Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (54 page)

She waved a dismissive hand, turning to refill the goblet. ‘We can do nothing about it. The Deniers will crawl out of the woods now, eager to lay sacrifice upon the banks of the river. Eager to walk the shore.’

‘And Mother Dark permits this?’

‘She is weak, Hunn Raal – why do you think she hides in darkness? Why do you think she draws close the three most feared warriors among the highborn and proclaims them her children? And why’ – she faced him – ‘did she take Lord Draconus to her bed? Sons may be all very well, but a man such as Draconus is another matter entirely. You understand nothing, Hunn Raal. You and your ridiculous plans.’

He saw the challenge in her eyes, glittering behind the alcohol, and felt something stir in him.
She is like me. She is the same as me, exactly the same
. ‘You will take this to Urusander, High Priestess,’ he said. ‘You will tell him of the threat now facing Kurald Galain. You will explain to him her weakness, her vulnerability. But more than this, you will show him what must be done. The purity of your skin is now a symbol – the light within you is a power. Above all, High Priestess, tell him this: in darkness there is ignorance. In light there is justice.’ He moved closer to her. ‘Remember those words. This is what you must do.’

She leaned against the table behind her, a smirk playing on her full lips. ‘I am to be a beacon, then? Still a High Priestess, but now in the name of light?’

‘It is within you.’

She glanced away, still smiling. ‘
Liossan
. And who, then, are our enemies?’

‘All who seek to hurt Mother Dark – we will fight in her name and who could challenge this?’

‘And Draconus?’

‘He but uses her. Another way of hurting.’ He leaned over to grasp the jug of wine, and in the movement their faces came close, almost touching for a moment before he drew back. But he had smelled the sweet wine on her breath. ‘The old religion is a direct threat. The Deniers. The brothers and sisters of the Monasteries.’

‘There are more of them than you might imagine, Hunn Raal.’

‘All to the better,’ he said.

‘Sheccanto and Skelenal could even make claim to the throne.’

‘I wish they would. That would settle the sides quickly enough.’

She reached out and stroked his cheek, where she had slapped only a short time before. ‘We will plunge Kurald Galain into civil war, Hunn Raal. You and I, and all that we now do.’

But he shook his head. ‘We prevent one, High Priestess. Even better, once we have purged the realm, the end to all conflict is then offered to Mother Dark. By taking the hand of Lord Urusander. She will see that she needs such a man at her side. Strength to answer her weakness, resolve to stand firm against her whims. Light and Dark, in balance.’

‘I want Emral dead.’

‘You cannot have that. She is but your reflection. An imperfect one to be sure, but even then you fare the better between you. No, Syntara, you will be as equals, yet need share nothing but your titles.’

‘Then I shall proclaim Urusander as Father Light,’ said Syntara, her hand still upon his cheek. ‘And the light within me shall be my gift to him.’

‘If you can give it.’

‘I can, Hunn Raal.’

He was still holding the jug. ‘Now then, High Priestess, do we fuck or do we drink?’

‘Which do you prefer?’

A dangerous question that he shrugged off. ‘Either is fine with me.’

To his surprise she stepped away, and her stride was suddenly steady. ‘There is not time for either, Hunn Raal,’ she said, her words sharp. ‘I must gather my followers and we will need an escort from the city. Best we do this without fanfare – I shall cloak myself and remain unseen. My return to Kharkanas shall be in triumph.’

‘Of course,’ he said, setting the jug back down on the table, feeling a fool for having been so easily played. ‘I think I underestimated you, High Priestess.’

‘Many do,’ she replied. ‘And you – you must send word to your people, wherever they happen to be hiding in the countryside.’ Seeing the alarm on his face her smile grew cruel. ‘Yes, I know that you are ready to pounce. But they must wait – your enemy is no longer the highborn. Nor the sons and daughters of Mother Dark. Not even Draconus – not yet, in any case. Why so troubled, captain?’

‘I fear that it may already be too late.’

‘Then sober up, you fool, and make sure that it isn’t!’

* * *

The troop of riders came upon the train, meeting at a sharp bend in the road. There had been little sound to betray them, despite the high cliff walls to either side. Orfantal saw, just past the strangers, the road opening out, sunken flats flanking the raised track: the signs of an old, extinct lake.

Haral was quick to draw up, and he twisted in the saddle and with a shout commanded the wagons to one side, to let the riders past.

Orfantal looked upon those unknown faces. He counted eleven men and women, all well armed and bearing none of the ragtag equipment he would have expected among bandits. Nor did the strangers accost them, but Orfantal felt their sharp eyes gauging the caravan and its handful of guards. Beside him Gripp was silent, head lowered as if in deference.

A few, Orfantal saw as they plodded past, wore the colours of Urusander’s Legion, charcoal grey half-capes piped in gold, the high leather knee-guards that so faithfully copied Urusander’s own armour. He knew this from his grandfather’s kit, which he had examined countless times. Others seemed to be carrying the same gear, but rolled up and tied to the backs of their saddles.

‘Hunting bandits?’ Orfantal asked Gripp after the last rider had trotted past. ‘There were Legion—’

‘Quiet, boy!’ rasped Gripp, and Orfantal saw how pale the old man was, his mouth pinched, the lips dry. He was staring ahead to Haral, awaiting the command to resume. ‘Send us on, damn you!’ he said in a hiss.

Orfantal twisted on his saddle to look back at the strangers.

‘Turn round!’ Gripp snapped. ‘Now, let’s go. Ride on, boy, ride on. Eyes forward!’

‘What’s wrong?’

Ahead, Haral had swung his mount round, watching the wagons rock back on to the centre of the road.

Orfantal could see Gripp’s watery eyes fixed on Haral’s, as if seeking a sign.

