Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘Yes sir.’ Faror Hend dismounted and made her way to the bedraggled man her captain had singled out. He saw her coming and seemed to sag. When she gestured, he pulled away from the others and limped over on bandaged feet.

‘Do not fear us,’ Faror Hend said to him. ‘We are Wardens and would hear what news you have to tell.’

The man squinted at her, and then shrugged.

Together they re-joined Finarra Stone.

The captain wasted little time. ‘You are east of the monasteries, sir. What refuge do you people seek?’

‘They sent us away,’ said the man.

‘Who?’

‘The Shake. But first, they took our children. That was the bargain they offered. Food for us, and the promise that our young ones would be safe with them.’

‘And the elderly?’

The man shook his head, and then smiled as if at a joke. ‘Our mothers and fathers were of the wood and the river. They chose to remain. Now they are all dead.’

‘The Wardens cannot keep you,’ Finarra Stone said to him.

He shrugged again.

‘They can, perhaps, protect you from bandits and… other enemies. But against starvation and the cold of winter, they cannot save you.’

‘We have nowhere else to go.’

‘Are there many more of you on this road?’

The man nodded, shifting weight from one bloodied foot to the other.

‘You may go, sir,’ said Finarra Stone.

They watched him hobble his way back to the ragged column. The breath hissed from the captain. ‘They took the children.’

‘Sir,’ said Faror Hend. ‘You carry word to Sheccanto and Skelenal that the Wardens are pledged to them. But if Calat Hustain knew of this — that the Mother and Father of the cult were turning away their flock, and making of children bitter coin…’

‘We will deliver our message,’ Finarra said, gathering up the reins. Then she paused and looked across to Faror. ‘Forgive me, Warden, I have made of this journey a tense one, unpleasant. The waters are muddy between us, and I regret that.’

‘As do I, sir.’

‘But such things diminish before the plight of those we see here on this road.’

‘Yes sir.’

Finarra hesitated, and then said, ‘When you are done with the Hust Legion, Faror Hend, choose a place in which to wait.’

‘Sir?’

‘A place. Tell me of your choice before we part, and I will see to it that word will be sent to… to whomever you wish to know of it.’

Faror Hend held her captain’s gaze. ‘Sir, I will not desert the Wardens.’

‘Name a place, and tell me by whom you will have it known.’

‘Sir, if word must reach someone, it must be my betrothed. But I say again, I will not desert the Wardens.’

Finarra nodded. ‘I understand. Nevertheless, think of a place-’

‘A refuge.’

‘In the season to come, Faror Hend, love will need such refuges.’

Faror studied her captain for a time, and then nodded. ‘I will give it some thought, sir.’

‘Very good. Now, we shall have to ride overland — I expect this road to be impassable at least as far as Yannis Monastery.’

‘Could you have made such a bargain, sir?’

Finarra shot her a look. ‘I have never birthed a child, Warden, so I cannot say.’ Then she shook her head. ‘If they see no hope ahead, and yet are offered salvation for their children… well, what mother and what father would not sacrifice their own lives to save those of their children?’

‘The Shake well understood that, I think,’ Faror said. ‘Still. When I came upon one of their troops, in the wreckage of a bandit camp, it was said in passing that they had made a similar offer, only to have the mothers slit the throats of their own get.’

Finarra blinked. ‘That seems a selfish act.’

‘Perhaps, sir, some hold freedom higher than life itself.’

‘Well enough if that life is your own. I doubt a single child welcomed the blade’s kiss.’

Faror Hend fell silent, unable to argue against her captain’s words. But the recollection haunted her. They rode on for a time, slowly as the ground was uneven and stony. Then she said, ‘Sir, for nights afterwards, I dreamed of mothers and fathers killing their own children. But no bargains had been offered them, and no threat drew close to force their hands.’

‘A disturbing dream, Warden, if there was no cause to their deeds.’

‘But there was, sir, of sorts. With each child slain, I saw the slayer’s wealth grow, in coin stacks, in gems and silks, and slaves at their feet. I saw them grow fat, but through windows there was the flicker of flames, drawing ever nearer.’

‘Let us bend to our task here, Warden, and speak no more of ill dreams.’

When Finarra Stone pushed her mount ahead, into a pace verging on reckless, Faror Hend followed. The day’s light was fading, and upon the track to their left, the stream of figures lost all colour, gave up no light, and soon were swallowed in the gloom.

The sounds of revelry filled the hust legion camp outside the command tent. Smiling, Hunn Raal studied the woman seated opposite him. ‘It seemed a modest gesture at the time,’ he said, ‘but I cannot refute the blessing of this outcome.’

Toras Redone did not smile in return. Her expression remained unchanged, and this detail had begun to unnerve the captain. She held her tankard in her left hand and the jug of wine, from her private stores, in her right, resting both on her thighs. ‘If you think,’ she said, only slightly slurring her words, ‘gifts of wine and ale to my soldiers are sufficient to win everlasting accord between our legions, captain, then your drunken ways have led you astray.’

Hunn Raal lifted his brows. ‘It ever pained me, commander, that we came to view each other as rivals-’

‘Your dislike of the Hust has nothing to do with rivalry. You fear our weapons and their songs of war. It is not my soldiers whom you need to ply with liquor to achieve peace between us, but perhaps such generosity applied to your own soldiers could improve matters.’

‘Songs of war? Abyss below, commander, we can list the many words available to describe the uncanny cries of your weapons, but surely not the language of music.’

Her level gaze remained fixed on him. ‘Indeed? What stirring symphony would you wish for war, captain? Drums to quicken the heart? A rising crescendo to mark the momentous clash of two foes meeting in combat? Sorrowful dirges to settle like ashes upon the inevitable scene of slaughter to follow? Are you a romantic, captain? Do you dream of glory and virtue, of heroism and bravery? Are we all brothers and sisters under the armour, under the skin and down among our bones which, when at last laid bare, lose all provenance?’ She raised her tankard and swallowed down another mouthful. ‘Is this the man who has come among us? Sodden and sentimental, yet eager to raise a hand and point an accusing finger at unbelievers?’

Hunn Raal bit back a savage retort. ‘The Hust Legion proclaims itself Mother Dark’s own-’

‘Does Urusander resent the claim? Do you?’

He shook his head. ‘Commander, there are Deniers among you.’

‘What of it?’

‘They do not belong to Mother Dark.’

‘Don’t they?’

‘Of course they don’t.’

She refilled her tankard — something she did after every mouthful. ‘Too many things weaken your resolve, captain. Your self-doubt creates enemies and then raises them up like things of mud and straw. But whose flaws are so displayed? Many an old soldier has noted how one is measured by one’s enemies. Yet, here you are, refusing to respect your foe, even as you exaggerate the threat they pose. Are you too drunk, captain, to countenance the contradiction?’