Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

Sudden fear ripped through Feren. ‘Lord,’ she gasped. ‘I yield. There is no need-’

‘Be quiet,’ he hissed. ‘We take a terrible risk here.’

He released her leg, used one foot to turn her on to her back, pushing her roughly up alongside the cold stone. ‘Be still.’

She saw him lean over her, reaching into the sarcophagus — there was, it seemed, no lid — and then there was the sound of rustling, creaks and faint pops, followed by a sifting, as of sand.

Draconus pulled the corpse on to the edge of the coffin. Dust rained down on Feren, covering her face. She coughed, gagged.

He used both his legs to hold her in place, pushed up against the sarcophagus, and she saw him fumbling with the withered corpse — the creature was huge, the limb bones long and thick. Black hair tumbled down to brush Feren’s face, smelling of mouldy skin.

A bony hand was suddenly pressed down on to her belly.

Convulsions of agony took Feren, strong enough to knock Draconus away — he staggered, still holding the corpse by one leather-wrapped wrist. The body tilted, and then slid down to land heavily on Feren’s legs.

‘Shit!’ he bellowed. ‘Move away, woman — quickly!’

From the corpse’s mouth came a moaning sound.

Terrified, the waves of pain from her belly fast fading, Feren pushed away from the body.

Draconus bent down and levered the huge corpse back into the sarcophagus. It thumped in a cloud of dust and cracking bones.

‘That will have to do,’ he muttered. ‘Blessings on you, and begging forgiveness, O Queen. Crawl out now, Feren, and be quick about it.’

She did as he commanded, and moments later clambered out through the chute and saw above her the swirl of stars, bright as a gift. Stumbling clear of the ramp, she fell to her knees, gasping, spitting out rank dust.

Draconus joined her, brushing down his leggings. He drew off his gloves and tossed them to one side. ‘Collect your weapons, Bordersword.’

‘Lord-’

‘I saw you flinch. I felt you flinch.’

Wondering, she nodded.

‘Death and life, in there, do not welcome each other’s touch. You are with child, Feren. The seed grows within you. Now, leave my son alone.’

Fumbling to retrieve her gear, fighting a return of the unnatural lassitude, she looked up at Draconus. She felt sullied; he might as well have raped her. She could still feel the imprint of that dead hand upon her belly. Feren bared her teeth. ‘Take him then.’

Rint sat alone at the fire. The supper had burned. Not enough water in the stew, not enough attention from the man tending to it. He had no doubts as to what was happening out there in the darkness, and he prayed that words would be enough — but his sister was a hard woman, not easily bullied. Lord or no, Draconus might find himself facing a viper. With that thought came to him bone-deep fear.

Should you hurt her, you will have war. With the Borderswords. With me. I will take you down, Consort, and to the Abyss with the consequences.

He heard a shout from Arathan, but not well enough to make out the words. Easy to guess, however. The Lord’s son was far gone, pulled back from manhood into being a child once more. The way she wanted it. But it would not do. Draconus had not been blind to the twisting of his desires. While from beyond the ruins there was no sound at all.

A few moments later Arathan emerged from the darkness, into the fire’s light. Seeing Rint he halted. Anger and shame seemed to roll from him in waves and he was shivering. For the briefest of instants their gazes locked, and then the son of Draconus looked away.

Raskan appeared behind him, went to crouch down beside the cookpot. He leaned over, sniffed and then scowled.

‘My apologies, sergeant,’ Rint said. ‘Not enough water.’

‘It will have to do,’ Raskan said, reaching for a bowl.

‘Where are they?’ Arathan demanded.

Rint said nothing, and Raskan busied himself ladling scorched stew into his bowl.

‘You won’t win. None of you will. She’s not afraid of my father, and neither am I.’

This was taking too long. Rint struggled to keep from rising, from drawing his sword and setting out to find them. If he did that, Raskan would intervene, assert his authority, and things would break down. Two lovers in the night could unleash a war, take down an entire realm. They could not see past each other; they never did.

‘Arathan,’ he snapped as the young man made to leave the fire.

‘I have no reason to listen to you.’

‘Maybe not. But I was wondering, did your tutor ever speak to you about sacrifice? Yielding your wants in the name of peace? Did he speak of such things as he sought to guide you from childhood into adulthood?’ Rint nudged the fire with one foot, sending sparks fleeing skyward. ‘A man understands sacrifice. What needs surrendering.’

‘You say this because you have no woman.’

‘Arathan, I have a wife. She dwells in Riven Keep. When I return I will have a daughter or a son. I was late to it, you see, because I serve with the Borderswords, and we have known war.’

These words seemed to have an effect. Arathan stood unmoving, as if drained of strength, emptied of will.

‘Had I known,’ Raskan said to Rint, looking up from his bowl, ‘I would have sent you back and found another among the Borderswords. You should have been with her, Rint.’

‘Had an uncle whose wife knifed him when she was in the heat of labour. Too many platitudes and assurances.’

‘She killed him?’

‘No, she took his caressing hand and pinned it to the ground.’ He hesitated, and then added, ‘The story goes, he pulled the knife from his hand and went back to stroking her hair. But not for long, as the midwives dragged him from the room. So, it ended well.’

Raskan snorted.

Footsteps announced the return of Feren. Draconus was nowhere in sight.

The sergeant straightened. ‘Where is the Lord?’

‘He makes propitiations,’ Feren replied. ‘Rint, you burned it, damn you.’

‘I did.’

‘Propitiations?’ Raskan asked.

‘The barrow,’ she said distractedly, selecting a bowl.

Arathan stood, his eyes upon her, but she paid him no heed as she filled the bowl, and Rint knew that his sister was done with the boy.

‘No,’ said Feren in the dark, ‘it’s finished.’

Arathan moved away, feeling lost. Tears blurred his vision. His father ruled everyone, and to rule meant to use. Everywhere he turned he saw his father’s heavy hand. Pushing away, dragging along, holding down — where it struck there were bruises, aching wounds. This was the meaning of power.

He wanted to flee. Come the morning he could be gone. But Rint would track him down. Besides, some things he could not escape.

He edged past his bedroll, came to the weights stacked in their perfect measures. One by one, he threw them out into the night.

A day’s travel west of Abara Delack, Grizzin Farl sat by the small fire he had made to roast the hare he had killed earlier that day. True hunters used slingstones, or arrows. Perhaps even a spear such as he carried in abundance. But Grizzin Farl was no hunter. He had run the creature down. Dogged it into panting submission. Even then, as he held the trembling thing in his arms, he had spent an inordinate amount of time stroking its soft fur, to calm its fear, and he had winced when he snapped its neck.

Death was terrible power. The delivering of suffering never quite washed off. He had seen, among hunters and herders, an undeniable coldness of spirit that made of necessity a virtue. Grief did not touch them in the slaying of creatures, whether those creatures walked upon two legs or ran upon four; whether they possessed wings or slid smooth through water. Need was its own answer. One needs to eat, be it flesh or plant, and death was the currency.