Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘Note the high saddle back, Arathan,’ Raskan now said. ‘Higher than you’re used to seeing, but not so high as to snap your lower spine like a twig the moment you impact a line. No, better you are thrown off than that. At least then you have a chance if you survive the fall. Not much of one, but still. That’s not of any concern to you for now, however. I’m just making it plain to you: this is a warhorse, and its tack is different. The cupped stirrups, the flanged horn. You’ll not be wearing full armour in any case: the Lord has different ideas about that, and should we ever clash with mounted enemies among the Families, we’ll ride circles round them. More than that, we’re likely to survive dismounting, and not lie there broken and ready to be gutted like cattle.’

Arathan’s eyes slid past Raskan during this speech, to where the four Borderswords were seated in a row on one of the logs lining the field edge. The sergeant glanced over a shoulder at them and then returned his attention to the boy. ‘Never mind them. I need and expect your attention.’

‘Yes sir. But why have they pitched those tents? Are they not welcome in the House grounds?’

‘It’s what they choose, that’s all. They’re half wild. Probably haven’t bathed in years. Now, eyes on me, Arathan. These chargers, they’re bred special. Not just size, but temperament, too. Most horses will kill themselves rather than hurt one of us — oh, I don’t mean bites and the occasional kick, or a panicked rearing and the like. That’s just accidental, or bad moods. You’ve got to consider this. These animals are massive, compared to us. By weight alone they could crush us, trample us, pulp us into red meat and bone splinters. But they don’t. They submit instead. An unbroken horse is a frightened horse, frightened of us, I mean. A broken one is gentled, and in place of fear there’s trust. Blind trust, at times. Idiotic trust. That’s just how it is.

‘Now, a charger, well, it’s different. Yes, you’re still the master, but come battle, you both fight and you fight as partners. This beast is bred to hate the enemy, and that enemy looks just like you and me. So, in a melee, how does it tell the difference? Between friend and foe?’ He waited, saw Arathan blink as the boy realized that the question had not been meant to be rhetorical.

‘I don’t know.’

Raskan grunted. ‘A good honest answer. Thing is, nobody really knows. But the damned animals are unerring. Is it the tension in the muscles of their riders that tells them which direction the danger’s coming from? Maybe. Some think so. Or maybe the Dog-Runners are right when they say there are words between souls — the soul of the rider and the soul of the mount. Bound by blood or whatever. It don’t matter. The thing you need to understand is that you’ll forge something together, until instinct is all you need. You’ll know where the animal is going and it will know where you want it to go. It just happens.’

‘How long does that take, sergeant?’

He’d seen flatness come to the boy’s eyes. ‘Well, that’s the challenge here. For both of you. We can’t take the time we rightly need for this. So, after today, well, we’ll see how it’s looking, just don’t expect to be riding this animal for more than a league or two each day. But you will be guiding her and caring for her. Plenty of people say mares can’t be good warhorses. The Lord thinks different. In fact, he’s relying on the whole natural herd thing with these beasts, and it’s Draconus who’s riding the stallion, the master of the herd. Y’see his thinking?’

Arathan nodded.

‘All right then, lengthen the lead. Time to get to work.’

Boy and beast worked hard that afternoon, with the lead and then without it, and even from where she and her fellow Borderswords sat on the log, Feren could see the sheen of sweat on the mare’s black hide; and when at last the gate sergeant had the Lord’s son turn his back on the charger, and the animal strode freely to come up alongside Arathan, Galak grunted and muttered, ‘That was well done.’

‘Grudging admission,’ Ville commented. ‘Thought I heard something split inside you, saying that, Galak.’

‘Uniforms and hard-heeled boots. I admit I wasn’t much impressed by these house-dwellers.’

‘Just a different way,’ said Rint. ‘Not better, not worse, just different.’

‘Back in the day, when there were still boars in the wood-’

‘When there was still a wood,’ Ville cut in.

Galak went on. ‘The grand hunts had beaters and dogs. In a square of trees you’d need less than three bells to ride around. As if the boar had anywhere to go. As if it wasn’t just minding its own business, tryin’ to smell out a mate or whatever.’

‘Your point?’ Rint asked, laconic as ever.

‘You’re saying no better or worse just different. I’m saying you’re being generous, maybe even false. You want to cut the carpet for them to walk on, you go ahead. I’ve watched a tereth come down to drink from a stream, in the steam of dawn, and the tears went silent down my face, because it was the last one for leagues round. No mate for it, just a lonely life and a lonelier death, even as the trees kept crashing down.’

Feren cleared her throat, still studying the boy who was now walking, the horse heeling like a faithful hound, and said, ‘The ways of war leave a wasteland. We’ve seen it on the border, no different here. The heat sweeps in like a peat fire. No one notices. Not until it’s too late. And then, why, there’s nowhere to run.’

The gate sergeant was limping as he led his charges back towards the house.

‘So she took a lover,’ Galak said in a growl, not needing to add so what?

‘The sorcery surrounding her is said to be impenetrable now,’ Rint mused. ‘Proof against all light. It surrounds her wherever she goes. We have a queen no one can see any more, except for Draconus, I suppose.’

‘Why suppose that, even?’ Galak demanded.

Feren snorted, and the others joined in with low, dry laughter, even Galak.

A moment later, Feren sobered. ‘The boy is a ruin of anxiety, and is it any wonder? From what I heard, until this day, his own father was as invisible to his son as his new lover now chooses to be in her Citadel.’

‘No sense to be made of that,’ Galak said, shaking his head.

Feren glanced across at him, surprised. ‘Perfect sense,’ she replied. ‘He’s punishing the boy’s mother.’

Brows lifting, her brother asked, ‘Do you know who she is?’

‘I know who she isn’t, and that’s more than enough.’

‘Now you’ve lost me,’ Ville said, his expression wry.

‘Galak’s tereth, Ville, lapping water at the stream as the day is born. But the day isn’t born at all, not for her. You know she’s doomed, you know it’s finished for the sweet-eyed doe. Who killed her mate? With arrow or snare? Someone did.’

‘And if that killer writhes in the arms of Chaos for all eternity,’ Galak hissed, ‘it’ll only be what’s deserved.’

Ville was now scowling. ‘That’s rich, Galak. We hunt every few days. We kill when we have to, to stay alive. No different from a hawk or a wolf.’

‘But we’re different from hawks and wolves, Ville. We can actually figure out the consequences of what we do, and that makes us… oh, I don’t know the word…’

‘Culpable?’ Rint suggested.

‘Yes, that’s the word all right.’

‘Rely not upon conscience,’ Feren said, hearing the bitterness in her own voice and not caring. ‘It ever kneels to necessity.’

‘And necessity is often a lie,’ Rint added, nodding.

Feren’s eyes were now on the churned-up turf and mud of the practice field. Insects spun and danced over the small pools left by hoofs as the light slowly failed. From the coppiced stand behind them came evening birdsong, sounding strangely plaintive. She felt slightly sick.