Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (91 page)

Lord Anomander halted his horse and dropped down from the saddle. He strode to stand before Hish Tulla.

‘Sister of Night,’ he said, ‘our Mother’s blessing well suits you.’

‘In the absence of fair hues my age is made a mystery, you mean.’

Her comment silenced him and he frowned.

And so wound yourself
. She evaded his eyes, regretting that she had made him stumble.

Gripp Galas spoke, ‘Forgive me, master—’

But Anomander raised a hand. Eyes still on Hish, he said, ‘I see the gravity your tale wears, Gripp, and would not discount it. I beg you, another moment.’

‘Of course, master.’ He clucked and guided his horse away, towards the head of the train.

Hish stared after him, feeling abandoned.

‘Will you dismount, Lady Hish?’

Startled, she did so and stood beside her horse’s head, the reins in her hand.

‘You gave no reply to my invitation, Lady. I admit to feeling shame at my presumption. It was long ago, after all, and the years have stretched a distance between us. But I still feel a child in your eyes.’

‘You were never that,’ she said. ‘And the shame was mine. See me here, yielding to the pity of your gesture.’

He stared at her, as if shocked.

‘I have been speaking with Gripp Galas,’ she said. ‘He is blunt in his ways, but I grew to appreciate his honesty.’

‘Lady,’ said Anomander, ‘Gripp is the least blunt man I know.’

‘Then I am played.’

‘No, never that. If he is made to guard his feelings, Lady Hish, he is known to grow discomforted. There is a tale, I expect, in his riding to you before me. The last I knew of him, he was on the road down from House Korlas, safeguarding a young hostage. It is not like him to disregard such a charge.’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ and she heard a faint snap to her retort. ‘The child is in my keeping for now, and yes, there is a tale, but it belongs to Gripp.’

‘Very well.’

‘I am not one for unbridgeable divides, Lord Anomander.’

He considered that and seemed to relax. ‘If you imagine him to view you as would a father, you have stepped wrongly.’

‘I begin to comprehend that,’ she replied, ‘and now all footing is uncertain beneath me.’

‘That said,’ Anomander continued, ‘I am confident in believing Gripp Galas to be generous of spirit, and so he would not burn to see you upon my arm at my brother’s wedding.’

‘Will he have a place to stand in witness to the ceremony?’

‘Always.’

She nodded. ‘Then, Lord, I am here to take your arm.’

He flashed a smile. ‘And girded for war, no less. I did not think me so formidable.’ Then, instead of waiting for her to draw near, he stepped forward, and his eyes met hers, and he said, ‘Lady, your beauty leaves me breathless as ever, and once again I feel a wonder at the privilege of your regard, now and all those years past.’ I fear Gripp might not be so pleased with my words here, but I speak only in admiration.’

All words left her, spun beyond reach.

‘Pity, Lady Hish Tulla? I only pity those who know you not.’ He offered his arm. ‘Will you honour me by accepting my invitation?’

She nodded.

His wrist was solid as iron, as if it could bear not only the weight of an entire realm, but also her every regret.

* * *

When Anomander dismounted before Hish Tulla, Silchas Ruin twisted in his saddle and waved Kellaras closer. Leaving the company of Dathenar and Prazek, the captain rode up to the white-skinned warrior.

Silchas was smiling. ‘For a beautiful woman, your lord will make even a groom wait.’

‘There was an invitation, sir,’ Kellaras replied.

‘We did not think that she would accept, else I would have attempted the same and set myself as my brother’s rival. We might have come to blows. Crossed swords, even. Scores of dead, estates in flames, the sky itself a storm of lightning and fire. All for a woman.’

‘A thousand poets would bless the drama and the tragedy,’ Kellaras observed.

‘They’ll sift the dust and ashes,’ Silchas said, nodding, ‘for all the treasures they can only imagine, and in vicarious ecstasy they’ll invite wailing mourners into their audience, and make of every tear the most precious pearl. In this manner, captain, do poets adorn themselves in a world’s grief.’ He shrugged. ‘But the feast of two brothers warring over a woman is one too many poets have attended already. ’Tis easy to grow obese on folly.’

