Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

From one of the two spars something like sailcloth hung down in torn shrouds. The other spar was broken halfway down its length, tilted with its tip buried in the sand.

But as they drew closer, both riders slowed their mounts.

Not a ship.

The Warden’s voice was weak with disbelief. ‘I thought them tales. Legends.’

‘You imagine Mother Dark succumbed to invention? She walked to the End of Darkness, and stood on a spar surrounded in chaos. And when she called upon that chaos, shapes emerged from the wildness.’

‘Is it dead, do you think? It must be dead.’

Illustrators had attempted to make sense of Mother Dark’s vague descriptions. They had elected to draw inspiration from a winged lizard that had once dwelt in abundance in the Great Blackwood, before the trees in which they nested were all cut down. But such forest denizens were small, not much larger than a month-old hunting hound. They had been called Eleint.

The spars were the bones of wings, the sailcloth thin membrane. The sharp angles were jutting shoulder blades, splayed hips. At the same time, this was so unlike the beast that had attacked Finarra Stone as to belong to someone else’s nightmare. It massed three times the size, for one.

Dragon. Thing of myth, the yearning for flight made carnate. Yet… see its head, the length of its neck so like a serpent’s body. And those jaws could devour a horse entire. See its eyes, smeared black in blood like tears.

The Warden reined in. ‘Captain Bered must see this.’

‘Ride back,’ said Sharenas. ‘I will examine it more closely.’

‘I would advise against that, milady. Perhaps it is a quality of the Vitr that nothing dead stays dead.’

She shot him a look. ‘An intriguing notion. Go on. I intend to be careful, as I happen to greatly value my life.’

He swung his horse round, kicked it into a canter, and then a gallop.

Facing the dragon again, she rode closer. At fifty paces her mount baulked, so she slipped down from the saddle and hobbled the horse.

The giant beast was lying on its side. Its flank bore wounds, as of ribs punching out through the thick, scaled hide, but she could see no thrust of white bone from any of them, and there were scores. The huge belly, facing her, had been sliced open. Entrails were spilled out in a massive heap, and these had been slashed and chopped at, savaged as if by a sword swung in frenzy.

Something else was lying near the belly wound, amidst disturbed sands. Sharenas approached.

Clothing. Armour, stained by acids. Discarded. A long, thin-bladed sword was lying close to the gear, black with gore. And there… footprints leading away.

Sharenas found that she was standing, motionless, unable to take another step closer. Her eyes tracked the prints up the strand to where they vanished between boulders crowding the verge.

‘Faror Hend,’ she murmured, ‘who walks with you now?’

‘There is nothing bold in the wearing of weapons,’ haut said, the vertical pupils of his eyes narrowed down to the thinnest of lines as he studied the array on the table’s battered, gouged surface. ‘Each one you see here is but a variation. What they share is of far greater import, Korya. They are all arguments in iron.’ He turned upon her his lined, weathered face, and his tusks were the hue of old horn in the meagre light, the greenish cast of his skin reminding her of verdigris. ‘You will eschew such obvious conceits. For you, iron is the language of failure.’

Korya gestured at the weapons on the table. ‘Yet, these are yours, and by their wear, you have argued many times, master.’

‘And won the last word each and every time, yes. But what has that availed me? More years heaped upon my back, more days beneath the senseless sun and the empty wind in my face. More nights under indifferent stars. More graves to visit, more memories to haunt me. In my dreams, Korya, I have lost the gift of colour. For so long now, in passing through my eyes the world is bleached of all life, and strikes upon my soul in dull shades of grey.’

‘I must tire you, then, master.’

He grunted. ‘Foolish child. You are my lone blaze. Now, heed me well, for I shall not repeat myself. We must quit this place.’

‘Do you fear the return of the Jheleck?’

‘Cease interrupting me. I have spoken now of the education awaiting you, but all that I have done has been in preparation. There are things you must now learn that are beyond my expertise. We journey south, to where powers are awakening.’

‘I do not understand, master. What powers? Have not the Jaghut surrendered all claims upon such things?’

Haut took up a weighty belt bearing a sword in a heavy leather scabbard. He strapped it on, adjusted it briefly, and then removed it with a scowl. The weapon thumped heavily back on to the tabletop. ‘Azathanai,’ he said. ‘Someone has been precipitous. But I must speak with my kin. Those who have remained, that is. The rest can go rot.’

‘Why am I so important, master?’

‘Who said you were?’

‘Why then have you spent years preparing me, if I am to have little or no value?’

‘Impertinence serves you well, Korya, but you ever risk the back of someone’s hand across the face.’

‘You have never struck me.’

‘So, like some Jheleck mongrel, you play the odds, do you?’ He lifted free a heavy halberd, stepped back and waved it about, until the blade bit into a wall, sending stone chips flying. He dropped the weapon with a clang, rubbed at his wrists.

‘What will you discuss with your kin?’

‘Discuss? We never discuss. We argue.’

‘With iron?’

A quick, savage smile lit his features, only to vanish again a moment later. ‘Delightful as the notion is, no.’

‘Then why are you girded for war?’

‘I fear too light a step,’ he replied.

Korya fought the urge to leave the chamber, to head back up the tower. To stand beneath the morning stars and watch the sun slay them all. Haut had forbidden her any possessions beyond a change of clothes for this journey. Even so, she believed they would never return here.

Haut collected a double-bladed axe with an antler shaft and hefted it. ‘Thel Akai. Where did I come by this? Handsome weapon… trophy or gift? My conscience makes no stir, so… not booty. How often, I wonder, must triumph drip blood? And is it by this that we find its taste so sweet?’

‘Master, if it is not by iron I am to defend myself, then what?’

‘Your wits, child. Now, can you not see that I am busy?’

‘You told me to listen well, master. I remain, listening well.’

‘I did? You are?’

‘We are to travel south, among your kin. Yet the source of your curiosity will be found among the Azathanai. Thus, I assume we will meet with them as well. This promises to be a long journey, and yet we have but a small bag of food, a single waterskin each, two blankets and a pot.’

‘I see your point. Find us a ladle.’

‘Will you be passing me on to one of your kin, master? To further my education?’

‘Who would have you? Get such absurd notions out of your head. We might as well be bound together in shackle and chain. You are the headache I cannot expunge from my skull, the old wound crowing the coming of rain, the limp that stumbles on flat ground.’ He found a leather strap to take the weight of the Thel Akai axe. ‘Now,’ he said as he collected up his helm and faced her, ‘are you ready?’

‘The ladle?’

‘Since you are so eager to be armed, why not? It hangs on a hook above the hearth.’

‘I know that,’ she snapped, turning round to retrieve it. ‘I mislike mysteries, master.’

‘Then I shall feed you nothing but, until you are bloated and near to bursting.’