Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

In every tale, truths could be found, dull as river stones in a gem-laden mosaic. They needed only prising loose, out of the gaudy clutter and poetic trappings. Among the ancient songs, locked by the extraordinary memory of the Thel Akai, secrets waited.

Krissen understood the First Age now; not in its details, but in its broadest strokes. Everything began with the Azathanai, who walked worlds in the guise of mortals, but were in truth gods. They created. They destroyed. They set things into motion, driven by a curiosity which often waned, leaving to the fates all that followed. They displayed perverse impulses; they viewed one another with indifference or suspicion, yet upon meeting often displayed extraordinary empathy. They held to unwritten laws on sanctity, territorial interests and liberty, and they played with power as would a child a toy.

She could not be certain, but she suspected that one of them had created the Jaghut. That another had answered in kind with the Tiste. Forulkan, Thel Akai, perhaps even the Dog-Runners, were all fashioned by the will of an Azathanai. Created like game pieces in an eternal contest, mysterious in its conditions of victory, in which few strategies were observable. Their interest in this contest rarely accounted outcomes.

But even as they stood outside time, so too did time prove immune to their manipulations, and now, at last, they had begun suffering its depredations. Deeds accumulated, and each one carried weight. She was certain that the Jaghut had created the Jhelarkan, elaborating on the Azathanai gift of Soletaken, and among the Dog-Runners there were now Bonecasters, shamans powerful enough to challenge the Azathanai. Gods were rising from the created peoples — their own gods. Whatever control the Azathanai had once held over their creations was fast tearing free.

She had heard about the mysterious Azathanai who had come to Kharkanas, and even now, among sages and priests, an awareness was emerging that unknown powers were within the reach of mortals. The world was changing. The game had broken away from the players.

Krissen saw before them now the beginning of a new age, one in which all the created peoples could define their own rules.

Hearing something like low thunder from the window, she rose, arching to work the kinks out of her back, and then walked to the lone window where the dawn’s light now paled the sky beyond. She looked down to see hundreds of riders converging on the village below.

For a long moment she simply stared, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. The riders broke up to pour into the streets, and down alleys and tracks. She saw figures appearing from their homes, saw some running from the path of the riders, and then came the flash of iron, or the thrust of lances, and bodies fell to the dirt.

Like pieces on a board. Moves made and then countered. Pieces falling. Faintly now, she could hear screams, and the first column of smoke lifted into the morning sky.

She had nothing of Gallan’s artistry with words, and the more she saw, the more words failed her, each one arriving in her mind listless and pallid. She was a scholar, one whom ideas inspired more than execution, and to put her thoughts into words, upon parchment, had always been a struggle.

Even in her head, her sense of the Azathanai was almost formless, a thing of impressions and strange upwelling emotions. Her failure had always been in the marriage of imagination with the pragmatic. And now, as she watched the slaughter below, and saw the first riders climbing the cobbled track leading up to Riven Keep — an edifice undefended and virtually unoccupied — she felt incapable of binding these details to any personal impetus.

A new age was upon them. How can you not see that? How can you not understand? I have made discoveries. It was all there, in the stories and the songs. Such discoveries!

The keep gate isn’t even closed.

Instincts had reared, beast-like, and now Risp felt herself knocked about on her saddle, her lance dragging and stuttering heavily on the cobbles, yanking her arm back. Impaled on the weapon was a boy of about five years of age. He had darted out from behind a rag cart, almost into her path, and she had struck without thought, and now his limp body was skewered, his limbs flopping as his weight pulled at her.

A sob broke from her throat, a sound broken with horror. She bit back on it. The lance head stabbed into the ground again and this time she relaxed her grip, releasing the weapon. Directly ahead was a heavily pregnant woman, pulling two children with her as she ran down the alley.

Something cold and empty drove all thoughts from Risp, and she felt her hand draw free her longsword, saw the blade flash in front of her.

As she closed on the three, she saw the woman throw both children ahead of her, screaming ‘ Run! ’ And then she spun round, leaping into the path of Risp’s horse.

The impact sent the woman flying back, to land stunned on the cobbles.

Risp’s horse staggered, coughing, forelegs folding under it. As it collapsed, Risp kicked her boots free of the stirrups and rolled from the saddle. She struck the ground on her right shoulder, felt the sword clatter away from a senseless hand, and came up against the wall of a building. Looking up, she saw her sergeant ride past, slashing down at the nearest of the two children, who fell without a sound. The other child, a girl of about four, wheeled to rush to her fallen sister, and came within reach of the sergeant’s sword. He cut down across the back of her neck and she crumpled like a doll.

Picking herself up, Risp collected her sword, left-handed, and awkwardly readied the weapon. Only now did she see the handle of a knife, its blade embedded in the chest of her dying horse. Fury took hold and she advanced on the pregnant woman. ‘You killed my horse!’ she shouted.

The pregnant woman lifted her head and met Risp’s eyes. Her face twisted and she spat at Risp.

She hacked the woman down with repeated blows.

Beyond them, at the alley mouth, the sergeant had reined in and spun his horse round. He seemed about to shout something, and then a figure leapt down from the roof to the sergeant’s left, colliding with the veteran and dragging him from the saddle. Blood sprayed the moment before they struck the cobbles, and the figure rose into a crouch, glaring across at Risp.

A young woman of sixteen or so. She dragged free a long-bladed knife from under the sergeant’s ribcage, and then advanced on Risp.

Sensation was returning to the lieutenant’s right hand and she quickly changed grips, but her shoulder was throbbing and weak. She backed away.

The girl bared her teeth. ‘You armoured and all! Don’t run, you filthy murderer!’

Another rider came up behind Risp, but had to slow his mount since Risp’s dead horse blocked the alley. ‘Back up, sir!’ he snapped. ‘Leave the pup to me!’

She saw that he was one of the sergeant’s comrades, Bishim. His face looked almost black beneath his helm, contorted with rage. He slipped down from his horse and drew his shield to the ready as he advanced on the girl, pointing with his sword. ‘For Darav, I’m going to make this hurt.’

The girl laughed. ‘Come at me, then.’

Bishim charged behind his shield, slashing with his sword.

The girl somehow slipped past and then was clambering on to the man’s kite shield. Her weight pulled it down and she stabbed her knife into the side of his neck. The point burst out the other side in a welter of blood. As Bishim fell to his knees, the girl sliced through the biceps of his weapon arm and laughed as the sword clanged on the stones. Then she stepped over the dying man and advanced on Risp.

The lieutenant threw her sword at the girl and then ran, grasping the reins of Bishim’s horse as she went. With the beast between her and the girl in the narrow alley, she knew that she had a few moments in which to The girl used one wall to rebound from as she leapt to land astride the horse. Her knife slashed down and Risp felt her arm snap upward. Staggering, confused, she looked to see that its hand was gone, sliced clean off at the wrist, and blood was gushing out. Moaning, she fell back against the nearest wall. ‘Don’t,’ she said.