It came when Haral frowned, and then straightened in his saddle. A moment later he half rose on the stirrups, confusion writ plain on his features.

‘That’s it, then,’ growled Gripp. He pulled his mount close alongside Orfantal’s. ‘Listen to me. They’re coming back.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Because they shouldn’t be here, that’s why. At least three of them were from a disbanded unit.’

‘But—’

‘Ride ahead, Orfantal – and once you’re on the straight, kick that hag of yours into a gallop and don’t look back. No more questions!’ he
added
as horse hoofs sounded behind them, fast approaching. ‘Go, son,
ride
.’ And he slapped the hag’s rump, jolting the beast forward into a startled canter. The motion almost unseated Orfantal and he gripped hard the reins, which only slowed the beast.

‘Kick her on!’ Gripp shouted, and there was the sound of swords being drawn.

Punching the flanks with his heels, Orfantal pushed his mount back into a canter, and then a heavy gallop. Disorientated, he rocked in the saddle. He heard harsh shouts behind him. Someone screamed like a dying pig.

Mouth dry, heart hammering, he leaned forward. ‘Oh, run! Run, you, oh run …’

The horse thundered beneath him, but it seemed so slow, the beast labouring. The scene jolted up and down, side to side, and he thought of Gripp, and Haral and the others. He thought of that scream, and wondered from whose throat it had erupted. He thought of dying, cut down from behind. He could hear a horse running behind him, catching up impossibly quickly. A whimper escaped him and he felt hot urine in his crotch, seeping down the inside of his thighs.

He didn’t turn as the horse caught up, instead ducking down.

A moment later and the beast rushed past. Haral’s own horse, riderless, its flanks black with spilled blood and lumps of gore.

Orfantal looked back – but he was beyond the bend and not even the wagons were in view. He saw two riders emerge, reining in to watch him flee. A moment later they set off in pursuit.

The nag was labouring, breaths gusting harsh and loud. Haral’s horse was already twenty paces ahead. Desperate, Orfantal looked round. The sunken flats to either side formed a basin, but one edge was closer than the other – to his right – and he saw the fringe of an old stony shoreline, and then the ragged broken hillsides rearing up beyond. There were paths up there, places to hide.

Orfantal slowed his horse, and then pulled it down from the road. He glanced back to see the two riders drawing closer, their swords out.

The nag stumbled on the rocky slope, righted itself with a snort. Orfantal kicked it forward. The clay underhoof cracked and gave way, miring the horse in the thick mud hiding beneath the crust. The animal dragged itself clear, pushed on at Orfantal’s frantic urging. Lunging, pitching, the nag fought onward.

They were halfway across when the horse sank down to its belly, lurching helplessly, head tossing, eyes rolling. Crying now, the tears half blinding him, Orfantal dragged himself free of the saddle. He looked back to see the two riders reined in at the roadside, watching his progress. In a flash he realized that neither dared venture on to the clay.

He worked his way clear of the sucking mud, rolled on to his side.

The nag had given up its struggle and looked across at him with dumb misery in its weeping eyes. He could see that it had sunk down now halfway up its shoulders at the front, and deeper still at the back. Its whole body trembled and flies swarmed its mud-spattered hide.

He crawled away, still weeping, his face smeared. He had killed his horse, his noble servant. He had betrayed the beast, as only a master could.

But I’m not the betrayer – it’s not supposed to be me. It was never supposed to be me!

His weight was as nothing on the hard-packed clay crust. He made his way across it towards the pebble-studded old bank. Reaching it he straightened and looked back.

The riders were leaving, heading back up the road – and from beyond the bend two columns of thick, black smoke lifted into the sky, and Orfantal knew that his companions were all dead. Haral, Gripp, all of them. A disbanded unit, fallen into banditry and murder – but no, even that did not make sense. Those skins on the wagons were valuable. Bandits would not set them alight.

His gaze fell back to the nag.

The back end of the animal was now beneath the mud, and he could see how it struggled to breathe.

Orfantal ventured back out on to the clay, retracing his route.

When he reached the nag only its head and neck were visible. The crying left him weak, but he managed to throw his arms around that neck, holding on tight. The hide was hot and slick, almost on fire with life, and he felt the nag’s cheek settle against the side of his head, and he wept so hard he felt as if he was emptying his own soul. His wails echoed back from the cliffs behind him.

The mud touched the underside of his left arm; he felt his elbow plunging into soft coolness. The neck muscles strained and the nag lifted its head, nostrils opened wide, air gusting out in a long stream. But it had no strength with which to draw a breath inside – the weight of the clay against its ribs was too vast. As the exhalation dwindled, he felt the nag shudder, and then begin to sag, the muscles relaxing and the head settling on the clay. The horse’s eyelids dipped down half over the lifeless eyes, and stayed there.

Orfantal dragged his arms from the mud. With the nag’s death, the anguish left him, and in its place was a vast hollow, a numbness that made him feel small.

Truth cared nothing for stories. The real world was indifferent to what people wanted to be, to how they wanted everything to turn out. Betrayers came from everywhere, including inside his own body, his own mind. He could trust no one, not even himself.

He faced the broken rocks and started crawling.

TEN

RISP WATCHED CAPTAIN
Esthala throw on her cloak and tug her gauntlets from her swordbelt. There was the taste of iron in the air, a pungent aura of panic spreading through the hidden camp. The day was fast drawing to a close, shadows engulfing the spaces between the crags. Esthala’s husband, Silann, had dismounted to help down one of his wounded soldiers. Risp turned and studied the battered troop, seeing faces flushed and faces pale and taut with pain, seeing the blood splashed on most of the soldiers and the tenderness with which they pulled bodies down, and the way the horses stamped and tossed heads in the aftermath of battle. A moment later Esthala walked past her to accost her husband.