Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘Of that,’ Kadaspala snapped, ‘I have no doubt. Not that your dog’s face will ever grace a wall, unless as a mounted trophy.’

Hunn Raal snorted his laughter. ‘Well said, sir. But it changes nothing. The Lord needs to stretch out his limbs, that is all.’

The artist’s round face seemed to hover like a mask, as if moments from rushing, disembodied, straight for Hunn Raal; and then he turned away, flinging down his brushes. ‘What’s light, then, anyway? Isn’t it enough that Mother Dark’s stealing it all from us? What of the portraits in the Avenue? Useless!’ He seemed to be speaking mostly to himself, and for a host of reasons the others in the chamber, Urusander included, were content to leave him to it.

The Lord straightened, sighing deeply.

‘Tomorrow, Lord Urusander,’ Kadaspala said, in a tone worthy of a beating. ‘The very same time. And you, servant — more candles! Curse the darkness, curse it!’

Hunn watched his lord silently stride from the room, choosing the side passage leading to the steps that would take him down to his private chambers. The soldier then caught Osserc’s eye and nodded, and with Urusander’s son following he led the way out, using the main stairs. This wing of the keep still awaited furnishing, and they passed through empty rooms and echoing corridors before arriving at the main vestibule, where what had once seemed opulent now struck Hunn as tattered and worn, the walls, hangings and weapon-racks smoke-smeared and battered by a century of wear.

Little remained of the ancient fortress that had once commanded this hilltop, at the very heart of the town of Neret Sorr; most of its ruins had been dismantled and reused in the construction of the New Keep a hundred years ago, and of the bloodlines that had once laid claim to this settlement and its outlying territories, the last drop had long since vanished into the earth. The common belief was that Urusander’s own family had been fealty-sworn to that vanished nobility, warriors from the very beginning, but Hunn Raal had been central in promulgating that legend. So much of history was nothing but gaping holes that needed filling with whatever was expedient, for now, and more significantly for the future, where the fruition of carefully planted inventions and half-truths would, if he had his way, yield a wealth of rewards.

They stepped outside into the courtyard, strode into the shadows cast by the thick, high walls. Off to one side, an ox-drawn cart had delivered ingots of raw iron outside the smithy and the smith’s apprentices were busy unloading the stock. Unmindful of these efforts, the handler and the keep’s cutter were digging a tick out from behind the ox’s left ear, and the insect’s stubbornness was attested by the blood running down the side of the ox’s neck, while the animal lowed plaintively, hide rippling as its muscles flinched.

‘Where are we going?’ Osserc asked as they crossed the compound towards the High Gate.

‘Down into town,’ Hunn Raal replied. ‘Your father will be in a dark mood at the table tonight, assuming he shows up at all. I’ve never seen a man so eager to put down his sword, and all for a trunkful of Forulkan cylinders — and half of those broken. If those white-faced fools had any thought worthy of admiration, it did them little good against Tiste vengeance.’

Osserc was silent for a moment, as they approached the gate, and then he said, ‘It is his abiding fascination, Hunn. The laws of governance. The compact of society. We are in need of reformation, and proof of that is plain enough in all the troubles now coming home to roost.’

Hunn Raal grunted, feeling his face twisting. ‘Draconus. The troubles you’re talking about begin and end with that upstart.’

It had been a weighted comment on Hunn’s part, and he made sure not to react to Osserc’s sudden look, simply continuing on. ‘There is no history, no precedent. The family of Dracons was ever a Lesser House. And now some dubious heir to its thin blood stands beside Mother Dark. This is the threat and it has nothing to do with reform. Ambition, Osserc, is a poison.’

‘Well, my father has none of that.’

Inwardly, Hunn smiled, and it was a triumphant smile. ‘Just so. Who better to govern, then? She doesn’t need a damned Consort, she needs a husband.’

They emerged on to the first of the switchbacks leading down into the town. There was no traffic coming up this late in the day, but a cluster of carts heading down formed a logjam at the second turn, where the back end of a long-bedded wagon was being lifted by a dozen or so haulers to swing it clear.

‘If Draconus is a commoner,’ said Osserc, ‘so too is my father.’

Hunn had been waiting for that observation. ‘Not true. The earliest mentions of Neret Sorr note the ruling family’s name as Vatha. And more important, retired or not, Urusander commands the legions. Tell me this: how well have we been treated? You’ve seen it for yourself, friend. We fought and so many of us died, and we won. We won the war for everyone in the realm. And now, well, they’d rather forget we ever existed. It’s not right, how we’re treated, and you know it.’

‘We are no threat to the nobility,’ Osserc retorted. ‘That’s not how it is, Hunn Raal. It’s expensive maintaining the legions at full strength. The desire is to reduce active rosters-’

‘And throw the rest of us out on the streets,’ Hunn Raal said. ‘Or worse, into the wood to grub alongside the Deniers. And when the Forulkan come back? We won’t be ready, and not even your father could save us then.’

There were patterns to things, and Hunn Raal had his reasons for working them; in particular on this young man, this untried son of a hero who when speaking of the legions had said we, as if dreams were real. Hunn could see what was needed, but Urusander was not a man to be swayed by exhortations or arguments. He had done his service to the realm, and as far as he was concerned what remained of his life was now his own. He had earned it.

But the truth was, the realm needed a saviour, and the only way to the father was through the son. Hunn Raal went on, ‘The future is not for someone else, though each of us might think so. It’s for us. Your father understands that, at some deep level — beyond all the crazed Forulkan obsessions with justice and whatever — he knows that he fought for himself, and for you — for the world ahead of you. But instead he hides in his study. He needs drawing out, Osserc. You must see that.’

But there was an ugly cast to Osserc’s face now, as they fell in behind the line of carts trundling down to the next turn. Hunn Raal could almost see the gnawing fangs inside Osserc’s head. He edged closer, lowering his voice, ‘He refused you a sword in your hands. I know. To keep you safe. But listen, in a cut-down army, what chance do you think you’ll get to put all your training to good use? You say you want to march at my side, and I believe you. Abyss take me, but I’d be proud to be there, seeing that, too.’

‘It will never happen,’ Osserc growled.

‘The legions want you. They see — and we who are here see every day — so much of the father in his son. We’re all waiting. The day your father is made king, Osserc, is the day he will truly have to let go of the legions, with you taking his place. This is the future we want, all of us. And I tell you, I will work on Urusander. After all, he would never have had you trained to fight if he wanted you doing nothing but making lists of clay cylinders. You need a commission, and we’ll see it done, and that’s a promise.’

‘So you keep saying,’ Osserc muttered, but the strength had gone from his anger.

Hunn Raal slapped him on the back. ‘I do. Now, friend, let’s go drink, shall we?’