Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘All right.’

The stable boy almost threw Orfantal up astride the nag, checked the stirrups once again, and then stepped back. ‘That’s it,’ he said.

Orfantal hesitated, and then said, ‘Goodbye, Wreneck.’

The boy turned away, flinging a wave behind him as he set off up the hill back towards the estate.

‘We ain’t going so fast,’ the lead rider now said. ‘She’ll walk, won’t she?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Sir?’ The man snorted. He took his reins and nudged his mount forward.

Orfantal waited until his mounted companions were past and then kicked his horse into their wake, keeping the beast on the left side of the track. Behind him the oxen jolted into motion at a switch from the driver.

The three wild dogs ran off, as if fearing stones or arrows.

Wreneck paused on the slope and turned to watch them leave. The tears ran down cool on his cheeks and flies buzzed close.

Back to that evil hag now, and no Orfantal to make life easier, to make it better than it was. She’d forbidden him to play with the little boy, and that was mean. She’d told him if she saw him even so much as talking to Orfantal, he’d lose what was left of his job, and then his ma and da would starve and so too his little sisters.

He’d liked playing with the boy. It had reminded him of happier times, when the war was over and things seemed to be getting better for everyone. But then the stables burned down and they’d all heard that Sandalath was being sent away, and then Orfantal too, and the food in the kitchen wasn’t as good as it used to be and half the staff was sent off.

And this was a miserable day, and Orfantal had looked so… lost.

He should have defied her. He should have wrapped the runt in a big hug. They could have played together all morning while they waited. But he had been afraid. Of her. Of what she might do. But maybe this was better — if he’d showed any kindness then this parting would have been worse for Orfantal. A part of him railed at the thought, but he held to it. To ease his mind.

The dogs returned, and, heads slung low, trailed him all the way back to the estate.

It was dusk by the time the caravan arrived outside Toras Keep, setting up camp in the clearing on the other side of the track opposite the keep’s gate. Blistered and sore from the ride, Orfantal clambered down from the horse. The scarred old man who’d loaded the trunk now came up to take the reins from his hands.

‘Likely her last journey,’ he said, pulling the mount away.

Orfantal stared after them. Riding the animal for so long, he had almost forgotten that it was a living creature, the way it had plodded without surcease. He thought about its life, wondered what things it had witnessed in its long journey through the years. The eyes looked sad — Wreneck hadn’t even told him the mare’s name. He was sure it had one. All living things did, at least those living things that worked for people.

He decided that the mare had once served a warrior in the wars, and had saved that Tiste countless times, yet had looked on helpless when betrayal came to strike down that brave warrior. This was why its eyes were so sad, and now all it longed to do was die, and in so dying re-join its master to haunt old battle grounds and ride through the mist on moonless nights so that villagers heard the heavy hoofs yet saw nothing, and no tracks were left in the mud come the morning. Still, villagers would know that a bold spirit had passed them in the darkness, and they would take up small stones from the path to ease its nightly travels. He’d seen such stones even on this track, in small heaps left to one side, because everyone knew that death was a restless place.

The leader of the troop now approached Orfantal. ‘My name is Haral. You don’t call me “sir” because I ain’t one. I guard merchants and that’s all I do.’

‘Are there bandits?’ Orfantal asked.

‘In the hills round Tulas Hold, sometimes. Deniers. Now, you’ll be sharing Gripp’s tent — that’s the man taking care of your horse. You can trust him, when maybe some of these here you can’t, not with a little boy in the night. Even with you nobleborn and all. Some hurts people keep secret and that’s what bad ones rely on, you see?’

Orfantal didn’t, but he nodded anyway.

‘They’re happy for the work, though, so they know if they cross me it’ll be misery for them. Still, I lost most of my regulars. Went to join Dracons’ Houseblades. I’m doing the same,’ he added, his weathered eyes narrowing as he looked across to the high blackstone walls of Toras Keep. A lone guard was seated on a bench beside the high gate, seemingly watching them all. ‘This is my last trip.’

‘Were you a soldier once, Haral?’

The man glanced down. ‘In my generation, few weren’t.’

‘My name is Orfantal.’

A scowl twisted his rough features. ‘Why’d she do that?’

‘Who, what?’

‘Your mother. That’s Yedan dialect — the monks’ holy language. Shake, it’s called.’

Orfantal shrugged.

One of the guards, who was crouching to build the cookfire nearby and clearly had been listening in, snorted a laugh and said, ‘Means “unwanted”, lad. If that don’t say it all and you off to Kharkanas.’

Haral turned on the man. ‘I’ll be glad to see the end of you in my company, Narad. From now on, this trip, keep your damned mouth shut.’

‘Fine, as I’m still taking orders from you, but like you say, Haral, that won’t last much longer.’

‘He’s got the meaning wrong,’ Haral said to Orfantal. ‘The meaning’s more obscure, if you like. More like “unexpected”.’

Narad snorted again.

The toe of Haral’s heavy boot snapped Narad’s head to one side in a spray of blood. Dark-faced but silent, Haral then walked up to where the man writhed on the ground. He grasped hold of the long greasy hair and yanked the head up so that he could look into Narad’s face. He drove his fist into it, shattering the nose. A second punch slammed the mouth so hard against the teeth that Orfantal saw — through all the blood — the glint of white stitching a line beneath the man’s lower lip. Haral then threw the unconscious man back on to the ground and walked away without a backward glance.

The others stood motionless for a half-dozen heartbeats, and then one walked over to drag Narad away from the smouldering fire.

Orfantal could barely draw a breath. A fist was hammering inside his chest. He found that he was trembling, as if caught with fever.

Gripp was at his side. ‘Easy there,’ he muttered. ‘It’s discipline, that’s all it is. Narad’s been pushing for weeks. We all knew it was coming and Abyss knows, we warned the fool enough. But he’s the dog that ain’t got brains enough to know its place. Sooner or later, y’got to kick ’im, and kick hard.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘I doubt it. If he ain’t come around by the morning, we’ll just leave him here. He lives or dies by his own straw. He just spat in the face of all the rest — me, I woulda left him toasting on the damned fire. Now, let me show you how to raise a tent. Skills like that might come in handy one day.’

In Orfantal’s mind, the faceless betrayer in all his battles now found a face, and a name. Narad, whom nobody wanted, who lived with a stuttered line of scars between chin and mouth, like a cruel smile he could never hide.

Emerging out from the hills, Master-at-arms Ivis and his company came within sight of Dracons Hold, its heavy bulk like a gnarled fist resting on the hard ground. He glanced over at the woman riding at his side. ‘We have arrived, milady, but as you can see, Lord Draconus is not in residence. I imagine his journey to the west will see him gone for some weeks yet.’