Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘On foot,’ he said. ‘It’s quieter.’

‘But look at me — I’m all dressed to ride!’

‘Me and Ribs will be waitin’ downstairs, milady.’

Orfantal crouched in a hollow surrounded by shattered boulders. The sky overhead was black, overcast, and the darkness on all sides had stolen away all the familiar features he had looked upon a short while earlier. In his imagination the world was now transformed, seething with motion. He heard strange sounds, stared helplessly into the blackness where he thought he saw something staring back at him.

He missed his blanket, and the fire of the caravan guards, which was kept alive through each night and which he’d find when awakening with a start, forgetting where he was and frightened — but that smudge of coals and the occasional flicker of flame seen through the tent’s thin fabric always righted him again. But now there was nothing, no tent, no Gripp snoring and muttering under his breath. He was alone and he felt nothing like a hero.

Shivers raced through him. He remembered his daydreams of a bandit attack, and just as in that story he had fled into the night, into the hills. But the truth of it, here in this hollow, was nothing like that epic adventure. His feet were numb; his hands hung heavy and insensate at the ends of his wrists, and he felt the beckoning of sleep, as if the cold were drifting away.

He had not crawled far from the basin where his horse had died. The hills had seemed too vast, too threatening to venture deep into. If he lost sight of the basin, he’d lose sight of the road, and then he’d be lost. The truth was, his courage had failed him and he felt ashamed. The smell of his own urine mocked him. He could taste his own betrayal, bitter and sickening, and again and again the shudder of the horse echoed through him — the feel of life leaving it as he hugged its neck. It did not deserve that kind of end, driven forward in fear, pushed into exhaustion, guided by a foolish boy. What would he tell Wreneck? He would rather the bandits had cut him down instead.

He gave up on his fear of the night and closed his eyes. He’d stopped shivering and that was good.

A footfall on gravel dragged him awake. His heart pounded hard and seemed to swell inside his chest. He struggled to breathe.

From over his head, atop the boulder he leaned his back against, a voice drifted down. ‘There you are.’

With a soft cry, Orfantal tried to lunge forward, but his legs gave way beneath him.

‘Easy! It’s me, old Gripp.’

The man edged down into the hollow, alongside Orfantal. A hand settled on his shoulder. ‘You’re chilled as the Abyss. I made up a camp nearby, scavenged some bedding. Can you stand?’

Tears were streaming down from Orfantal’s eyes, but apart from that first cry no sound would come from him. Shame was flooding back into him. He tried to get up but failed again.

‘You wouldn’t have lasted the night. Good thing I found you. That thing with the horse, that was a smart move — no way they was going to follow you out there.’ As he was speaking he gathered up Orfantal in his arms. ‘Lie still. It’ll be all right. I got to move slow, got a hurt back and a wrenched knee.’ And now Orfantal could feel the man limping as he carried him; a rhythmic sagging to the left as Gripp tried to put weight on that leg. The old man’s skin was slick with sweat, a detail that Orfantal could not understand. ‘Just a little further. Can’t have no fire, though.’

Orfantal found that his eyes were adjusting and he could now make out the looming shapes of rocks and sheer cliffsides as Gripp worked up along a narrow trail. He then angled left, off the path, wending slowly between boulders, his breaths growing harsh.

There was an odd echo to those gasps and Gripp settled down to one knee. ‘We’re here.’

They were in a rock shelter, a shallow cave. Beneath Orfantal, as he was set down, was dry, powdery sand, and he settled into it. Gripp moved away and came back with a rough woollen blanket. It was not the one Orfantal’s grandmother had given him and it wasn’t Gripp’s own, which he remembered for its smell of the sage leaves which Gripp kept in a long cloth bag and folded into the bedroll when rolling it up every morning. This blanket stank of sweat and something else, pungent and musty. Once Gripp had wrapped Orfantal in its rough weave he began rubbing hard at the boy’s limbs, beginning with his feet and working his way up to his thighs; and then repeating the same rapid motions along Orfantal’s arms.

The effort brought warmth along with prickling irritation, and after a moment Orfantal pushed the hands away and curled up in the blanket.

‘Shivering again. That’s good, Orfantal. I was damned lucky to find you in time. I know you want to sleep but sleep’s not good right now. Wait a bit, wait till you feel good and warm.’

‘Where are the others? Did you fight them off?’

‘No, we didn’t fight them off. Though Haral gave a good account of himself. Migil and Thennis tried running off but got cut down from behind — fools. When you see it’s hopeless that’s when you stand. Breaking just sees you dead quicker and there’s nothing more shameful than a death-wound to the back.’ He paused and then grunted. ‘Unless you’re surrounded, of course. Then getting stabbed in the back is usually the way and there’s no shame in that.’

‘Heroes always get stabbed in the back,’ said Orfantal.

‘Not just heroes, Orfantal.’ Gripp had eased himself down into a sitting position, tenderly settling against the stone wall. ‘You know how to sew?’

The question confused him. After a moment he said, ‘I have seen the maids doing it.’

‘Good. Come light you’ve got some sewing to do.’

‘Are we going to make me some more clothes?’

‘No. Now listen, this is important. I need to sleep, too, and it might be that I don’t wake up.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I don’t know how bad off I am. I think the flow’s eased but there’s no telling what that means. We’ll see. But if I don’t wake up, you’ve got to follow the road, east — the way we were going — but listen, stay off it, stay under cover. Just move alongside of the road, you understand? And if you hear riders, hide. Keep going until you’re out of the hills and then go to the nearest farm you see. Don’t try to explain anything or even tell them your bloodline — they won’t believe you. Just see if you can get a way into Kharkanas, even if it takes a week before a wagon of produce heads in. Once there, head straight for the Citadel.’

‘I understand. I will.’ And he felt for and found the tiny tin tube containing the missive Sukul had written for Hish Tulla, tucked into his belt pouch.

‘They made a mistake,’ Gripp continued, but now it seemed he was mostly talking to himself. ‘More than one, in fact. Me. You. I saw Silann, Esthala’s worthless husband. The fool never could command a unit in battle. But if he’s there then Esthala’s not far away, and she’s sharp enough. They’ll go back to the kill site, intent on tracking you from there and finishing things. But first they’ll look for my body and not find it and that will bother them more than you getting away.’ His head lifted and Orfantal sensed Gripp was looking at him once more. ‘We’re going to be quarry, you and me, as long as we’re in these hills.’

‘Hunted,’ said Orfantal.

‘Take your story to Lord Anomander, boy, no matter what.’

‘I will. Mother told me all about him.’

‘If they find our trail, I may have to lead them away from you. On my own, I mean.’

‘All right.’

He grunted. ‘You’re figuring it out. That’s fast, Orfantal. Good.’

‘Gripp, did you kill any of them?’