Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

Haral, the leader of the caravan guards who would not be called ‘sir’, had drawn up his horse to await them. Just beyond, the trail forked, with a cobbled track beginning there. To the left it climbed a hundred or more strides to the fortified walls of the Tulla Hold, an edifice carved into the cliffside. A dozen or more windows made rough holes in the rock facing above the heaped boulders that formed the defences. Along the uneven wall rose squat towers, four in all, each one twice as broad at the base as at the summit, with mounted arbalests commanding the platforms. To Orfantal’s eyes Tulla Hold rose before him like a fortress of myth, and he imagined high-ceilinged hallways shrouded in shadows, through which grieving lords and haunted ladies walked, and the rooms that had once held children now had their doorways sealed and the cradles — rank with mould and thick with dust — rocked only to faint draughts in the deep of night.

He saw rusting weapons on hooks lining the walls, and tapestries sagging beneath their pins. The images were faded with age, but all bore the scenes of war, the death of heroes and murderers in flight. In every room such tapestries brooded like faint echoes of battle, filling the walls with corpses of sewn thread, studded with arrows or bearing lurid wounds.

Gripp riding at his side, Orfantal reined in opposite Haral.

The captain seemed to be eyeing Orfantal’s nag with some regret. ‘We will camp here,’ he said after a moment. ‘The Lady is not in residence, so we need not pay our respects, which is just as well, since that horse would never manage the climb.’

Orfantal set a hand against his horse’s neck as if he could protect the beast from Haral’s cruel words. Feeling the heat of the animal under his palm, he found it impossible to imagine life surrendering in this beast. He saw it as a loyal servant and knew that its heart would not falter in its strong beat. There was glory in final journeys and he was certain that his mount would carry him all the way to Kharkanas.

Gripp was squinting up at the distant citadel. ‘Gate’s opening, Haral. Tithe, do you think?’

Scowling, Haral said nothing. Dismounting, he led his horse to the stone-lined well off to one side of the fork. Beyond it stretched levelled ground studded with iron tent pegs, and a half-dozen fire-pits lined with rocks.

Orfantal looked ahead, to where the cobbled track led deeper into the hills. If there were bandits, they would be hiding among those bleached crags crowding the road. Perhaps even now steady eyes were fixed upon them. Come the morrow there might be an ambush. Peace suddenly shattered: shouts and weapons clanging, figures toppling from saddles and bodies thumping heavily in the dust. His heart beat fast in excitement — the world was so huge! They might kidnap him, demanding a ransom, and he might find himself trussed up and left in some hovel, but he would twist free of the bonds and dig his way out, slipping into the maze of rock and crevasse, there to live wild as a beast.

Years would pass, and then word would come from these hills of a new bandit chief, clever and rich, a wayfarer who stole young women and made them all his most loyal warriors; and theirs was a loyalty beyond challenge, for each woman loved their chief as would a wife a husband.

He would conquer Tulla Hold, sweep it clean of ghosts and broken hearts. He would burn all the tapestries. There would be many children, an army of them. All would be well, with tables groaning beneath roasted meats, until at last all the noble houses marched to lay siege to the fortress. They would come in their thousands and when the walls were surmounted, he would fight to the last on the battlements, defending his children — but someone had yielded the gate, with gold in hand, and the enemy was suddenly in the courtyard. Assailed on all sides, he would be driven down to his knees by a spear flung from behind, and twisting round to see his slayer, his betrayer, he would defy the gods and rise once more ‘Off your horse now for pity’s sake,’ said Gripp.

Orfantal started and then quickly slid down from his mount. Together with the old man who was his protector, they led their charges towards the well.

‘That’s a wagon comin’ down,’ Gripp said. ‘And there’s a highborn with them. Young. As young as you, Orfantal. You ain’t curious?’

Orfantal shrugged.

‘When the Lady is in residence, she sends down fine food and ale to whoever camps here. It’s a measure of her honour, y’see? Haral was hoping and then he was disappointed, but now he’s hopeful again. We could all do with fresh food. And the ale.’

Orfantal glanced over at Haral, who was now busy stripping his mount while the others prepared the camp. ‘Maybe she’s out hunting bandits.’

‘Who?’

‘The Lady of the Hold.’

The old man rubbed at the back of his neck, a habit of his that left a dirty line that no amount of washing seemed able to remove. ‘No bandits this close to Tulla, Orfantal. A day into the hills, about halfway between here and Hust Forge, that’s when things get risky for us. But we’re not too worried. Word is, them Deniers are now making more money mining tin and lead and selling it to Hust — more than they ever could waylaying people like us. Mind you, mining’s hard work and not something I’d want to do. It’s all about weighing the risks, y’see?’

Orfantal shook his head.

Gripp sighed. ‘Saddles off and some grooming while we feed ’em. Your nag’s got a bad eye and it’s weeping more with all this dust. Getting old’s no fun at all and that’s the truth.’

For the past two nights there had not been sufficient fuel for cookfires, barring a single one upon which tea had been made, and so they’d eaten bread, cheese and smoked meat dry as leather. But this night three fires were built, using the last of the dung chips, and pots unpacked from under the wagons. By the time the tents were raised and bedrolls unfurled inside them, the visitors from Tulla Hold had arrived in the camp.

Orfantal finished brushing down his horse and then led it over to the rope corral. He watched for a time as the other mounts greeted the nag, wondering if they but felt sorry for it, and then he made his way over to the cookfires, where the strangers had drawn up.

He saw servants unloading charcoal and dung chips, which were then carried over to Haral’s wagons, and bundles of food now crowded the cookfires. A highborn girl was standing beside Haral, dressed in a thick midnight blue cloak of some waxed material, and as Orfantal approached he saw that her dark eyes were upon him.

Haral cleared his throat. ‘Orfantal, kin of Nerys Drukorlat, this is Sukul of the Ankhadu, sister of Captain Sharenas Ankhadu, spearwielder of Urusander’s Legion at the Battle of Misharn Plain.’

Orfantal eyed the round-faced girl. ‘Are you a hostage like me?’

‘A guest,’ Haral explained before she could reply, as if embarrassed by Orfantal’s question and fearful that she would take offence. ‘Lesser Families exchange hostages only with their equals. Lady Hish Tulla is of the Greater Families and powerful in the court.’

The expression on Sukul’s face had not changed.

Orfantal was unable to judge her age. Perhaps she was a year older than him, or a year younger. They were of similar height. Something in her eyes made him nervous. ‘Thank you,’ he now said to her, ‘Sukul Ankhadu, for this gift of food and company.’

The girl’s brows lifted. ‘I doubt you learned such manners from your grandmother,’ she said, derision in her tone. ‘She showed no honour to Urusander’s Legion.’

Haral looked uncomfortable, but at a loss, so he said nothing.

Orfantal shrugged. ‘I did not know that my grandmother has dishonoured your family. I am sorry that she did, as you have shown yourself to be generous in Lady Tulla’s absence from the Hold. For myself, I still thank you.’