more, the savage said, ‘I am Rusk, blood kin to Sagral of the Derrog Clan.’

‘I am Rint, and with me are Feren, Ville and Galak.’

Rusk nodded at his sister. ‘We can use her tonight?’

‘No.’

‘Oh well,’ Rusk said, shrugging. ‘In truth, we did not expect you to share. Not the Tiste way. But if not her for the meat, then what gift will you offer us?’

‘Something in return, Rusk, at some other time. If that is not acceptable, then take back your gift and with it the word itself, for gift it is not.’