Kellaras shook his head. ‘Even poets must eat, sir.’

‘And folly is a most pernicious wine, always within reach with sweet promises, with no thoughts of tomorrow’s aching skull. Alas, it is not only poets who attend the feast of our condition.’

‘True, sir, but they chew longer.’

Silchas laughed. And then, when Anomander stepped forward to take Hish Tulla’s hand on his arm, the Lord’s brother grunted and said, ‘What think you of that old gristle waiting in the wings?’

‘His presence disturbs me,’ Kellaras admitted. ‘Gripp Galas had other tasks and I fear his presence here marks failure.’

‘Let us hope not,’ Silchas said in a mutter.

Kellaras lifted his gaze, considered the northern sky. ‘I also fear for the estates upon the edge of the forest, sir. Too many fires and no rain in many days. Bogs are known to swallow flames but not kill them. Should the wind veer …’

‘The river god battles those flames, captain. It will only fail when dies the last Denier in the forest.’

Kellaras glanced across at Silchas. ‘The Houseblades but await the command, sir.’

Silchas met his eyes. ‘Will you risk your life defending non-believers, captain?’

‘If so commanded, sir, yes.’

‘And if Mother Dark deems the Deniers her enemy?’

‘She does not.’

‘No, she does not. But still I ask.’

Kellaras hesitated, and then said, ‘Sir, to that I cannot speak for anyone else. But I will not follow any deity who demands murder.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we know murder to be wrong.’

‘Is it as simple as that, captain? Are there not exceptions? Do we not draw circles in the sand and claim all outside them to be less than us, and by this distinction do we not absolve ourselves of the crime of murder?’

‘Sophistry, sir.’

‘Yet, as a warrior, captain, you have committed murder in the name of our people, and in the name of your lord.’

‘I have, but in the taking of life I appease no god’s command. The crime is mine and upon no other shoulders do I set it. If I did – if we all did – then no god could withstand the burden of those crimes. But more than that: we have not the right.’

‘Urusander’s Legion disagrees with you, captain.’

‘With sword I stand ready to make argument, sir.’

Lord Anomander and Lady Hish Tulla were on their horses now, and Kellaras saw Gripp Galas join them. A moment later the
procession
lurched into motion once more. The captain wondered if Andarist, ensconced in the lead carriage, had chafed at the delay, or sought explanation from his servant. His eyes then fixed on the sword now strapped at his master’s hip, encased in a lacquered blackwood scabbard. A weapon blessed by a goddess, forged to take life.
But she refuses to tell him which life. Who will die in her name?

But the blade was un-named, and so it would remain until after Andarist’s ceremony. There would be no omens attending this marriage scene. If perfection were possible, Anomander would seek it for his brother and Enesdia. Or die in the attempt.

Beside him, Silchas said, ‘Andarist is the best among us.’

Kellaras understood the meaning of that ‘us’. Silchas was referring to his brothers, as if his thoughts had followed parallel tracks to the captain’s own.

‘For him,’ the white-skinned
Andii
continued, ‘we will bring peace to the realm. By all that follows, captain, you may measure the fullness of a brother’s love. Like you, Kellaras, Anomander will not murder in her name.’

It is well then that the sword has no voice
.

As they rode out from Kharkanas and on to the north road, Captain Scara Bandaris arrived with his troop. Greetings were called out and jests followed. The sun was low in the western sky and the night promised to be warm.

* * *

Long before they came within sight of the estate the dog began to cower, casting glances back at Grizzin Farl, as if to question their chosen course down the road. By this sign, the Azathanai’s steps slowed, and it was with deep trepidation that he continued on.

He had no words with which to ease the dog’s growing distress, since he could find none for himself. The title of Protector was not an honorific, and not one he willingly chose for himself. The things he guarded against none could withstand, but he would be first to stand in their path, first to weather their storm, and first to bleed. He knew that few understood him, even among the Azathanai. And among the Jaghut, the Lord of Hate was the only one to turn away, avoiding his gaze.

