Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

This was new. ‘Are you certain of that?’

T’riss was still for a moment, and then she nodded. ‘It assailed me. Age upon age, I fought. There was no thought but the struggle itself, and this struggle, I think, consumed all that I once was.’

‘Yet something returns to you.’

‘The questions you would not ask have given me much to think about — no, I do not read your mind. I can only guess them, Faror Hend, but I see well the battles they wage upon your countenance. Even exhaustion cannot dull your unease. I remember the pain of the Vitr: it remains, like a ghost that would swallow me whole.’

‘Whence comes your power, then?’

‘I do not know, but it delivers pain upon this world. I dislike this, but if necessity demands, I will use it.’

‘Then I would rather you did not, T’riss. The world knows enough pain as it is.’

To that T’riss nodded.

‘I suspect now,’ Faror resumed, ‘that you are Azathanai. That you sought to war against the Vitr, or, perhaps, that you set out seeking its source, its purpose. In the battle you waged, much of yourself was lost.’

‘If this is true, Faror Hend, then my only purpose is my own — none other seeks to guide me, or indeed use me. Are you relieved? I am. Do you think that I will return to myself?’

‘I don’t know. It is a worthy hope.’

T’riss turned back and nudged her mount forward.

Faror Hend followed.

The trail was well used, and not long ago a score of shod horses had travelled it, coming round from the west along the range’s edge, the most recent hoofprints heading in the same direction as the two riders.

‘I think we shall find company at the spring,’ said Faror Hend, moving up alongside T’riss. ‘But not outlaws.’

‘Friends?’

Faror’s nod was cautious. ‘A troop, I think. Perhaps a militia, out from Neret Sorr, or Yan Shake to the south.’

‘Let us see.’

They rode on.

The path twisted between crags, climbing steeply in places before levelling out across the spine of the first line of hills. Ahead, a short distance away, the ruins of a gate marked the pass. Off to one side was a lone blockhouse collapsed on two sides, revealing a gut crowded with broken masonry, tiles and withered timbers from the roof. The scatter of shattered tiles crunched under the hoofs of Faror’s plodding horse as they rode past. She saw her mount’s nostrils flare, followed by a pricking of its ears. ‘Not far now,’ she said quietly.

Beyond the gate, they traversed the remnants of a cobbled road, the surface buckled in places; in others the cobbles buried under white dirt made silver in the dying light. Shortly later, they came within sight of the spring, a green-fringed pond half encircled by pale-trunked trees. Figures moved about and horses could be seen, tethered to a long rope strung between two ironwood boles.

T’riss reined in. ‘I smell blood.’

The words chilled Faror. The men she could see were all dressed in light grey robes, hitched up round their legs to reveal supple sheaths of leather armour cladding their thighs, knees and shins. The bulk of their upper bodies hinted at more of the same beneath the thin wool. Single-bladed axes hung from rope belts at their hips. The men were bareheaded, their hair shaggy, wild.

A dozen or so were busy digging graves, while others slowly converged upon that impromptu burial ground, dragging corpses splashed in blood.

T’riss pointed at one of the dead bodies. ‘Outlaws?’

Faror Hend nodded. Two robed figures were approaching. The larger of the two by far was thick-limbed, the muscles of his shoulders slung down as if by their own weight. His nose, twisted and flattened, dominated his weathered face, but the blue eyes were bright as they fixed on T’riss’s mount. Lying across this man’s broad back was a two-handed axe, single-bladed and spiked, over which he rested his hands.

His companion was almost effete in comparison, his skin pale and his features watery in the manner of the oft-ill. The short axe tucked behind his belt bore a shattered haft, and the man’s forearms were almost black with blood up to the elbows.

‘Death rides their breath,’ T’riss said in a cool voice. ‘Are these your kin?’

‘Monks of the Yannis Monastery,’ Faror replied. ‘We are within the demesne of Mother Dark. This is Kurald Galain.’

‘They took no prisoners.’

Close to thirty slain outlaws — men, women and children — now lay beside the gravediggers. Off to one side of the pond, a makeshift village pushed through the trees, shacks like open sores, doorways gaping, possessions abandoned. Woodsmoke drifted.

The smaller of the two monks spoke to Faror, ‘Warden, your arrival is well timed. Had you come here yesterday, you’d be the sport of little boys by now. I am Lieutenant Caplo Dreem, commanding this troop of Yan Shake. And this drooling fool at my side is Warlock Resh.’

Resh addressed T’riss, his voice melodious, like water on stone. ‘Welcome, Azathanai. That is a fine horse you’ve made, but I wonder, can you hear its screams?’

T’riss turned to Faror Hend and her expression was grave. ‘It seems that I shall be delayed somewhat in my journey to Kharkanas.’

‘Not too long I should imagine,’ the warlock said. ‘Yan Shake is on the way to the Wise City, after all.’

Faror Hend straightened. ‘Excuse me, but this woman is in my charge. I will deliver her to Kharkanas, and without delay.’

Caplo cleared his throat, as if embarrassed. ‘Your pardon, but you must be Faror Hend. Calat has fifty Wardens out looking for you, not to mention Kagamandra Tulas, who happened to be visiting your commander’s camp. Your presence is required by your commander, at once. To any who might come upon you, such was the message you were to receive.’

‘This guest,’ said Resh, with little in the way of welcome in his eyes as they held unwavering upon T’riss, ‘is now under the protection of the Yan Shake.’

‘I will convey my protest to Calat Hustain,’ said Faror Hend, furious — but it was the best she could manage, so confounded were her thoughts. Kagamandra Tulas? Has he come for me? How dare he! I am a Warden of the Outer Reaches, not some wayward child!

T’riss spoke to her. ‘My friend, it seems that we must part. For your company, I thank you.’

‘This sits well with you?’ Faror asked her, hands tight on the saddle horn to still their tremble.

‘If I tire of their company, I will continue on to Kharkanas, to meet Mother Dark. With respect to my person, I am safe enough. This warlock thinks much of himself, but he poses no threat to me.’

Caplo coughed. ‘Excuse me, but please, there is no threat in any of this. We are returning south, and without question Mother Sheccanto Derran will wish to meet this Azathanai, thus requiring a brief stay in Yan Shake. It is but a courtesy, I assure you.’

‘You’d best keep it so,’ Faror snapped.

T’riss was now studying the lieutenant. ‘I see you are well acquainted with blood, sir.’

‘I am, Azathanai. This band of cut-throats have well earned their fate, I assure you. Unpleasant tasks-’

‘And the children?’ T’riss asked. ‘Were they too cut-throats?’

‘Clay in twisted hands,’ Caplo replied. ‘They fought alongside their kin. The newborn were slain by their own, when we would have welcomed such waifs into our monastery.’

‘Despair raises high walls,’ Resh said, shrugging. ‘Lieutenant, the Azathanai spoke in truth. She has immense sorcery within her, like a child waiting to be born. Best not twist her hands.’

‘We shall display the utmost courtesy.’

‘Then I shall ask of you a favour,’ T’riss said to Caplo. ‘Provide Faror Hend with an escort, and perhaps a fresher horse. I would no harm come to her now that she must return to her camp.’