The dog halted at a new track that led from the road, where brush had been cleared and stones left in piles to either side. When Grizzin Farl joined it, he reached down and settled a hand upon its sloped head. ‘I am sorry,’ he murmured, ‘but this is my path. My every desire is a conceit, and where the road ends is where it begins again. Providence, forgive me.’

He set off down the track. The morning air smelled of blood and putrefying meat, but the rot held that sweetness that told him that
it
was still relatively fresh. A day or two, no more. The dog stayed at his side as he came out upon the clearing. He studied the carriage with its open door, and then the bodies sprawled in the grasses. A fox stood over one, frozen in fear at the sight of the dog. An instant later it bolted, vanishing into the wood. The dog gave no sign of wanting to chase, instead pressing against the side of Grizzin’s leg.

He walked past the corpses, pausing every now and then to study one. He scanned the tracks of beaten-down grasses, the places where blood had spilled. Flies buzzed the ground and crows took wing, croaking as they fled his and the dog’s approach.

The estate’s entranceway was splashed black with gore and a body was lying on the threshold. Grizzin Farl continued walking, until he stood in front of the open door, and the grim offering before it.

A highborn Tiste by the richness of his garb, a man with grey hair. Crows had plucked holes through one cheek, to get at the tongue. He had fallen to at least a half-dozen wounds, and those attackers whom he had killed were heaped to either side of the steps, five in all, dragged out of the way by their comrades but otherwise ignored.

Grizzin ascended the steps and walked past more corpses on his way into the main hall. Here he found the body of a woman, a maid, and there, upon the hearthstone, another young woman, lying on her back. The blood about her left no question as to what had befallen her. He drew closer, seeing that she was upon an Azathanai hearthstone, and seeing now what the blood had obscured: she wore the traditional dress of a bride in waiting.

Hearing a sound to his right, Grizzin turned. A figure was huddled on the floor, in the far corner of the room. Its legs were drawn up under the chin, but one side of its face was pressed against the stone wall, with a stained hand up beside it, the blackened fingers splayed against the stone. Shadows hid any further detail.

Grizzin walked closer. A young man, dressed neither in the fashion of the attackers nor like those who had defended this house. There was dried blood crusting his face, blackening the entire cheek and filling the socket of his eye with darkness. He wore no helm and his hair was long, hanging in greasy strands over his brow. With each step the Azathanai took, the man flinched and pushed deeper into the corner, seeking to grind his head between the stones of the wall until skin tore.

‘I mean you no harm, friend,’ said Grizzin Farl. ‘We are alone in this place, and I would help you.’

The head swung round and Grizzin beheld what had been done to the man’s eyes.

His gaze dropped to the man’s hands, and then lifted again to that clawed, disfigured face. ‘Oh,’ he sighed, ‘that was no answer.’

The cry that broke from the man was that of a wounded animal. Grizzin moved forward. Ignoring the fists that beat at him, he took the man in his arms and held him tight, until the screams died away and the body ceased its struggles and then, slowly, sagged in his embrace.

After a time, the dog came to lie down beside them.

* * *

They had travelled through the night. Breaking fast in the saddle, they continued on as the sun climbed into the sky. When it was high overhead, the procession reached the last stretch of the road before the track.

Anomander, Hish Tulla and Silchas were in the lead, riding abreast. Behind them rode Gripp and at his side was Captain Kellaras. There was no telling how many others had since joined the procession: highborn and their servants and guards, cooks and their pot-wagons, the tent-bearers and the musicians, the poets and artists, apprentices of all sorts; Gripp had seen Silchas’s old war-time companion, Captain Scara Bandaris, moving to take up the rear with his troop. By tradition, none had spoken since the dawn, and the solemn air accompanied them as if to protect the day’s light and warmth, lest a voice shatter the peace.